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

me, I have tested the outer limits on this track, and I am certain that no

automobile, foreign or domestic, even with some Graham Hill type at the

wheel, can make it faster. I had the MG at a hundred and five on the Mass

Turnpike.

I have this cordless electric razor and you can be sure I shaved

carefully, and changed my shirt in the car, before entering those hallowed

offices on State Street. Even at 8 A.M. there were several distinguished

looking Boston types waiting to see Oliver Barrett III. His secretary-who

knew me-didn't blink twice when she spoke my name into the intercom.

My father did not say, "Show him in."

Instead, his door opened and he appeared in person. He said, "Oliver."

Preoccupied as I was with physical appearances, I noticed that he

seemed a bit pale, that his hair had grown grayish (and perhaps thinner) in

these three years.

''Come in, son,~~ he said. I couldn't read the tone. I just walked

toward his office.

I sat in the "client's chair."

We looked at one another, then let our gazes drift onto other objects

in the room. I let mine fall among the items on his desk: scissors in a

leather case, letter opener with a leather handle, a photo of Mother taken

years ago. A photo of me (Exeter graduation).

"How've you been, son?" he asked.

"'Well, sir," I answered.

"And how's Jennifer?" he asked.

Instead of lying to him, I evaded the issue-although it 'was the

issue-by blurting out the reason for my sudden reappearance.

"Father, I need to borrow five thousand dollars. For a good reason."

He looked at me. And sort of nodded, I think.

"Well?" he said.

"Sir?" I asked.

"May I know the reason?" he asked.

"I can't tell you, Father. Just lend me the dough. Please."

I had the feeling-if one can actually receive feelings from Oliver

Barrett 111-that he intended to give me the money. I also sensed that he

didn't want to give me any heat. But he did want to... talk.

"Don't they pay you at Jonas and Marsh?" he asked.

"Yes, sir.

I was tempted to tell him how much, merely to let him know it was a

class record, but then I thought if he knew where I worked, he probably knew

my salary as well.

"And doesn't she teach too?" he asked.

Well, he doesn't know everything.

"Don't call her 'she,'" I said.

"Doesn't Jennifer teach?" he asked politely.

"And please leave her out of this, Father. This is a personal matter. A

very important personal matter."

"Have you gotten some girl in trouble?" he asked, but without any

deprecation in his voice.

"Yeah," I said, "yes, sir. That's it. Give me the dough. Please."

I don't think for a moment he believed my reason. I don't think he

really wanted to know. He had questioned me merely, as I said before, so we

could talk.

He reached into his desk drawer and took out a checkbook bound in the

same cordovan leather as the handle of his letter opener and the case for

his scissors. He opened it slowly. Not to torture me, I don't think, but to

stall for time. To find things to say. Nonabrasive things.

He finished writing the check, tore it from the book and then held it

out toward me. I was maybe a split second slow in realizing I should reach

out my hand to meet his. So he got embarrassed (I think), withdrew his hand

and placed the check on the edge of his desk. He looked at me now and

nodded. His expression seemed to say, "There it is, son." But all he really

did was nod.

It's not that I wanted to leave, either. It's just that I myself

couldn't think of anything neutral to say. And we couldn't just sit there,

both of us willing to talk and yet unable even to look the other straight in

the face.

I leaned over and picked up the check. Yes, it said five thousand

dollars, signed Oliver Barrett III. It was already dry. I folded it

carefully and put it into my shirt pocket as I rose and shuffled to the

door. I should at least have said something to the effect that I knew that

on my account very important Boston dignitaries (maybe even Washington) were

cooling their heels in his outer office, and yet if we had more to say to

one another I could even hang around your office, Father, and you would

cancel your luncheon plans and so forth.

I stood there with the door half open, and summoned the courage to look

at him and say:

"Thank you, Father."