CHAPTER 18
Date: 2015-10-07; view: 547.
I began to think about God. I mean, the notion of a Supreme Being existing somewhere began to creepinto my private thoughts. Not because I wanted to strike Him on the face, topunch Him out for what He was about to do to me-to Jenny, that is. No, thekind of religious thoughts I had were just the opposite. Like when I woke upin the morning and Jenny was there. Still there. I'm sorry, embarrassedeven, but I hoped there was a God I could say thank you to. Thank you forletting me wake up and see Jennifer. I was trying like hell to act normal, so of course I let her makebreakfast and so forth. "Seeing Stratton today?" she asked, as I was having a second bowl ofSpecial K. "Who?" I asked. "Raymond Stratton '64," she said, "your best friend. Your roommatebefore 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 flabbyhusband, 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 mockanger. "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 ona weekday, you must be screwing someone!" "Jennifer!" I bellowed, now honestly hurt. "I will not have that kindof 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 wouldgladly settle for the status quo. I don't mind the agony, sir, I don't mindknowing as long as Jenny doesn't know. Did you hear me, Lord, sir? You canname 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, hadthe shit kicked out of him by the Chicago police, while trying to photographa 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 hismessage: Oliver, despite your chronological age, you are already one of theelders 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 tellnobody, to shoulder the entire burden myself. So I gave old man Jonas somebullshit, I don't even remember exactly what, about how I didn't feel Icould leave New York at this time, sir. And I hoped he would understand. ButI know he was disappointed at my reaction to what was obviously a verysignificant gesture. Oh, Christ, Mr. Jonas, when you find out the realreason! Paradox: Oliver Barrett IV leaving the office earlier, yet walkinghomeward more slowly. How can you explain that? I had gotten into the habit of window shopping on Fifth Avenue, lookingat the wonderful and silly extravagant things I would have bought Jenniferhad I not wanted to keep up that fiction of . . . normal. Sure, I was afraid to go home. Because now, several weeks after I hadfirst learned the true facts, she was beginning to lose weight. I mean, justa little and she herself probably didn't notice. But I, who knew, noticed. I would window shop the airlines: Brazil, the Carribbean, Hawaii ("Getaway from it all-fly into the sunshine!") and so forth. On this particularafternoon, 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 inmy 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 aDiners Club card. Zip! My signature on the dotted line and I was the proudpossessor 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 myfantastic 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 andaway," I said. "Tomorrow night to Paris." "Bullshit, Oliver," she said. But quietly, with none of her usualmock-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'vegot, 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 wayonly I understood. They were saying she was sorry. That is, sorry for me. We stood there silently holding one another. Please, if one of uscries, 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: Tellme 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 intothe 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.
| <== previous lecture | | | next lecture ==> |
| CHAPTER 17 | | | CHAPTER 19 |