Erich Segal: Love Story

'Listen, Jen, I may not call you for a few months.'

She was silent for a moment. A few moments.

Finally she asked, 'Why?'

'Then again, I may call you as soon as I get to my room.'

I turned and began to walk off.

'Bastard!' I heard her whisper.

I pivoted again and scored from a distance of twenty feet.

'See, Jenny, you can dish it out, but you can't take it!'

I would like to have seen the expression on her face, but strategy forbade my looking back.

My roommate, Ray Stratton, was playing poker with two football buddies as I entered the room.

'Hello, animals.'

They responded with appropriate grunts.

'Whatja get tonight, Ollie?' Ray asked.

'An assist and a goal,' I replied.

'Off Cavilleri.'

'None of your business,' I replied.

'Who's this?' asked one of the behemoths.

'Jenny Cavilleri,' answered Ray. 'Wonky music type.'

'I know that one,' said another. 'A real tight-ass.'

I ignored these crude and horny bastards as I untangled the phone and started to take it into my bedroom.

'She plays piano with the Bach Society,' said Stratton.

'What does she play with Barrett?'

'Probably hard to get!'

Oinks, grunts and guffaws. The animals were laughing.

'Gentlemen,' I announced as I took leave, 'up yours.'

I closed my door on another wave of subhuman noises, took off my shoes, lay back on the bed and dialed Jenny's number.

We spoke in whispers.

'Hey, Jen … '

'Yeah?'

'Jen … what would you say if I told you … '

I hesitated. She waited.

'I think … I'm in love with you.'

There was a pause. Then she answered very softly.

'I would say … you were full of shit.'

She hung up.

I wasn't unhappy. Or surprised.

I got hurt in the Cornell game.

It was my own fault, really. At a heated juncture, I made the unfortunate error of referring to their center as a 'fucking Canuck.' My oversight was in not remembering that four members of their team were Canadians — all, it turned out, extremely patriotic, well-built and within earshot. To add insult to injury, the penalty was called on me. And not a common one, either: five minutes for fighting. You should have heard the Cornell fans ride me when it was announced! Not many Harvard rooters had come way the hell up to Ithaca, New York, even though the Ivy title was at stake. Five minutes! I could see our coach tearing his hair out as I climbed into the box.

Jackie Felt came scampering over. It was only then I realized that the whole right side of my face was a bloody mess. 'Jesus Christ,' he kept repeating as he worked me over with a styptic pencil.

'Jesus, Ollie.'

I sat quietly, staring blankly ahead. I was ashamed to look onto the ice, where my worst fears were quickly realized; Cornell scored. The Red fans screamed and bellowed and hooted. It was a tie now. Cornell could very possibly win the game — and with it, the Ivy title. Shit — and I had barely gone through half my penalty.

Across the rink, the minuscule Harvard contingent was grim and silent. By now the fans for both sides had forgotten me. Only one spectator still had his eyes on the penalty box. Yes, he was there.

'If the conference breaks in time, I'll try to get to Cornell.' Sitting among the Harvard rooters — but not rooting, of course — was Oliver Barrett III.

Across the gulf of ice, Old Stonyface observed in expressionless silence as the last bit of blood on the face of his only son was stopped by adhesive papers. What was he thinking, do you think?

Teh tch tch — or words to that effect?

'Oliver, if you like fighting so much, why don't you go out for the boxing team?'

'Exeter doesn't have a boxing team, Father.'

'Well, perhaps I shouldn't come up to your hockey games.'

'Do you think I fight for your benefit, Father?'

'Well, I wouldn't say 'benefit.''

But of course, who could tell what he was thinking? Oliver Barrett III was a walking, sometimes talking Mount Rushmore. Stonyface.

Perhaps Old Stony was indulging in his usual self-celebration: Look at me, there are extremely few Harvard spectators here this evening, and yet I am one of them. I, Oliver Barrett III, an extremely busy man with banks to run and so forth, I have taken the time to come up to Cornell for a lousy hockey game. How wonderful. (For whom?)

The crowd roared again, but really wild this time. Another Cornell goal. They were ahead. And I had two minutes of penalty to go! Davey Johnston skated up-ice, red-faced, angry. He passed right by me without so much as a glance. And did I notice tears in his eyes? I mean, okay, the title was at stake, but Jesus — tears! But then Davey, our captain, had this incredible streak going for him: seven years and he'd never played on a losing side, high school or college. It was like a minor legend. And he was a senior. And this was our last tough game.

Which we lost, 6–3.

After the game, an X ray determined that no bones were broken, and then twelve stitches were sewn into my cheek by Richard Selzer, M.D. Jackie Felt hovered around the med room, telling the Cornell physician how I wasn't eating right and that all this might have been averted had I been taking sufficient salt pills. Selzer ignored Jack, and gave me a stern warning about my nearly damaging 'the floor of my orbit' (those are the medical terms) and that not to play for a week would be the wisest thing. I thanked him. He left, with Felt dogging him to talk more of nutrition. I was glad to be alone.

I showered slowly, being careful not to wet my sore face. The Novocain was wearing off a little, but I was somehow happy to feel pain. 'I mean, hadn't I really fucked up? We'd blown the title, broken our own streak (all the seniors had been undefeated) and Davey Johnston's too. Maybe the blame wasn't totally mine, but right then I felt like it was.

There was nobody in the locker room. They must all have been at the motel already. I supposed no one wanted to see me or speak to me. With this terrible bitter taste in my mouth — I felt so bad I could taste it — I packed my gear and walked outside. There were not many Harvard fans out there in the wintry wilds of upstate New York.

'How's the cheek, Barrett?'

'Okay, thanks, Mr. Jencks.'

'You'll probably want a steak,' said another familiar voice. Thus spake Oliver Barrett III. How typical of him to suggest the old-fashioned cure for a black eye.

'Thank you, Father,' I said. 'The doctor took care of it.' I indicated the gauze pad covering Selzer's twelve stitches.

'I mean for your stomach, son.'

At dinner, we had yet another in our continuing series of nonconversations, all of which commence with 'How've you been?' and conclude with 'Anything I can do?'

'How've you been, son?'

'Fine, sir.'

'Does your face hurt?'

'No, sir.'

It was beginning to hurt like hell.

'I'd like Jack Wells to look at it on Monday.'

'Not necessary, Father.'

'He's a specialist — '

'The Cornell doctor wasn't exactly a veterinarian,' I said, hoping to dampen my father's usual snobbish enthusiasm for specialists, experts, and all other 'top people.'

'Too bad,' remarked Oliver Barrett III, in what I first took to be a stab at humor, 'you did get a beastly cut.'

'Yes, sir,' I said. (Was I supposed to chuckle?)

And then I wondered if my father's quasi-witticism had not been intended as some sort of implicit reprimand for my actions on the ice.

'Or were you implying that I behaved like an animal this evening?'

His expression suggested some pleasure at the fact that I had asked him. But he simply replied, 'You were the one who mentioned veterinarians.' At this point, I decided to study the menu.

As the main course was served, Old Stony launched into another of his simplistic sermonettes, this one, if I recall — and I try not to — concerning victories and defeats. He noted that we had lost the title (very sharp of you, Father), but after all, in sport what really counts is not the winning but the playing. His remarks sounded suspiciously close to a paraphrase of the Olympic motto, and I sensed this was the overture to a put-down of such athletic trivia as Ivy titles. But I was not about to feed him any Olympic straight lines, so I gave him his quota of 'Yes sir's' and shut up.