Erich Segal: Love Story

'Especially in my family,' I said.

Jenny was getting up and down to serve, so she was not involved with most of this.

'Get him on the phone,' Phil repeated. 'I'll take care of this.'

'No, Phil. My father and I have installed a cold line.'

'Aw, listen, Oliver, he'll thaw. Believe me when I tell you he'll thaw. When it's time to go to church — '

At this moment Jenny, who was handing out dessert plates, directed at her father a portentous monosyllable.

'Phil …?'

'Yeah, Jen?'

'About the church bit …'

'Yeah?'

'Uh — kind of negative on it, Phil.'

'Oh?' asked Mr. Cavilleri. Then, leaping instantly to the wrong conclusion, he turned apologetically toward me.

'I — uh — didn't mean necessarily Catholic Church, Oliver. I mean, as Jennifer has no doubt told you, we are of the Catholic faith. But, I mean, your church, Oliver. God will bless this union in any church, I swear.'

I looked at Jenny, who had obviously failed to cover this crucial topic in her phone conversation.

'Oliver,' she explained, 'it was just too goddamn much to hit him with at once.'

'What's this?' asked the ever affable Mr. Cavilleri. 'Hit me, hit me, children. I want to be hit with everything on your minds.'

Why is it that at this precise moment my eyes hit upon the porcelain statue of the Virgin Mary on a shelf in the Cavilleris' dining room?

'It's about the God-blessing bit, Phil,' said Jenny, averting her gaze from him.

'Yeah, Jen, yeah?' asked Phil, fearing the worst.

'Uh — kind of negative on it, Phil,' she said, now glancing at me for support — which my eyes tried to give her.

'On God? On anybody's God?'

Jenny nodded yes.

'May I explain, Phil?' I asked.

'Please.'

'We neither of us believe, Phil. And we won't be hypocrites.'

I think he took it because it came from me. He might maybe have hit Jenny. But now he was the odd man out, the foreigner. He couldn't look at either of us.

'That's fine,' he said after a very long time. 'Could I just be informed as to who performs the ceremony?'

'We do,' I said.

He looked at his daughter for verification. She nodded. My statement was correct.

After another long silence, he again said, 'That's fine.' And then he inquired of me, inasmuch as I was planning a career in law, whether such a kind of marriage is — what's the word? — legal?

Jenny explained that the ceremony we had in mind would have the college Unitarian chaplain preside ('Ah, chaplain,' murmured Phil) while the man and woman address each other.

'The bride speaks too?' he asked, almost as if this — of all things — might be the coup de grace.

'Philip,' said his daughter, 'could you imagine any situation in which I would shut up?'

'No, baby,' he replied, working up a tiny smile. 'I guess you would have to talk.'

As we drove back to Cambridge, I asked Jenny how she thought it all went.

'Okay,' she said.

Mr. William F. Thompson, Associate Dean of the Harvard Law School, could not believe his ears.

'Did I hear you right, Mr. Barrett?'

'Yes, sir, Dean Thompson.'

It had not been easy to say the first time. It was no easier repeating it.

'I'll need a scholarship for next year, sir.'

'Really?'

'That's why I'm here, sir. You are in charge of Financial Aid, aren't you, Dean Thompson?'

'Yes, but it's rather curious. Your father — '

'He's no longer involved, sir.'

'I beg your pardon?' Dean Thompson took off his glasses and began to polish them with his tie.

'He and I have had a sort of disagreement.'

The Dean put his glasses back on, and looked at me with that kind of expressionless expression you have to be a dean to master.

'This is very unfortunate, Mr. Barrett,' he said. For whom? I wanted to say. This guy was beginning to piss me off.

'Yes, sir,' I said. 'Very unfortunate. But that's why I've come to you, sir. I'm getting married next month. We'll both be working over the summer. Then Jenny — that's my wife — will be teaching in a private school. That's a living, but it's still not tuition. Your tuition is pretty steep, Dean Thompson.'

'Uh — yes,' he replied. But that's all. Didn't this guy get the drift of my conversation? Why in hell did he think I was there, anyway?

'Dean Thompson, I would like a scholarship.' I said it straight out. A third time. 'I have absolutely zilch in the bank, and I'm already accepted.'

'Ah, yes,' said Mr. Thompson, hitting upon the technicality. 'The final date for financial — aid applications is long overdue.'

What would satisfy this bastard? The gory details, maybe? Was it scandal he wanted? What?

'Dean Thompson, when I applied I didn't know this would come up.'

'That's quite right, Mr. Barrett, and I must tell you that I really don't think this office should enter into a family quarrel. A rather distressing one, at that.'

'Okay, Dean,' I said, standing up. 'I can see what you're driving at. But I'm still not gonna kiss my father's ass so you can get a Barrett Hall for the Law School.'

As I turned to leave, I heard Dean Thompson mutter, 'That's unfair.'

I couldn't have agreed more.

Jennifer was awarded her degree on Wednesday. All sorts of relatives from Cranston, Fall River - and even an aunt from Cleveland — flocked to Cambridge to attend the ceremony. By prior arrangement, I was not introduced as her fiancé, and Jenny wore no ring: this so that none would be offended (too soon) about missing our wedding.

'Aunt Clara, this is my boyfriend Oliver,' Jenny would say, always adding, 'He isn't a college graduate.'

There was plenty of rib poking, whispering and even overt speculation, but the relatives could pry no specific information from either of us — or from Phil, who I guess was happy to avoid a discussion of love among the atheists.

On Thursday, I became Jenny's academic equal, receiving my degree from Harvard — like her own, magna cum laude. Moreover, I was Class Marshal, and in this capacity got to lead the graduating seniors to their seats. This meant walking ahead of even the summas, the super-superbrains. I was almost moved to tell these types that my presence as their leader decisively proved my theory that an hour in Dillon Field House is worth two in Widener Library. But I refrained.Let the joy be universal.

I have no idea whether Oliver Barrett III was present. More than seventeen thousand people jam into Harvard Yard on Commencement morning, and I certainly was not scanning the rows with binoculars. Obviously, I had used my allotted parent tickets for Phil and Jenny. Of course, as an alumnus, Old Stonyface could enter and sit with the Class of '26. But then why should he want to? I mean, — weren't the banks open?

The wedding was that Sunday. Our reason for excluding Jenny's relatives was out of genuine concern that our omission of the Father, Son and Holy Ghost would make the occasion far too trying for unlapsed Catholics. It was in Phillips Brooks House, an old building in the north of Harvard Yard. Timothy Blauvelt, the college Unitarian chaplain, presided. Naturally, Ray Stratton was there, and I also invited Jeremy Nahum, a good friend from the Exeter days, who had taken Amherst over Harvard. Jenny asked a girl friend from Briggs Hall and — maybe for sentimental reasons — her tall, gawky colleague at the reserve book desk. And of course Phil.

I put Ray Stratton in charge of Phil. I mean, just to keep him as loose as possible. Not that Stratton was all that calm! The pair of them stood there, looking tremendously uncomfortable, each silently reinforcing the other's preconceived notion that this 'do-it-yourself wedding' (as Phil referred to it) was going to be (as Stratton kept predicting) 'an incredible horror show.' Just because Jenny and I were going to address a few words directly to one another! We had actually seen it done earlier that spring when one of Jenny's musical friends, Marya Randall, married a design student named Eric Levenson. It was a very beautiful thing, and really sold us on the idea.