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 in twenty- nine minutes. A certain distinguished Boston banker

claims an even faster time, but when one is discussing sub thirty minutes

from Bridge to Barretts', it is difficult to separate fact from fancy. I

happen to consider twenty-nine minutes as the absolute limit. I mean, you

can't ignore the traffic signals on Route I, can you?

"You're driving like a maniac," Jenny said.

"This is Boston," I replied. "Everyone drives like a maniac." We were

halted for a red light on Route I at the time.

"You'll kill us before your parents can murder us."

"Listen, Jen, my parents are lovely people."

The light changed. The MG was at sixty in under ten seconds.

"Even the Sonovabitch?" she asked.

"Who?"

"Oliver Barrett III."

"Ah, he's a nice guy. You'll really like him."

"How do you know?"

"Everybody likes him," I replied.

"Then why don't you?"

"Because everybody likes him," I said.

Why was I taking her to meet them, anyway? I mean, did I really need

Old Stonyface's blessing or anything? Part of it was that she wanted to

("That's the way it's done, Oliver") and part of it was the simple fact that

Oliver III was my banker in the very grossest sense: he paid the goddamn

tuition.

It had to be Sunday dinner, didn't it? I mean, that's comme il faut,

right? Sunday, when all the lousy drivers were clogging Route i and getting

in my way. I pulled off the main drag onto Groton Street, a road whose turns

I had been taking at high speeds since I was thirteen.

"There are no houses here," said Jenny, "just trees."

''The houses are behind the trees.~~

When traveling down Groton Street, you've got to be very careful or

else you'll miss the turnoff into our place. Actually, I missed the turnoff

myself that afternoon. I was three hundred yards down the road when I

screeched to a halt.

"Where are we?" she asked.

"Past it," I mumbled, between obscenities.

Is there something symbolic in the fact that I backed up three hundred

yards to the entrance of our place? Anyway, I drove slowly once we were on

Barrett soil. It's at least a half mile in from Groton Street to Dover House

proper. En route you pass other . . . well, buildings. I guess it's fairly

impressive when you see it for the first time.

"Holy shit!" Jenny said.

"What's the matter, Jen?"

"Pull over, Oliver. No kidding. Stop the car." I stopped the car. She

was clutching.

"Hey, I didn't think it would be like this."

"Like what?"

"Like this rich. I mean, I bet you have serfs living here."

I wanted to reach over and touch her, but my palms were not dry (an

uncommon state), and so I gave her verbal reassurance.

"Please, Jen. It'll be a breeze."

"Yeah, but why is it I suddenly wish my name was Abigail Adams, or

Wendy WASP?"

We drove the rest of the way in silence, parked and walked up to the

front door. As we waited for the ring to be answered, Jenny succumbed to a

last-minute panic.

"Let's run," she said.

"Let's stay and fight," I said. Was either of us joking?

The door was opened by Florence, a devoted and antique servant of the

Barrett family.

"Ah, Master Oliver," she greeted me.

God, how I hate to be called that! I detest that implicitly derogatory

distinction between me and Old Stonyface.

My parents, Florence informed us, were waiting in the library. Jenny

was taken aback by some of the portraits we passed. Not just that some were

by John Singer Sargent (notably Oliver Barrett II, sometimes displayed in

the Boston Museum), but the new realization that not all of my forebears

were named Barrett. There had been solid Barrett women who had mated well

and bred such creatures as Barrett Winthrop, Richard Barrett Sewall and even

Abbott Lawrence Lyman, who had the temerity to go through life (and Harvard,

its implicit analogue), becoming a prize-winning chemist, without so much as

a Barrett in his middle name!

"Jesus Christ," said Jenny. "I see half the buildings at Harvard

hanging here."

"It's all crap," I told her.

"I didn't know you were related to Sewall Boat House too," she said.

"Yeah. I come from a long line of wood and stone." At the end of the

long row of portraits, and just before one turns into the library, stands a

glass case. In the case are trophies. Athletic trophies.

"They're gorgeous," Jenny said. "I've never seen ones that look like

real gold and silver."

"They are.

"Jesus. Yours?"

"No. His."

It is an indisputable matter of record that Oliver Barrett III did not

place in the Amsterdam Olympics. It is, however, also quite true that he

enjoyed significant rowing triumphs on various other occasions. Several.

Many. The well-polished proof of this was now before Jennifer's dazzled

eyes.

"They don't give stuff like that in the Cranston bowling leagues."

Then I think she tossed me a bone.

"Do you have trophies, Oliver?"

"Yes."

"In a case?"

"Up in my room. Under the bed."

She gave me one of her good Jenny-looks and whispered:

"We'll go look at them later, huh?"

Before I could answer, or even gauge Jenny's true motivations for

suggesting a trip to my bedroom, we were interrupted.

"Ah, hello there."

Sonovabitch! It was the Sonovabitch.

"Oh, hello, sir. This is Jennifer-"

"Ah, hello there."

He was shaking her hand before I could finish the introduction. I noted

that he was not wearing any of his Banker Costumes. No indeed; Oliver III

had on a fancy cashmere sport jacket. And there was an insidious smile on

his usually rocklike countenance.

"Do come in and meet Mrs. Barrett."

Another once-in-a-lifetime thrill was in store for Jennifer: meeting

Alison Forbes "Tipsy" Barrett. (In perverse moments I wondered how her

boarding-school nickname might have affected her, had she not grown up to be

the earnest do-gooder museum trustee she was.) Let the record show that

Tipsy Forbes never completed college. She left Smith in her sophomore year,

with the full blessing of her parents, to wed Oliver Barrett III.

"My wife Alison, this is Jennifer-"

He had already usurped the function of introducing her.

"Calliveri," I added, since Old Stony didn't know her last name.

"Cavilleri," Jenny added politely, since I had mispronounced it-for the

first and only time in my goddamn life.

"As in Cavalleria Rusticana?" asked my mother, probably to prove that

despite her drop-out status, she was still pretty cultured.

"Right." Jenny smiled at her. "No relation."

"Ah,'~ said my mother.

"Ah," said my father.

To which, all the time wondering if they had caught Jenny's humor, I

could but add: "Ah?"

Mother and Jenny shook hands, and after the usual exchange of

banalities from which one never progressed in my house, we sat down.

Everybody was quiet. I tried to sense what was happening. Doubtless, Mother

was sizing up Jennifer, checking out her costume (not Boho this afternoon),

her posture, her demeanor, her accent. Face it, the Sound of Cranston was

there even in the politest of moments. Perhaps Jenny was sizing up Mother.

Girls do that, I'm told. It's supposed to reveal things about the guys

they're going to marry. Maybe she was also sizing up Oliver III. Did she

notice he was taller than I? Did she like his cashmere jacket?

Oliver III, of course, would be concentrating his fire on me, as usual.

"How've you been, son?"

For a goddamn Rhodes scholar, he is one lousy conversationalist.

"Fine, sir. Fine."

As a kind of equal-time gesture, Mother greeted Jennifer.

"Did you have a nice trip down?"

"Yes," Jenny replied, "nice and swift."

"Oliver is a swift driver," interposed Old Stony. "No swifter than you,

Father," I retorted.

What would he say to that? "Uh-yes. I suppose not."

You bet your ass not, Father.

Mother, who is always on his side, whatever the circumstances, turned

the subject to one of more universal interest-music or art, I believe. I

wasn't exactly listening carefully. Subsequently, a teacup found its way

into my hand.

"Thank you," I said, then added, "We'll have to be going soon."

"Huh?" said Jenny. It seems they had been discussing Puccini or

something, and my remark was considered somewhat tangential. Mother looked

at me (a rare event).

"But you did come for dinner, didn't you?"

"Uh-we can't," I said.

"Of course," Jenny said, almost at the same time. "I've gotta get

back," I said earnestly to Jen. Jenny gave me a look of "What are you

talking about?" Then Old Stonyface pronounced:

"You're staying for dinner. That's an order." The fake smile on his

face didn't make it any less of a command. And I don't take that kind of

crap even from an Olympic finalist.

"We can't, sir," I replied. "We have to, Oliver," said Jenny.

"Why?" I asked. "Because I'm hungry," she said.

 

'We sat at the table obedient to the wishes of Oliver III. He bowed his

head. Mother and Jenny followed suit. I tilted mine slightly.

"Bless this food to our use and us to Thy service, and help us to be

ever mindful of the needs and wants of others. This we ask in the name of

Thy Son Jesus Christ, Amen."

Jesus Christ, I was mortified. Couldn't he have omitted the piety just

this once? What would Jenny think? God, it was a throwback to the Dark Ages.

"Amen," said Mother (and Jenny too, very softly). "Play ball!" said I,

as kind of a pleasantry. Nobody seemed amused. Least of all Jenny. She

looked away from me. Oliver III glanced across at me.

"I certainly wish you would play ball now and then, Oliver."

We did not eat in total silence, thanks to my mother's remarkable

capacity for small talk.

"So your people are from Cranston, Jenny?"

"Mostly. My mother was from Fall River."

"The Barretts have mills in Fall River," noted Oliver III.

"Where they exploited the poor for generations," added Oliver IV.

"In the nineteenth century," added Oliver III.

My mother smiled at this, apparently satisfied that her Oliver had

taken that set. But not so.

"What about those plans to automate the mills?" I volleyed back.

There was a brief pause. I awaited some slamming retort.

"What about coffee?" said Alison Forbes Tipsy Barrett.

 

We withdrew into the library for what would definitely be the last

round. Jenny and I had classes the next day, Stony had the bank and so

forth, and surely Tipsy would have something worthwhile planned for bright

and early.

"Sugar, Oliver?" asked my mother.

"Oliver always takes sugar, dear," said my father. "Not tonight, thank

you," said I. "Just black, Mother."

Well, we all had our cups, and we were all sitting there cozily with

absolutely nothing to say to one another. So I brought up a topic.

"Tell me, Jennifer," I inquired. "What do you think of the Peace

Corps?"

She frowned at me, and refused to cooperate.

"Oh, have you told them, O.B.?" said my mother to my father.

"It isn't the time, dear," said Oliver III, with a kind of fake

humility that broadcasted, "Ask me, ask me." So I had to.

"What's this, Father?"

"Nothing important, son.

"I don't see how you can say that," said my mother, and turned toward

me to deliver the message with full force (I said she was on his side):

"Your father's going to be director of the Peace Corps."

 

Jenny also said, "Oh," but in a different, kind of happier tone of

voice.

My father pretended to look embarrassed, and my mother seemed to be

waiting for me to bow down or something. I mean, it's not Secretary of

State, after all!

"Congratulations, Mr. Barrett." Jenny took the initiative.

"Yes. Congratulations, sir."

Mother was so anxious to talk about it.

"I do think it will be a wonderful educational experience," she said.

"Oh, it will," agreed Jenny.

"Yes," I said without much conviction. "Uh-would you pass the sugar,

please."