Erich Segal - Love Story

'Are you two ready?' asked Mr. Blauvelt.

'Yes,' I said for both of us.

'Friends,' said Mr. Blauvelt to the others, 'we are here to witness the union of two lives in marriage. Let us listen to the words they have chosen to read on this sacred occasion.'

The bride first. Jenny stood facing me and recited the poem she had selected. It was very moving, perhaps especially to me, because it was a sonnet by Elizabeth Barrett:

From the corner of my eye I saw Phil Cavilleri, pale, slack-jawed, eyes wide with amazement and adoration combined. We listened to Jenny finish the sonnet, which was in its way a kind of prayer for

Then it was my turn. It had been hard finding a piece of poetry I could read without blushing. I mean, I couldn't stand there and recite lace-doily phrases. I couldn't. But a section of Walt Whitman's Song of the Open Road, though kind of brief, said it all for me:

I finished, and there was a wonderful hush in the room. Then Ray Stratton handed me the ring, and Jenny and I — ourselves — recited the marriage vows, taking each other, from that day forward, to love and cherish, till death do us part.

By the authority vested in him by the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, Mr. Timothy Blauvelt pronounced us man and wife.

Upon reflection, our 'post-game party' (as Stratton referred to it) was pretentiously unpretentious. Jenny and I had absolutely rejected the champagne route, and since there were so few of us we could all fit into one booth, we went to drink beer at Cronin's. As I recall, Jim Cronin himself set us up with a round, as a tribute to 'the greatest Harvard hockey player since the Cleary brothers.'

'Like hell,' argued Phil Cavilleri, pounding his fist on the table. 'He's better than all the Clearys put together.' Philip's meaning, I believe (he had never seen a Harvard hockey game), was that however well Bobby or Billy Cleary might have skated, neither got to marry his lovely daughter. I mean, we were all smashed, and it was just an excuse for getting more so.

I let Phil pick up the tab, a decision which later evoked one of Jenny's rare compliments about my intuition ('You'll be a human being yet, Preppie'). It got a little hairy at the end when we drove him to the bus, however. I mean, the wet-eyes bit. His, Jenny's, maybe mine too; I don't remember anything except that the moment was liquid.

Anyway, after all sorts of blessings, he got onto the bus and we waited and waved until it drove out of sight. It was then that the awesome truth started to get to me.

'Jenny, we're legally married!'

'Yeah, now I can be a bitch.'

If a single word can describe our daily life during those first three years, it is 'scrounge.' Every waking moment we were concentrating on how the hell we would be able to scrape up enough dough to do whatever it was we had to do. Usually it was just break even. And there's nothing romantic about it, either. Remember the famous stanza in Omar Khayyam? You know, the book of verses underneath the bough, the loaf of bread, the jug of wine and so forth? Substitute Scott on Trusts for that book of verses and see how this poetic vision stacks up against my idyllic existence. Ah, paradise? No, bullshit. All I'd think about is how much that book was (could we get it secondhand?) and where, if anywhere, we might be able to charge that bread and wine. And then how we might ultimately scrounge up the dough to pay off our debts.

Life changes. Even the simplest decision must be scrutinized by the ever vigilant budget committee of your mind.

'Hey, Oliver, let's go see Becket tonight'

'Listen, it's three bucks.'

'What do you mean?'

'I mean a buck fifty for you and a buck fifty for me.'

'Does that mean yes or no?'

'Neither. It just means three bucks.'

Our honeymoon was spent on a yacht and with twenty-one children. That is, I sailed a thirty-six-foot Rhodes from seven in the morning till whenever my passengers had enough, and Jenny was a children's counselor. It was a place called the Pequod Boat Club in Dennis Port (not far from Hyannis), an establishment that included a large hotel, a marina and several dozen houses for rent. In one of the tinier bungalows, I have nailed an imaginary plaque: 'Oliver and Jenny slept here — when they weren't making love.' I think it's a tribute to us both that after a long day of being kind to our customers, for we were largely dependent on their tips for our income, Jenny and I were nonetheless kind to each other. I simply say 'kind,' because I lack the vocabulary to describe what loving and being loved by Jennifer Cavilleri is like. Sorry, I mean Jennifer Barrett.

Before leaving for the Cape, we found a cheap apartment in North Cambridge. I called it North Cambridge, although the address was technically in the town of Somerville and the house was, as Jenny described it, 'in the state of disrepair.' It had originally been a two-family structure, now converted into four apartments, overpriced even at its 'cheap' rental. But what the hell can graduate students do? It's a seller's market.

'Hey, Ol, why do you think the fire department hasn't condemned the joint?' Jenny asked.

'They're probably afraid to walk inside,' I said.

'So am I.'

'You weren't in June,' I said.

(This dialogue was taking place upon our reentry in September.)

'I wasn't married then. Speaking as a married woman, I consider this place to be unsafe at any speed.'

'What do you intend to do about it?'

'Speak to my husband,' she replied. 'He'll take care of it.'

'Hey, I'm your husband,' I said.

'Really? Prove it.'

'How?' I asked, inwardly thinking, Oh no, in the street?

'Carry me over the threshold,' she said.

'You don't believe in that nonsense, do you?'

'Carry me, and I'll decide after.'

Okay. I scooped her in my arms and hauled her up five steps onto the porch.

'Why'd you stop?' she asked.

'Isn't this the threshold?'

'Negative, negative,' she said.

'I see our name by the bell.'

'This is not the official goddamn threshold. Upstairs, you turkey!'

It was twenty-four steps up to our 'official' homestead, and I had to pause about halfway to catch my breath.

'Why are you so heavy? ' I asked her.

'Did you ever think I might be pregnant?' she answered.

This didn't make it easier for me to catch my breath.

'Are you?' I could finally say.

'Hah! Scared you, didn't I?'

'Nah.'

'Don't bullshit me, Preppie.'

'Yeah. For a second there, I clutched.'

I carried her the rest of the way.

This is among the precious few moments I can recall in which the verb 'scrounge' has no relevance whatever.

My illustrious name enabled us to establish a charge account at a grocery store which would otherwise have denied credit to students. And yet it worked to our disadvantage at a place I would least have expected: the Shady Lane School, where Jenny was to teach.

'Of course, Shady Lane isn't able to match the public school salaries,' Miss Anne Miller Whitman, the principal, told my wife, adding something to the effect that Barretts wouldn't be concerned with 'that aspect' anyway. Jenny tried to dispel her illusions, but all she could get in addition to the already offered thirty-five hundred for the year was about two minutes of 'ho ho ho's. Miss Whitman thought Jenny was being so witty in her remarks about Barretts having to pay the rent just like other people.