CHAPTER 11
Date: 2015-10-07; view: 580.
Jennifer was awarded her degree on Wednesday. All sorts of relativesfrom Cranston, Fall River-and even an aunt from Cleveland-flocked toCambridge to attend the ceremony. By prior arrangement, I was not introducedas her fiance, and Jenny wore no ring: this so that none would be offended(too soon) about missing our wedding. "Aunt Laura , this is my boyfriend Oliver," Jenny would say, alwaysadding, "He isn't a college graduate." There was plenty of rib poking, whispering and even open speculation,but the relatives could pry no specific information from either of us-orfrom Phil, who I guess was happy to avoid a discussion of love among theatheists. On Thursday, I became Jenny's academic equal, receiving my degree fromHarvard-like her own, magna cum laude. Moreover, I was Class Marshal, and inthis capacity got to lead the graduating seniors to their seats. This meantwalking ahead of even the summas, the super-superbrains. I was almost movedto tell these types that my presence as their leader decisively proved mytheory that an hour in Dillon Field House is worth two in Widener Library.But I refrained. Let the joy be universal. I have no idea whether Oliver Barrett III was present. More thanseventeen thousand people jam into Harvard Yard on Commencement morning, andI certainly was not scanning the rows with binoculars. Obviously, I had usedmy allotted parent tickets for Phil and Jenny. Of course, as an alumnus, OldStony- face could enter and sit with the Class of '26. But then why shouldhe want to? I mean, weren't the banks open? The wedding was that Sunday. Our reason for excluding Jenny's relativeswas out of genuine concern that our omission of the Father, Son and HolyGhost would make the occasion far too trying for unlapsed Catholics. It wasin Phillips Brooks House, old building in the north of Harvard Yard. TimothyBlauvelt, the college Unitarian chaplain, presided. Naturally, Ray Strattonwas there, and I also invited Jeremy Nahum, a good friend from the Exeterdays, who had taken Amherst over Harvard. Jenny asked a girl friend fromBriggs Hall and-maybe for sentimental reasons-hertall, gawky colleague atthe reserve book desk. And of course Phil. I put Ray Stratton in charge of Phil. I mean, just to keep him as looseas possible. Not that Stratton was all that calm! The pair of them stoodthere, looking tremendously uncomfortable, each silently reinforcing theother's preconceived notion that this "do-it-yourself wedding" (as Philreferred to it) was going to be (as Stratton kept predicting) "an incrediblehorror show." Just because Jenny and I were going to address a few wordsdirectly to one another! We had actually seen it done earlier that springwhen one of Jenny's musical friends, Marya Randall, married a design studentnamed Eric Levenson. It was a very beautiful thing, and really sold us onthe idea. "Are you two ready?" asked Mr. Blauvelt. "Yes," I said for both of us. "Friends," said Mr. Blauvelt to the others, "we are here to witness theunion of two lives in marriage. Let us listen to the words they have chosento read on this sacred occasion. The bride first. Jenny stood facing me and recited the poem she hadselected. It was very moving, perhaps especially to me, because it was asonnet by Elizabeth Barrett: When our two souls stand up erect and strong, Face to face, silent,drawing high and higher, Until the lengthening wings break into fire... From the corner of my eye I saw Phil Cavilleri, pale, slack-jawed, eyeswide with amazement and adoration combined. We listened to Jenny finish the sonnet, which was in its waya kind of prayer for A place to stand and love in for a day, With darkness and the death hour rounding it. Then it was my turn. It had been hard finding a piece of poetry I couldread without blushing. I mean, I couldn't stand there and recite lace-doilyphrases. I couldn't. But a section of Walt Whitman's Song of the Open Road,though kind of brief, said it all for me: • . . I give you my hand! I give you my love more precious than money, I give you myself before preaching or law; Will you give me yourself? will you come travel with me? Shall we stick by each other as long as we live? I finished, and there was a wonderful hush in the room. Then RayStratton handed me the ring, and Jenny and I-ourselves-recited the marriagevows, taking each other, from that day forward, to love and cherish, tilldeath do us part. By the authority vested in him by the Commonwealth of Massachusetts,Mr. Timothy Blauvelt pronounced us man and wife. Upon reflection, our "post-game party" (as Stratton referred to it) waspretentiously unpretentious. Jenny and I had absolutely rejected thechampagne route, and since there were so few of us we could all fit into onebooth, we went to drink beer at Cronin's. As I recall, Jim Cronin himselfset us up with a round, as a tribute to "the greatest Harvard hockey playersince the Cleary brothers." "Like hell," argued Phil Cavilleri, pounding his fist on the table."He's better than all the Clearys put together." Philip's meaning, I believe(he had never seen a Harvard hockey game), was that however well Bobby orBilly Cleary might have skated, neither got to marry his lovely daughter. Imean, we were all smashed, and it was just an excuse for getting more so. I let Phil pick up the tab, a decision which later evoked one ofJenny's rare compliments about my intuition ("You'll be a human being yet,Preppie"). It got a little hairy at the end when we drove him to the bus,however. I mean, the wet-eyes bit. His, Jenny's, maybe mine too; I don'tremember anything except that the moment was liquid. Anyway, after all sorts of blessings, he got onto the bus and we waitedand waved until it drove out of sight. It was then that the awesome truthstarted to get to me. "Jenny, we're legally married!" "Yeah, now I can be a bitch."
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