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CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 16 - раздел История, Эрик Сигл. История любви     Change Of Address From Ju...

 

 

CHANGE OF ADDRESS

From July 1,1967

Mr. and Mrs. Oliver Barrett IV

263 East 63rd Street

New York, N.Y. 10021

 

"It's so nouveau riche," complained Jenny. "But we are nouveau riche,"

I insisted.

What was adding to my overall feeling of euphoric triumph was the fact

that the monthly rate for my car was damn near as much as we had paid for

our entire apartment in Cambridge! Jonas and Marsh was an easy ten-minute

walk (or strut-I preferred the latter gait), and so were the fancy shops

like Bonwit's and so forth where I insisted that my wife, the bitch,

immediately open accounts and start spending.

"Why, Oliver?"

"Because, goddammit, Jenny, I 'want to be taken advantage of!"

I joined the Harvard Club of New York, proposed by Raymond Stratton

'64, newly returned to civilian life after having actually shot at some

Vietcong ("I'm not positive it was VC, actually. I heard noises, so I opened

fire at the bushes"). Ray and I played squash at least three times a week,

and I made a mental note, giving myself three years to become Club champion.

Whether it was merely because I had resurfaced in Harvard territory, or

because word of my Law School successes had gotten around (I didn't brag

about the salary, honest), my "friends" discovered me once more. We had

moved in at the height of the summer (I had to take a cram course for the

New York bar exam), and the first invitations were for weekends.

"Fuck 'em, Oliver. I don't want to waste two days bullshitting with a

bunch of vapid preppies."

"Okay, Jen, but what should I tell them?" "Just say I'm pregnant,

Oliver."

"Are you?" I asked.

"No, but if we stay home this weekend I might be."

 

We had a name already picked out. I mean, I had, and I think I got

Jenny to agree finally.

"Hey-you won't laugh?" I said to her, when first broaching the subject.

She was in the kitchen at the time (a yellow color-keyed thing that even

included a dishwasher).

"What?" she asked, still slicing tomatoes.

"I've really grown fond of the name Bozo," I said.

"You mean seriously?" she asked.

"Yeah. I honestly dig it."

"You would name our child Bozo?" she asked again. "Yes. Really.

Honestly, Jen, it's the name of a super- jock."

"Bozo Barrett." She tried it on for size.

"Christ, he'll be an incredible bruiser," I continued, convincing

myself further with each word I spoke. "'Bozo Barrett, Harvard's huge

All-Ivy tackle.'"

"Yeah-but, Oliver," she asked, "suppose-just suppose-the kid's not

coordinated?"

"Impossible, Jen, the genes are too good. Truly." I meant it sincerely.

This whole Bozo business had gotten to be a frequent daydream of mine as I

strutted to work.

I pursued the matter at dinner. We had bought great Danish china.

"Bozo will be a very well-coordinated bruiser," I told Jenny. "In fact,

if he has your hands, we can put him in the backfield."

She was just smirking at me, searching no doubt for some sneaky

put-down to disrupt my idyllic vision. But lacking a truly devastating

remark, she merely cut the cake and gave me a piece. And she was still

hearing me out.

"Think of it, Jenny," I continued, even with my mouth full, "two

hundred and forty pounds of bruising finesse."

"Two hundred and forty pounds?" she said. "There's nothing in our genes

that says two hundred and forty pounds, Oliver."

"We'll feed him up, Jen. Hi-Proteen, Nutrament, the whole

diet-supplement bit."

"Oh, yeah? Suppose he won't eat, Oliver?"

"He'll eat, goddammit," I said, getting slightly pissed off already at

the kid who would soon be sitting at our table not cooperating with my plans

for his athletic triumphs. "He'll eat or I'll break his face."

At which point Jenny looked me straight in the eye and smiled.

"Not if he weighs two forty, you won't.~~

"Oh," I replied, momentarily set back, then quickly realized, "But he

won't be two-forty right away!"

"Yeah, yeah," said Jenny, now shaking an admonitory spoon at me, "but

when he is, Preppie, start running!" And she laughed like hell.

It's really comic, but while she was laughing I had this vision of a

two-hundred-and-forty-pound kid in a diaper chasing after me in Central

Park, shouting, "You be nicer to my mother, Preppie!" Christ, hopefully

Jenny would keep Bozo from destroying me.

 

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Эрик Сигл. История любви

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Chapter 1
    What can you say about a twenty-five-year-old girl who died? That she was beautiful. And brilliant. That she loved Mozart and Bach. And the Beatles

CHAPTER 2
    Oliver Barrett IV Ipswich, Mass. Age 20 Major: Social Studies Dean's List: '6

CHAPTER 3
    I got hurt in the Cornell game. It was my own fault, really. At a heated juncture, I made the unfortunate error of referring to their center as a &

CHAPTER 4
    "Jenny's on the downstairs phone." This information was announced to me by the girl on bells, although I had not identified myself or my

CHAPTER 5
    I would like to say a word about our physical relationship. For a strangely long while there wasn't any. I mean, there wasn't anything more signifi

CHAPTER 6
    I love Ray Stratton. He may not be a genius or a great football player (kind of slow at the snap), but he was always a good roommate and loyal frie

CHAPTER 7
    Ipswich, Mass., is some forty minutes from the Mystic River Bridge, depending on the weather and how you drive. I have actually made it on occasion

CHAPTER 8
  "Jenny, it's not Secretary of State, after all!" We were finally driving back to Cambridge, thank God. "Still, Oliver, you could have been more enth

CHAPTER 9
  There remained the matter of Cranston, Rhode Island, a city slightly more to the south of Boston than Ipswich is to the north. After the debacle of introducing Jen

CHAPTER 10
  Mr. William F. Thompson, Associate Dean of the Harvard Law School, could not believe his ears. "Did I hear you right, Mr. Barrett?" "Yes

CHAPTER 11
  Jennifer was awarded her degree on Wednesday. All sorts of relatives from Cranston, Fall River-and even an aunt from Cleveland-flocked to Cambridge to attend the c

CHAPTER 12
    If a single word can describe our daily life during those first three years, it is "scrounge." Every waking moment we were concentrating on how

CHAPTER 13
  Mr. and Mrs. Oliver Barrett III request the pleasure of your company at a dinner in celebration of Mr. Barrett's sixtieth birthday Saturday,

CHAPTER 14
  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 wa

CHAPTER 15
    We finished in that order. I mean, Erwin, Bella and myself were the top three in the Law School graduating class. The time for triumph was at hand.

CHAPTER 17
    It is not all that easy to make a baby. I mean, there is a certain irony involved when guys who spend the first years of their sex lives preoccupie

CHAPTER 18
    I began to think about God. I mean, the notion of a Supreme Being existing somewhere began to creep into my private thoughts. Not because I wanted

CHAPTER 19
    Now at least I wasn't afraid to go home, I wasn't seared about "acting normal." We were once again sharing everything, even if it was the awful

CHAPTER 20
    It is impossible to drive from East Sixty-third Street, Manhattan, to Boston, Massachusetts, in less than three hours and twenty minutes. Believe m

CHAPTER 21
    The task of informing Phil Cavilleri fell to me. Who else? He did not go to pieces as I feared he might, but calmly closed the house in Cranston an

CHAPTER 22
    Phil Cavilleri was in the solarium, smoking his nth cigarette, when I appeared. "Phil?" I said softly. "Yeah?"

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