CHAPTER 20
Date: 2015-10-07; view: 547.
It is impossible to drive from East Sixty-third Street, Manhattan, toBoston, Massachusetts, in less than three hours and twenty minutes. Believeme, I have tested the outer limits on this track, and I am certain that noautomobile, foreign or domestic, even with some Graham Hill type at thewheel, can make it faster. I had the MG at a hundred and five on the MassTurnpike. I have this cordless electric razor and you can be sure I shavedcarefully, and changed my shirt in the car, before entering those hallowedoffices on State Street. Even at 8 A.M. there were several distinguishedlooking Boston types waiting to see Oliver Barrett III. His secretary-whoknew 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 heseemed a bit pale, that his hair had grown grayish (and perhaps thinner) inthese three years. ''Come in, son,~~ he said. I couldn't read the tone. I just walkedtoward his office. I sat in the "client's chair." We looked at one another, then let our gazes drift onto other objectsin the room. I let mine fall among the items on his desk: scissors in aleather case, letter opener with a leather handle, a photo of Mother takenyears 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 theissue-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 OliverBarrett 111-that he intended to give me the money. I also sensed that hedidn'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 aclass record, but then I thought if he knew where I worked, he probably knewmy 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. Avery important personal matter." "Have you gotten some girl in trouble?" he asked, but without anydeprecation 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 hereally wanted to know. He had questioned me merely, as I said before, so wecould talk. He reached into his desk drawer and took out a checkbook bound in thesame cordovan leather as the handle of his letter opener and the case forhis scissors. He opened it slowly. Not to torture me, I don't think, but tostall for time. To find things to say. Nonabrasive things. He finished writing the check, tore it from the book and then held itout toward me. I was maybe a split second slow in realizing I should reachout my hand to meet his. So he got embarrassed (I think), withdrew his handand placed the check on the edge of his desk. He looked at me now andnodded. His expression seemed to say, "There it is, son." But all he reallydid was nod. It's not that I wanted to leave, either. It's just that I myselfcouldn'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 inthe face. I leaned over and picked up the check. Yes, it said five thousanddollars, signed Oliver Barrett III. It was already dry. I folded itcarefully and put it into my shirt pocket as I rose and shuffled to thedoor. I should at least have said something to the effect that I knew thaton my account very important Boston dignitaries (maybe even Washington) werecooling their heels in his outer office, and yet if we had more to say toone another I could even hang around your office, Father, and you wouldcancel your luncheon plans and so forth. I stood there with the door half open, and summoned the courage to lookat him and say: "Thank you, Father."
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