Erich Segal - Love Story

Had she not been in such an emotional state, I could have explained once again that stones do not bleed, that she should not project her Italian-Mediterranean misconceptions about parents onto the craggy heights of Mount Rushmore. But she was very upset. And it was upsetting me too.

'Oliver,' she pleaded, 'could you just say a word?'

To him? She must be going out of her mind!

'I mean, like just maybe 'hello'?'

She was offering the phone to me. And trying not to cry.

'I will never talk to him. Ever,' I said with perfect calm.

And now she was crying. Nothing audible, but tears pouring down her face. And then she — she begged.

'For me, Oliver. I've never asked you for anything. Please.'

Three of us. Three of us just standing (I somehow imagined my father being there as well) waiting for something. What? For me?

I couldn't do it.

Didn't Jenny understand she was asking the impossible? That I would have done absolutely anything else? As I looked at the floor, shaking my head in adamant refusal and extreme discomfort, Jenny addressed me with a kind of whispered fury I had never heard from her:

'You are a heartless bastard,' she said. And then she ended the telephone conversation with my father, saying:

'Mr. Barrett, Oliver does want you to know that in his own special way …'

She paused for breath. She had been sobbing, so it wasn't easy. I was much too astonished to do anything but await the end of my alleged 'message.'

'Oliver loves you very much,' she said, and hung up very quickly.

There is no rational explanation for my actions in the next split second. I plead temporary insanity. Correction: I plead nothing. I must never be forgiven for what I did.

I ripped the phone from her hand, then from the socket — and hurled it across the room.

'God damn you, Jenny! Why don't you get the hell out of my life!'

I stood still, panting like the animal I had suddenly become. Jesus Christ! What the hell had happened to me? I turned to look at Jen.

But she was gone.

I mean absolutely gone, because I didn't even hear footsteps on the stairs. Christ, she must have dashed out the instant I grabbed the phone. Even her coat and scarf were still there. The pain of not knowing what to do was exceeded only by that of knowing what I had done.

I searched everywhere.

In the Law School library, I prowled the rows of grinding students, looking and looking. Up and back, at least half a dozen times. Though I didn't utter a sound, I knew my glance was so intense, my face so fierce, I was disturbing the whole fucking place. Who cares?

But Jenny wasn't there.

Then all through Harkness Commons, the lounge, the cafeteria. Then a wild sprint to look around Agassiz Hall at Radcliffe. Not there, either. I was running everywhere now, my legs trying to catch up with the pace of my heart.

Paine Hall? (Ironic goddamn name!) Downstairs are piano practice rooms. I know Jenny. When she's angry, she pounds the fucking keyboard. Right? But how about when she's scared to death?

It's crazy walking down the corridor, practice rooms on either side. The sounds of Mozart and Bartok, Bach and Brahms filter out from the doors and blend into this weird infernal sound.

Jenny's got to be here!

Instinct made me stop at a door where I heard the pounding (angry?) sound of a Chopin prelude. I paused for a second. The playing was lousy — stops and starts and many mistakes. At one pause I heard a girl's voice mutter, 'Shit!' It had to be Jenny. I flung open the door.

A Radcliffe girl was at the piano. She looked up. An ugly, big-shouldered hippie Radcliffe girl, annoyed at my invasion.

'What's the scene, man?' she asked.

'Bad, bad,' I replied, and closed the door again.

Then I tried Harvard Square. The Café Pamplona, Tommy's Arcade, even Hayes Bick — lots of artistic types go there. Nothing.

Where would Jenny have gone?

By now the subway was closed, but if she had gone straight to the Square she could have caught a train to Boston. To the bus terminal.

It was almost 1 A.M. as I deposited a quarter and two dimes in the slot. I was in one of the booths by the kiosk in Harvard Square.

'Hello, Phil?'

'Hey …' he said sleepily. 'Who's this?'

'It's me — Oliver.'

'Oliver!' He sounded scared. 'Is Jenny hurt?' he asked quickly. If he was asking me, did that mean she wasn't with him?

'Uh — no, Phil, no.'

'Thank Christ. How are you, Oliver?'

Once assured of his daughter's safety, he was casual and friendly. As if he had not been aroused from the depths of slumber.

'Fine, Phil, I'm great. Fine. Say, Phil, what do you hear from Jenny?'

'Not enough, goddammit,' he answered in a strangely calm voice.

'What do you mean, Phil?'

'Christ, she should call more often, goddammit. I'm not a stranger, you know.'

If you can be relieved and panicked at the same time, that's what I was.

'Is she there with you?' he asked me.

'Huh?'

'Put Jenny on; I'll yell at her myself.'

'I can't, Phil.'

'Oh, is she asleep? If she's asleep, don't disturb her.'

'Yeah,' I said.

'Listen, you bastard,' he said.

'Yes, sir?'

'How goddamn far is Cranston that you can't come down on a Sunday afternoon? Huh? Or I can come up, Oliver.'

'Uh — no, Phil. We'll come down.'

'When?'

'Some Sunday.'

'Don't give me that 'some' crap. A loyal child doesn't say 'some,' he says 'this.' This Sunday, Oliver.'

'Yes, sir. This Sunday.'

'Four o'clock. But drive carefully. Right?'

'Right.'

'And next time call collect, goddammit.'

He hung up.

I just stood there, lost on that island in the dark of Harvard Square, not knowing where to go or what to do next. A colored guy approached me and inquired if I was in need of a fix. I kind of absently replied, 'No, thank you, sir.'

I wasn't running now. I mean, what was the rush to return to the empty house? It was very late and I was numb — more with fright than with the cold (although it wasn't warm, believe me). From several yards off, I thought I saw someone sitting on the top of the steps. This had to be my eyes playing tricks, because the figure was motionless.

But it was Jenny.

She was sitting on the top step.

I was too tired to panic, too relieved to speak. Inwardly I hoped she had some blunt instrument with which to hit me.

'Jen?'

'Ollie?'

We both spoke so quietly, it was impossible to take an emotional reading.

'I forgot my key,' Jenny said.

I stood there at the bottom of the steps, afraid to ask how long she had been sitting, knowing only that I had wronged her terribly.

'Jenny, I'm sorry — '

'Stop!' She cut off my apology, then said very quietly, 'Love means not ever having to say you're sorry.'

I climbed up the stairs to where she was sitting.

'I'd like to go to sleep. Okay?' she said.

'Okay.'

We walked up to our apartment. As we undressed, she looked at me reassuringly.

'I meant what I said, Oliver.'

And that was all.

It was July when the letter came.

It had been forwarded from Cambridge to Dennis Port, so I guess I got the news a day or so late. I charged over to where Jenny was supervising her children in a game of kickball (or something), and said in my best Bogart tones:

'Let's go.'

'Huh?'

'Let's go,' I repeated, and with such obvious authority that she began to follow me as I walked toward the water.

'What's going on, Oliver? Wouldja tell me, please, for God sake?'

I continued to stride powerfully onto the dock.

'Onto the boat, Jennifer,' I ordered, pointing to it with the very hand that held the letter, which she didn't even notice.

'Oliver, I have children to take care of,' she protested, even while stepping obediently on board.