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
and came to live in our apartment. We all have our idiosyncratic ways of
coping with grief. Phil's was to clean the place. To wash, to scrub, to
polish. I don't really understand his thought processes, but Christ, let him
work.
Does he cherish the dream that Jenny will come home?
He does, doesn't he? The poor bastard. That's why he's cleaning up. He
just won't accept things for what they are. Of course, he won't admit this
to me, but I know it's on his mind.
Because it's on mine too.
Once she was in the hospital, I called old man Jonas and let him know
why I couldn't be coming to work. I pretended that I had to hurry off the
phone because I know he was pained and wanted to say things he couldn't
possibly express. From then on, the days were simply divided between
visiting hours and everything else. And of course everything else was
nothing. Eating without hunger, watching Phil clean the apartment (again!)
and not sleeping even with the prescription Ackerman gave me.
Once I overheard Phil mutter to himself, "I can't stand it much
longer." He was in the next room, washing our dinner dishes (by hand). I
didn't answer him, but I did think to myself, I can. Whoever's Up There
running the show, Mr. Supreme Being, sir, keep it up, I can take this ad
infinitum. Because Jenny is Jenny.
That evening, she kicked me out of the room. She wanted to speak to her
father "man to man.
"This meeting is restricted only to Americans of Italian descent," she
said, looking as white as her pillows, "so beat it, Barrett."
"Okay," I said.
"But not too far," she said when I reached the door. I went to sit in
the lounge. Presently Phil appeared. "She says to get your ass in there," he
whispered hoarsely, like the whole inside of him was hollow. "I'm gonna buy
some cigarettes."
"Close the goddamn door," she commanded as I entered the room. I
obeyed, shut the door quietly, and as I went back to sit by her bed, I
caught a fuller view of her. I mean, with the tubes going into her right
arm, which she would keep under the covers. I always liked to sit very close
and just look at her face, which, however pale, still had her eyes shining
in it.
So I quickly sat very close.
"It doesn't hurt, Ollie, really," she said. "It's like falling off a
cliff in slow motion, you know?"
Something stirred deep in my gut. Some shapeless thing that was going
to fly into my throat and make me cry. But I wasn't going to. I never have.
I'm a tough bastard, see? I am not gonna cry.
But if I'm not gonna cry, then I can't open my mouth. I'll simply have
to nod yes. So I nodded yes.
"Bullshit," she said.
"Huh?" It was more of a grunt than a word.
"You don't know about falling off cliffs, Preppie," she said. "You
never fell off one in your goddamn life."
"Yeah," I said, recovering the power of speech. "When I met you."
"Yeah," she said, and a smile crossed her face. " 'Oh, what a falling
off was there.' Who said that?"
"I don't know," I replied. "Shakespeare."
"Yeah, but who?" she said kind of plaintively. "I can't remember which
play, even. I went to Radcliffe, I should remember things. I once knew all
the Mozart Kochel listings."
"Big deal," I said.
"You bet it was," she said, and then screwed up her forehead, asking,
"What number is the C Minor Piano Concerto?"
"I'll look it up," I said.
I knew just where. Back in the apartment, on a shelf by the piano. I
would look it up and tell her first thing tomorrow.
"I used to know," Jenny said, "I did. I used to know."
"Listen," I said, Bogart style, "do you want to talk music?"
"Would you prefer talking funerals?" she asked.
"No," I said, sorry for having interrupted her. "I discussed it with
Phil. Are you listening, Ollie?" I had turned my face away.
"Yeah, I'm listening, Jenny."
"I told him he could have a Catholic service, you'd say okay. Okay?"
"Okay," I said.
"Okay," she replied.
And then I felt slightly relieved, because after all, whatever we
talked of now would have to be an improvement.
I was wrong.
"Listen, Oliver," said Jenny, and it was in her angry voice, albeit
soft. "Oliver, you've got to stop being sick!"
"Me?"
"That guilty look on your face, Oliver, it's sick." Honestly, I tried
to change my expression, but my facial muscles were frozen.
"It's nobody's fault, you preppie bastard," she was saying. "Would you
please stop blaming yourself!"
I wanted to keep looking at her because I wanted to never take my eyes
from her, but still I had to lower my eyes. I was so ashamed that even now
Jenny was reading my mind so perfectly.
"Listen, that's the only goddamn thing I'm asking, Ollie. Otherwise, I
know you'll be okay."
That thing in my gut was stirring again, so I was afraid to even speak
the word "okay." I just looked mutely at Jenny.
"Screw Paris," she said suddenly.
"Huh?"
"Screw Paris and music and all the crap you think you stole from me. I
don't care, you sonovabitch. Can't you believe that?"
"No," I answered truthfully.
"Then get the hell out of here," she said. "I don't want you at my
goddamn deathbed."
She meant it. I could tell when Jenny really meant something. So I
bought permission to stay by telling a lie:
"I believe you," I said.
"That's better," she said. "Now would you do me a favor?" From
somewhere inside me came this devastating assault to make me cry. But I
withstood. I would not cry. I would merely indicate to Jennifer-by the
affirmative nodding of my head-that I would be happy to do her any favor
whatsoever.
"Would you please hold me very tight?" she asked. I put my hand on her
forearm-Christ, so thin-and gave it a little squeeze.
"No, Oliver," she said, "really hold me. Next to I was very, very
careful-of the tubes and things- as I got onto the bed with her and put my
arms around her.
"Thanks, Ollie."
Those were her last words.