Erich Segal - Oliver's Story

'You're … looking well,' Jo said to me. And I could tell that she was marking time in hopes that I might show more interest.

But I felt embarrassed simply standing there and trying to chat superficially.

'I'm sorry, Jo,' I said. 'I've got some buddies waiting for me in the cold … '

'Oh, sure,' she said. 'Don't let me keep you.' 'No — it's just … '

She saw I was uneasy and she let me go.

'Enjoy yourself.':

I hesitated, then I started to go off.

'Remember me to all the music freaks,' I called.

'They'd love to see you, Oliver. Come any Sunday.'

Now I was some distance from her. Casually I turned and saw she'd joined another woman and two men. Clearly those she'd driven down with. Other doctors? Was one guy her boyfriend?

None of your damn business, Oliver.

I marched. I didn't chant because it's not my way. Like one huge centipede we passed the District Court, the F.B.I, and Justice, the Internal Revenue, and turned just at the Treasury. At last we reached the ithyphallic tribute to the Father of Our Country.

I froze my ass off sitting on the ground. And did a little dozing during the orations. But to me it came alive when that huge multitude joined voice and sang 'Give Peace a Chance'.

I didn't sing. I'm not a vocal person. Actually, if I'd been with Joanna's group I might have. But it's strange to try a solo in a crowd.

I was pretty tired as I unlocked my New York basement door. Just then the phone began to ring.

I mustered up a final sprint and grabbed it.

I was bushed enough to be light-headed.

'Hi,' I squeaked falsetto. 'This is Abbie Hoffman, wishing you a Yippie New Year!'

Pretty humorous, I thought.

But Marcie didn't laugh.

Because it wasn't Marcie.

'Uh-um-Oliver?'

My little joke had been a tiny bit mistimed.

'Good evening, Father. I — uh — thought you might be someone else.'

'Um — yes.'

A pause.

' How are you, son?'

'I'm fine. How's Mother?'

'Fine. She's here as well. Um — Oliver, about next Saturday … '

'Yes, sir?'

'Are we meeting in New Haven?'

I'd forgotten all about the date we'd made last June!

'Uh — sure. Of course.'

'That's fine. Will you be driving?'

'Yes.'

'Then shall we meet right at the Field House gate? Say, noon?'

'Okay.'

'And dinner afterwards, I hope.'

Come on, say yes. He wants to see you. You can hear it in his voice.

'Yes, sir.'

'That's fine. Uh — Mother wants to say hello.'

And thus my week of demonstration ended as I chatted undemonstratively with my parents.

Marcie called at midnight.

'The news said Nixon watched a football game while you were marching,' she reported.

At this point it didn't matter.

'The goddamn house is empty,' I replied.

'Just one week more … '

'This separation crap has got to end.'

'It will, my friend. In seven days.'

In my family, tradition is a substitute for love. We do not effuse affection on each other. But we instead attend the tribal functions that give testimony to our … allegiance. The yearly festivals are four: Christmas, Easter, and Thanksgiving, naturally. And then that sacred rite of autumn, Holy Weekend. The last occasion is of course the moral Armageddon, when the Good and Evil in the world do battle, Light opposes Dark. In other words, The Game. Fair Harvard versus Yale.

It is a time to laugh and a time to weep. But most of all, it is a time to bellow, shriek, act like demented juveniles, and drink.

In my family, however, celebration is a trifle more sedate. While some alumni have their tailgate parties, lunching Bloody Marily upon the parking fields before the clash, the Barretts take Harvardian athletics straight.

When I was a child, my father brought me to each game at Soldiers Field. He was no once-a-year man; we saw every one. His explanations were meticulous. At ten years old, I was conversant with the most exotic signals of the referees. Moreover, I learned how to cheer. My father never screamed. He'd utter, nearly to himself, 'Good man,' 'Ah, fine,' and suchlike exclamations when the Crimson acted well. And if, perchance, our gladiators weren't up to snuff, as when we lost by fifty-five to zilch, he'd comment, 'Pity.'

He had been an athlete, Father. Rowed for Harvard (secondarily, Olympic single sculls). He wore the honored tie with black and crimson stripes which meant he'd earned his H. Which also gave him the prerogative of football tickets in the best position. At the president's right hand.

Time has neither dimmed nor altered rituals of Harvard-Yale encounters. All that's changed has been my status. Rites of passage passed, I now possess an H myself (in hockey). I am thus entitled on my own to fifty-yard-line seats. In theory, I could bring my son and teach him how to tell a penalty for clipping.

And yet, with the exception of the years I was in college, and then married, I attend the Harvard-Yale game with my father. Mother, in the single autocratic gesture of her life, renounced the ceremony years ago. 'I don't under stand it,' she had told my father, 'and my feet get cold.'

When the game is held in Cambridge, we have dinner in the venerable Boston eating institution Locke-Ober's. When the battle's in New Haven, Father favors Kaysey's — less patina, better food.

This year we were seated in the latter, having watched our alma mater bow by 7–0. Play had been lethargic, hence there wasn't too much football to discuss. Which left the possibility that nonathletic topics might impinge. I was determined not to speak of Marcie.

'Pity,' Father said.

'It's only football,' I replied, my reflex ever to take adversary stances to his points of view.

'I expected Massey to be throwing more,' said Father.

'Harvard's good on pass-defense,' I offered.

'Yes. Perhaps you're right.'

We ordered lobster. Which takes time, especially with this huge crowd. The place was loaded to the gills with loaded Yalies. Bulldogs baying victory songs. Hymns to heroism with the pigskin.

Anyway, we had a relatively quiet table and could hear each other. If indeed we had the substance of a dialogue.

'How are things?' my father asked.

'About the same,' I answered. (I confess, I don't facilitate our conversations.)

'Are you … getting out a bit?' He tries to take an interest. I'll concede he tries.

'A bit,' I said.

'That's fine,' he said.

Today I sensed my father was uneasier than last year. And uneasier than he had been when we had dinner in New York before the summer.

'Oliver,' he said, and in that tone which heralded portentous things, 'may I be personal?'

Can he be serious?

'Of course,' I said.

'I'd like to talk to you about the future.'

'What about my future, sir?' I asked while inwardly dispatching my defensive unit to the field.

'Not yours exactly, Oliver. The Family's.'

I had a sudden thought that he or Mother might be ill or something. They'd announce it to me in the same impassive way. Or even send a letter (Mother would).

'I'm sixty-five,' he said.

'Not till March,' I answered. My precision aimed to prove Involvement of a sort.

'Well, nonetheless, I have to think as if I'm sixty-five already.' Was my father looking forward to a social security check?

'According to the rules of partnership … '

But as he started, I turned out. For I had heard a sermon from the selfsame text upon this same occasion twelve months previous. I knew the message.

Now the only difference was the post-game choreography. Last year, after several conversations with the Crimson cream, we'd headed into Boston to the favored restaurant. Father chose to park right by his State Street office, home of the sole enterprise that bore our name overtly: 'Barrett, Ward and Seymour, Inc. Investment Bankers.'