It was July when the letter came.
It had been forwarded from Cambridge to Dennis Port, so I guess I got
the news a day or so late. I charged over to where Jenny was supervising her
children in a game of kickball (or something), and said in my best Bogart
tones:
"Let's go."
"Huh?"
"Let's go," I repeated, and with such obvious authority that she began
to follow me as I walked toward the water.
"What's going on, Oliver? Wouldja tell me, please, for God sake?"
I continued to stride powerfully onto the dock.
"Onto the boat, Jennifer," I ordered, pointing to it with the very hand
that held the letter, which she didn't even notice.
"Oliver, I have children to take care of," she protested, even while
stepping obediently on board.
"Goddammit, Oliver, will you explain what's going on?" We were now a
few hundred yards from shore. "I have something to tell you," I said.
"Couldn't you have told it on dry land?" she yelled. "No, goddammit," I
yelled back (we were neither of us angry, but there was lots of wind, and we
had to shout to be heard).
"I wanted to be alone with you. Look what I have." I waved the envelope
at her. She immediately recognized the letterhead.
"Hey-Harvard Law School! Have you been kicked out?"
"Guess again, you optimistic bitch," I yelled. "You were first in the
class!" she guessed. I was now almost ashamed to tell her. "Not quite.
Third."
"Oh," she said. "Only third?"
"Listen-that still means I make the goddamn Law Review," I shouted.
She just sat there with an absolute no-expression expression.
"Christ, Jenny," I kind of whined, "say something!"
"Not until I meet numbers one and two," she said.
I looked at her, hoping she would break into the smile I knew she was
suppressing.
"C'mon, Jenny!" I pleaded.
"I'm leaving. Good-bye," she said, and jumped immediately into the
water. I dove right in after her and the next thing I knew we were both
hanging on to the side of the boat and giggling.
"Hey," I said in one of my wittier observations, "you went overboard
for me."
"Don't be too cocky," she replied. "Third is still only third."
"Hey, listen, you bitch," I said.
"What, you bastard?" she replied.
"I owe you a helluva lot," I said sincerely.
"Not true, you bastard, not true," she answered.
"Not true?" I inquired, somewhat surprised.
"You owe me everything," she said.
That night we blew twenty-three bucks on a lobster dinner at a fancy
place in Yarmouth. Jenny was still reserving judgment until she could check
out the two gentlemen who had, as she put it, "defeated me."
Stupid as it sounds, I was so in love with her that the moment we got
back to Cambridge, I rushed to find out who the first two guys were. I was
relieved to discover that the top man, Erwin Blasband, City College '64, was
bookish, bespectacled, nonathletic and not her type, and the number-two man
was Bella Landau, Bryn Mawr '64, a girl. This was all to the good,
especially since Bella Landau was rather cool looking (as lady law students
go), and I could twit Jenny a bit with "details" of what went on in those
late-night hours at Gannett House, the Law Review building. And Jesus, there
were late nights. It was not unusual for me to come home at two or three in
the morning. I mean, six courses, plus editing the Law Review, plus the fact
that I actually authored an article in one of the issues ("Legal Assistance
for the Urban Poor: A Study of Boston's Roxbury District" by Oliver Barrett
IV, HLR, March, 1966, pp. 861-9o8).
"A good piece. A really good piece."
That's all Joel Fleishman, the senior editor, could repeat again and
again. Frankly, I had expected a more articulate compliment from the guy who
would next year clerk for Justice Douglas, but that's all he kept saying as
he checked over my final draft. Christ, Jenny had told me it was "incisive,
intelligent and really well written." Couldn't Fleishman match that?
"Fleishman called it a good piece, Jen."
"Jesus, did I wait up so late just to hear that?" she said. "Didn't he
comment on your research, or your style, or anything?"
"No, Jen. He just called it 'good.'"
"Then what took you all this long?"
I gave her a little wink.
"I had some stuff to go over with Bella Landau," I said.
"Oh?" she said.
I couldn't read the tone.
"Are you jealous?" I asked straight out.
"No; I've got much better legs," she said.
"Can you write a brief?"
"Can she make lasagna?"
"Yes,~~ I answered. "Matter of fact, she brought some over to Gannett
House tonight. Everybody said they were as good as your legs."
Jenny nodded, "I'll bet."
"What do you say to that?" I said.
"Does Bella Landau pay your rent?" she asked. "Damn," I replied, "why
can't I ever quit when I'm ahead?"
"Because, Preppie," said my loving wife, "you never are."