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 to strike Him on the face, to
punch Him out for what He was about to do to me-to Jenny, that is. No, the
kind of religious thoughts I had were just the opposite. Like when I woke up
in the morning and Jenny was there. Still there. I'm sorry, embarrassed
even, but I hoped there was a God I could say thank you to. Thank you for
letting me wake up and see Jennifer.
I was trying like hell to act normal, so of course I let her make
breakfast and so forth.
"Seeing Stratton today?" she asked, as I was having a second bowl of
Special K.
"Who?" I asked.
"Raymond Stratton '64," she said, "your best friend. Your roommate
before me."
"Yeah. We were supposed to play squash. I think I'll cancel it "
"Bullshit."
"What Jen?"
"Don't go canceling squash games, Preppie. I don't want a flabby
husband, dammit!"
"Okay," I said, "but let's have dinner downtown."
"Why?" she asked.
"What do you mean, 'why'?" I yelled, trying to work up my normal mock
anger. "Can't I take my goddamn wife to dinner if I want to?"
"Who is she, Barrett? What's her name?" Jenny asked.
"What?"
"Listen," she explained. "When you have to take your wife to dinner on
a weekday, you must be screwing someone!"
"Jennifer!" I bellowed, now honestly hurt. "I will not have that kind
of talk at my breakfast table!"
"Then get your ass home to my dinner table. Okay?" ''Okay."
And I told this God, whoever and wherever He might be, that I would
gladly settle for the status quo. I don't mind the agony, sir, I don't mind
knowing as long as Jenny doesn't know. Did you hear me, Lord, sir? You can
name the price.
"Oliver?"
"Yes, Mr. Jonas?"
He had called me into his office.
"Are you familiar with the Beck affair?" he asked.
Of course I was. Robert L. Beck, photographer for Life magazine, had
the shit kicked out of him by the Chicago police, while trying to photograph
a riot. Jonas considered this one of the key cases for the firm.
"I know the cops punched him out, sir," I told Jonas, lightheartedly
(hah!).
"I'd like you to handle it, Oliver," he said.
"Myself?" I asked.
"You can take along one of the younger men," he replied.
Younger men? I was the youngest guy in the office. But I read his
message: Oliver, despite your chronological age, you are already one of the
elders of this office. One of us, Oliver.
"Thank you, sir," I said.
"How soon can you leave for Chicago?" he asked. I had resolved to tell
nobody, to shoulder the entire burden myself. So I gave old man Jonas some
bullshit, I don't even remember exactly what, about how I didn't feel I
could leave New York at this time, sir. And I hoped he would understand. But
I know he was disappointed at my reaction to what was obviously a very
significant gesture. Oh, Christ, Mr. Jonas, when you find out the real
reason!
Paradox: Oliver Barrett IV leaving the office earlier, yet walking
homeward more slowly. How can you explain that?
I had gotten into the habit of window shopping on Fifth Avenue, looking
at the wonderful and silly extravagant things I would have bought Jennifer
had I not wanted to keep up that fiction of . . . normal.
Sure, I was afraid to go home. Because now, several weeks after I had
first learned the true facts, she was beginning to lose weight. I mean, just
a little and she herself probably didn't notice. But I, who knew, noticed.
I would window shop the airlines: Brazil, the Carribbean, Hawaii ("Get
away from it all-fly into the sunshine!") and so forth. On this particular
afternoon, TWA was pushing Europe in the off season: London for shoppers,
Paris for lovers .
"What about my scholarship? What about Paris, which i've never seen in
my whole goddamn life?"
"What about our marriage?"
"Who said anything about marriage?" "Me. I'm saying it now.
"You want to marry me?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
I was such a fantastically good credit risk that I already owned a
Diners Club card. Zip! My signature on the dotted line and I was the proud
possessor of two tickets (first class, no less) to the City of Lovers.
Jenny looked kind of pale and gray when I got home, but I hoped my
fantastic idea would put some color in those cheeks.
"Guess what, Mrs. Barrett," I said.
"You got fired," guessed my optimistic wife.
"No. Fired up," I replied, and pulled out the tickets. "Up, up and
away," I said. "Tomorrow night to Paris."
"Bullshit, Oliver," she said. But quietly, with none of her usual
mock-aggression. As she spoke it then, it was a kind of endearment:
"Bullshit, Oliver."
"Hey, can you define 'bullshit' more specifically, please?"
"Hey, Ollie," she said softly, "that's not the way we're gonna do it."
"Do what?" I asked.
"I don't want Paris. I don't need Paris. I just want you- "That you've
got, baby!" I interrupted, sounding falsely merry.
"And I want time," she continued, "which you can't give me."
Now I looked into her eyes. They were ineffably sad. But sad in a way
only I understood. They were saying she was sorry. That is, sorry for me.
We stood there silently holding one another. Please, if one of us
cries, let both of us cry. But preferably neither of us.
And then Jenny explained how she had been feeling "absolutely shitty"
and gone back to Dr. Sheppard, not for consultation, but confrontation: Tell
me what's wrong with me, dammit. And he did.
I felt strangely guilty at not having been the one to break it to her.
She sensed this, and made a calculatedly stupid remark.
"He's a Yalie, Ol."
"Who is, Jen?"
"Ackerman. The hematologist. A total Yalie. College and Med School."
"Oh,~~ I said, knowing that she was trying to inject some levity into
the grim proceedings.
"Can he at least read and write?" I asked.
"That remains to be seen," smiled Mrs. Oliver Barrett, Radcliffe '64,
"but I know he can talk. And I wanted to talk."
"Okay, then, for the Yalie doctor," I said.
"Okay," she said.