Erich Segal - The Class

“Is it serious?”

“Well, he wants to marry me.”

“Do you ever think about me anymore?”

She paused and then replied, “Yes.”

“Well, that makes two of us. You’ve been on my mind.”

“When do you have the time, Danny?” she asked with gentle sarcasm. “Your love affairs are so public I can read about them at supermarket checkout counters without even buying the paper.”

“That’s somebody else. The real Danny Rossi is still in love with you. All he wants is a wife named Maria and lots of kids. Maybe half-a-dozen cute little dancers like those girls over there.”

She looked at him quizzically.

“Why me?”

“Maria, it would take a hell of a long time to explain.”

“Could you give me a brief outline in twenty-five words or less?”

Danny knew that if he could not sway her now, he would never have another chance.

“Maria,” he said earnestly, “I know the last time you saw me I was drunk with applause. I won’t lie to you and say that I don’t like it anymore. But I’ve realized it isn’t enough. My concerts may be packed, but my life is incredibly empty. Am I making any Sense?”

“You still haven’t answered my original question. Why me?”

“This is kind of hard to explain, but since I’ve become — I guess famous is the word — everybody I meet says they love me. And I don’t believe a goddamn word of it. The only person I ever came close to trusting was you. I know you understand that I put on my cocky little show because deep down I don’t think that anybody could really care.”

He paused and looked at her.

“That’s slightly more than twenty-five words,” she replied softly.

“How much do you believe?”

Her answer was barely audible because she was on the verge of tears.

“Everything,” she said.

Though he never told a soul, it was the only educational experience that Jason ever enjoyed more than Harvard. The twenty-one-week course at the Marine Basic School in Quantico, Virginia, offered instruction in such unacademic subjects as leadership, techniques of military instruction, map reading, infantry tactics, and weapons, as well as the history and traditions of the corps. In addition, there was first aid, combat intelligence, vertical development operations, tank and amphibious operations, and, his favorite of all, physical training and conditioning.

While the majority of the other college graduates were either fainting or groaning, or praying for it to end, Jason grew more elated with every pull-up, push-up, sit-up — and every mile he ran. He actually loved the obstacle course and spent some of his rare free moments trying to perfect his technique in negotiating it. His rifle became even more familiar to him than a tennis racket.

Though he had been far from an outstanding student in college, he was determined to finish number one in this class.

In the final week they took written examinations in military knowledge and skills, as well as practical tests in land navigation and techniques of military instruction. While Jason scored well in these, he was counting on the more sportslike contests to win him a gold medal.

He qualified with extremely high scores in rifle and pistol marksmanship, but was still outshot by half-a-dozen country boys who’d used firearms all their lives. Still, he led everyone in the physical-fitness tests. And that was some consolation for his overall finish in fifth place.

Second Lieutenant Jason Gilbert, USMC, took advantage of his first leave to write a long letter to Fanny explaining the reason for his silence. She answered briefly but warmly.

I was really surprised to hear from you. Maybe the Odyssey is not such a fairy tale after all.

Now it’s my turn to plead for your patience as I have my qualifying exams to study for. Afterward, when I’m working in a clinic, I’ll have time to write.

p.s. Did I mention that I miss you?

At Christmastime he deliberately wore his dress uniform (blue jacket, gold buttons rising to the neck, white hat) to make the maximum impression on his mom and dad.

Unfortunately, his impressively costumedarrival was upset by a more somber event.

When Jason made his grand entrance, he found his father, mother, and sister all sitting at the dining-room table. Julie was leaning forward, her head in her hands. The cries of baby Samantha were audible from another room.

The elegant marine officer was, to say the least, disappointed when his father greeted him with a desultory glance and a “Hi, son, you’re just in time.”

He kissed his mother and as he sat down at the table asked, “Hey, what’s going on?”

“Charles and Julie are having a bit of trouble,” she replied.

“Trouble?” his father suddenly bellowed. “The son of a bitch has left her! He just upped and walked out. Abandoning your wife and one-year-old child is hardly what I call adult behavior.”

“Well, I never thought Charlie was much of an adult,” Jason commented. “What was his reason?”

“He said he doesn’t like being married,” Julie wailed. “He said he never wanted to get married.”

“I could have told you that and saved you a lot of grief,” Jason remarked. “You were both too young.”

“Stop being so holier-than-thou, Jason,” his father bristled. “Okay, I’m sorry,” he answered softly. And added, “Hey, Julie, I’m really sorry that you got involved with that preppie idiot.”

She reacted to her brother’s expression of condolence with a fresh burst of tears.

“Well, I can see it’s hardly going to be a very merry Christmas,” Jason commented, getting up and starting to pace the floor.

Just then, Jenny the housekeeper entered the room and, spying the younger Gilbert, exclaimed, “Why, Mr. Jason, don’t you look snazzy!”

The holiday dinner was a pretty grim affair. By now the elder Gilbert had gotten over the initial shock of his daughter’s failure to live up to parental expectations, and had begun to concentrate on the traditional source of his pride.

“You mean to tell me you thought basic training was fun, Jason?” he marveled.

“In a way, but I’m afraid I overdid it. My C.O. wants me to stay on and be in charge of one of the fitness programs.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“Well, I really don’t relish the prospect of another year and a half in Quantico. But still there’s a chance they’ll let me go to a few tennis tournaments. Anyway I’m a lot better off than Andrew who I hear is swabbing decks on a destroyer.”

“I’ll never understand why he didn’t become an officer,” Mr. Gilbert remarked.

“I can. The Eliots have always been big shots in the navy — admirals and stuff. He probably felt he had too much to live up to. That’s why, compared to him, I’m sort of at an advantage when it comes to my career.”

“How so?” inquired his father, who was now president of the second largest electronics corporation in the world.

“Because, unlike Andrew, who’s hanging from a precarious limb of the great family tree, we’re all just one generation out of the ghetto.”

“That’s a rather unattractive way of putting it,” his father remarked. To the best of Jason Gilbert, Sr.’s knowledge, this was the first time the word ghetto had ever been pronounced in their home. It made him uncomfortable and it seemed especially inappropriate at Christmas dinner.

He shifted to a more festive topic. “Have you heard from that Dutch girlfriend of yours recently?”

“Not as recently as I’d like,” Jason answered. “In fact, with your permission, Dad, I’d like to call her up after dinner.”

“By all means,” replied Jason Gilbert, Sr., relieved to be looking forward again, away from the not-sufficiently-distant past.