Erich Segal - Oliver's Story

As we ambulated toward the eatery, Father pointed upward to the darkened windows and remarked, 'It's awfully quiet in the evening, isn't it?'

'It's always quiet in your private office,' I replied.

'The eye of the tornado, son.'

'You like it, though.'

'I do,' he said. 'I like it, Oliver.'

Not the money, certainly. And not the naked power involved in floating giant issues for a city or utility or corporation. What he liked, I think, was the Responsibility. If the word could ever be applied to him, I'd say my father's 'turn-on' was Responsibility. To the Mills that launched the Firm, the Firm itself, its Sacred Institute of Moral Guidance, Harvard. And of course, the Family.

'I'm sixty-four,' my father had announced that night in Boston one whole Harvard-Yale ago.

'Next March,' I'd said, consistently assuring him I knew his birthday.

' … and according to the rules of partnership, I must retire at sixty-eight.'

There was a pause. We walked the quiet Stately streets of downtown Boston.

'We should really talk about it, Oliver.'

'What, sir?'

'Who follows me as senior partner … '

'Mr Seymour,' I suggested. After all, as both the stationery and the doors affirmed, there were two other partners.

'Seymour and his family own twelve percent,' my father said, 'and Ward has ten.'

Let the record show I did not ask for these details.

'Aunt Helen has some token shares, which I control for her.' He took a breath and said, 'The rest is ours … '

I wanted to demur. Thus to prevent his finishing the thought.

' … and ultimately yours.'

I longed to change the subject, but was too aware of the emotional investment on my father's part. This clearly was a moment he'd prepared for with no small concern.

'Couldn't Seymour still become the senior partner?' I inquired.

'Yes. But that's if no one took … direct responsibility for all the Barrett interests.'

'Well, suppose he did?' The implication was, suppose,' didn't.

'Well, according to the rules of partnership, they have the option to buy out our shares.' He hesitated. 'But of course things wouldn't be the same.'

His final phrase was not a sequitur. It was a plea.

'Sir?' I asked.

'The Family … involvement,' Father said.

He knew I understood. He knew I knew why we had strolled so slowly. Yet the topic had exceeded walking distance. We had arrived at Locke-Ober's.

There was only time for him to add before we entered, 'Think about it.'

Although I nodded that I might, I knew I wouldn't think about it for a second.

Atmosphere inside was not too staid that evening. For the Crimson had wrought miracles that afternoon. The Lord had sent His wrath upon the Yalies in the final minute, through His messenger, a junior quarterback named Chiampi. Sixteen points in less than fifty final seconds let the Harvards tie the favored Elis. Cosmic equipoise. And cause for celebration. Mellifluid melodies were wafting everywhere.

Resistless our team sweeps goalward

With the fury of the blast.

We'll fight for the name of Harvard

Till the last white line is past.

There was no further talk of family tradition on that occasion. Footballism filled the air. We lauded Chiampi, Gatto and the Crimson line. We toasted Harvard's first unbeaten season since before my father entered college (!).

Now, one November later, all was different. Solemn. Not because we'd lost the contest. But because, in fact, a whole entire year had passed. And still the question lingered open. Actually, by now it gaped.

'Father, I'm a lawyer, and I feel commitments. If you will, responsibilities.'

'I understand. But Boston as a base of operations wouldn't totally preclude involvement with your social causes. Quite the opposite; you might conceive of working in the Firm as activism from the other side.'

I didn't want to hurt him. So I didn't say that what he called 'the other side' was to a great extent what I'd been fighting.

'I can see your point,' I said, 'but frankly … '

Now I hesitated, long enough to smooth my vehement objections into nonabrasive words.

'Father, I appreciate your asking. But I'm sort of, really, well … extremely … disinclined.'

I guess I'd been definitive. Father didn't add his usual request to think about it.

'I understand,' he said. 'I'm disappointed, but I understand.'

On the turnpike back, I felt sufficiently relieved to banter with myself:

'One tycoon per family's enough.'

And hoped that Marcie was at home by now.

'Oliver, how sure are you?'

'Marcie, I am positive.'

She was waiting when I got back from New Haven, looking like a freshly made soufflé. You'd never think she'd spent the whole day on a flight from coast to coast.

Though the conversation with my father was among a multitude of topics I reported, it aroused her interest.

'You said no, right out of hand?'

'And out of mind,' I said, 'and of conviction.'

Then I remembered whom I was addressing.

'Naturally, if you were in my place, you'd take the damn thing over, wouldn't you? I mean I guess that's what you did.'

'But I was angry,' Marcie said sincerely. 'I was out to prove a lot of things.'

'So am I. And that's exactly why I turned it down.'

'And you're willing to let … well … a heritage die out?'

'Some heritage — America's first sweatshops!'

'Oliver, that's ancient history. Nowadays a union worker earns fantastic — '

'That's beside the point.'

'And look at all the good your family's done! The hospital, the hall at Harvard. Contributions — '

'Look, let's not discuss it, huh?'

'Why not? You're being juvenile! You're like some flaming radical in retrospect!'

Why the hell was she so passionately pushing me to join the damn Establishment?

'Goddammit, Marcie!'

Suddenly the bell! That is, the ringing telephone called the antagonists to neutral corners.

'Should I answer?' Marcie said.

'The hell with it — it's nearly midnight.'

'It could be important.'

'Not for me,' I said.

'I live here too,' she said.

'Then answer it,' I barked, pissed off that what I'd hoped would be an amorous reunion was now rancorous.

Marcie answered.

'It's for you,' she said. And handed me the phone.

'Yeah, what?' I growled.

'Hey, terrific! She's still there!' a voice enthused.

Philip Cavilleri. And I had to smile.

'Are you checking up on me?'

'You want an honest answer? Yes. So how's it goin'?'

'What's your meaning, Philip?'

He replied with, 'Ding dong, ding dong.'

'What the hell is that — your cuckoo clock?'

'It's weddin' bells! When do they ring, goddammit?'

'Phil, you'll be the first to know.'

'Then tell me now, so I can go to sleep in peace.'

'Philip,' I replied with feigned exasperation, 'did you call me just to broadcast marriage propaganda or was there a further message?'

'Yeah. Let's talk some turkey.'

'Phil, I told you — '

'I mean real-life turkey. Stuffed. Thanksgivin' birdies.'

'Oh.' Next week, of course, would be the holiday.

'I want you and that cultured female voice to join my fam'ly gathering on the Day of Grace.'

'Who's coming to your gathering?' I asked.

'The Pilgrim Fathers! What the hell's the difference?'

'Whom have you invited, Philip?' I insisted, fearing hordes of overzealous Cranstonites.

'So far, only me,' he said.

'Oh,' I retorted. And remembered Philip couldn't bear to join his relatives on holidays. ('All those damn bambinos crying,' he'd complain. And I would humor his alleged excuse.)