Erich Segal: Love Story

But what was Ray's reward? In days of yore I had shared with him the minutest details of my amorous triumphs. Now he was not only denied these inalienable roommate's rights, but I never even came out and admitted that Jenny and I were lovers. I would just indicate when we would be needing the room, and so forth. Stratton could draw what conclusion he wished.

'I mean, Christ, Barrett, are you making it or not?' he would ask.

'Raymond, as a friend I'm asking you not to ask.'

'But Christ, Barrett, afternoons, Friday nights, Saturday nights. Christ, you must be making it.'

'Then why bother asking me, Ray?'

'Because it's unhealthy.'

'What is?'

'The whole situation, Ol. I mean, it was never like this before. I mean, this total freeze-out on details for big Ray. I mean, this is unwarranted. Unhealthy. Christ, what does she do that's so different?'

'Look, Ray, in a mature love affair — '

'Love?'

'Don't say it like it's a dirty word.'

'At your age? Love? Christ, I greatly fear, old buddy.'

'For what? My sanity?'

'Your bachelorhood. Your freedom. Your life!'

Poor Ray. He really meant it.

'Afraid you're losing a roommate, huh?'

'Still, in a way I've gained one, she spends so much time here.'

I was dressing for a concert, so this dialogue would shortly come to a close.

'Don't sweat, Raymond. We'll have that apartment in New York. Different babies every night. We'll do it all.'

'Don't tell me not to sweat, Barrett. That girl's got you.'

'It's all under control,' I replied. 'Stay loose.' I was adjusting my tie and heading for the door.

Stratton was somehow unconvinced.

'Hey, Ollie?'

'Yeah?'

'You are making it, aren't you?'

'Jesus Christ, Stratton!'

I was not taking Jenny to this concert; I was watching her in it. The Bach Society was doing the Fifth Brandenburg Concerto at Dunster House, and Jenny was harpsichord soloist. I had heard her play many times, of course, but never with a group or in public. Christ, was I proud. She didn't make any mistakes that I could notice.

'I can't believe how great you were,' I said after the concert.

'That shows what you know about music, Preppie.'

'I know enough.'

We were in the Dunster courtyard. It was one of those April afternoons when you'd believe spring might finally reach Cambridge. Her musical colleagues were strolling nearby (including Martin Davidson, throwing invisible hate bombs in my direction), so I couldn't argue keyboard expertise with her.

We crossed Memorial Drive to walk along the river.

'Wise up, Barrett, wouldja please. I play okay. Not great. Not even 'All-Ivy.' Just okay. Okay?'

How could I argue when she wanted to put herself down?

'Okay. You play okay. I just mean you should always keep at it.'

'Who said I wasn't going to keep at it, for God's sake? I'm gonna study with Nadia Boulanger, aren't I?'

What the hell was she talking about? From the way she immediately shut up, I sensed this was something she had not intended to mention.

'Who?' I asked.

'Nadia Boulanger. A famous music teacher. In Paris.' She said those last two words rather quickly.

'In Paris?' I asked, rather slowly.

'She takes very few American pupils. I was lucky. I got a good scholarship too.'

'Jennifer — you are going to Paris?'

'I've never seen Europe. I can hardly wait.'

I grabbed her by the shoulders. Maybe I was too rough, I don't know.

'Hey — how long have you known this?'

For once in her life, Jenny couldn't look me square in the eye.

'Ollie, don't be stupid,' she said. 'It's inevitable.'

'What's inevitable?'

'We graduate and we go our separate ways. You'll go to Law school — '

'Wait a minute — what are you talking about?'

Now she looked me in the eye. And her face was sad.

'Ollie, you're a preppie millionaire, and I'm a social zero.'

I was still holding onto her shoulders.

'What the hell does that have to do with separate ways? We're together now, we're happy.'

'Ollie, don't be stupid,' she repeated. 'Harvard is like Santa's Christmas bag. You can stuff any crazy kind of toy into it. But when the holiday's over, they shake you out … ' She hesitated.

' … and you gotta go back where you belong.'

'You mean you're going to bake cookies in Cranston, Rhode Island?'

I was saying desperate things.

'Pastries,' she said. 'And don't make fun of my fatter.'

'Then don't leave me, Jenny. Please.'

'What about my scholarship? What about Paris, which I've never seen in my whole goddamn life?'

'What about our marriage?'

It was I who spoke those words, although for a split second I wasn't sure I really had.

'Who said anything about marriage?'

'Me. I'm saying it now.'

'You want to marry me?'

'Yes.'

She tilted her head, did not smile, but merely inquired:

'Why?'

I looked her straight in the eye.

'Because,' I said.

'Oh,' she said. 'That's a very good reason.'

She took my arm (not my sleeve this time), and we walked along the river. There was nothing more to say, really.

Ipswich, Mass., is some forty minutes from the Mystic River Bridge, depending on the weather and how you drive. I have actually made it on occasion in twenty-nine minutes. A certain distinguished Boston banker claims an even faster time, but when one is discussing sub thirty minutes from Bridge to Barretts', it is difficult to separate fact from fancy. I happen to consider twenty-nine minutes as the absolute limit. I mean, you can't ignore the traffic signals on Route I, can you?

'You're driving like a maniac,' Jenny said.

'This is Boston,' I replied. 'Everyone drives like a maniac.' We were halted for a red light on Route I at the time.

'You'll kill us before your parents can murder us.'

'Listen, Jen, my parents are lovely people.'

The light changed. The MG was at sixty in under ten seconds.

'Even the Sonovabitch?' she asked.

'Who?'

'Oliver Barrett III.'

'Ah, he's a nice guy. You'll really like him.'

'How do you know?'

'Everybody likes him,' I replied.

'Then why don't you?'

'Because everybody likes him,' I said.

Why was I taking her to meet them, anyway? I mean, did I really need Old Stonyface's blessing or anything? Part of it was that she wanted to ('That's the way it's done, Oliver') and part of it was the simple fact that Oliver III was my banker in the very grossest sense: he paid the goddamn tuition.

It had to be Sunday dinner, didn't it? I mean, that's comme il faut, right? Sunday, when all the lousy drivers were clogging Route I and getting in my way. I pulled off the main drag onto Groton Street, a road whose turns I had been taking at high speeds since I was thirteen.

'There are no houses here,' said Jenny, 'just trees.'

'The houses are behind the trees.'

When traveling down Groton Street, you've got to be very careful or else you'll miss the turnoff into our place. Actually, I missed the turnoff myself that afternoon. I was three hundred yards down the road when I screeched to a halt.

'Where are we?' she asked.

'Past it,' I mumbled, between obscenities.

Is there something symbolic in the fact that I backed up three hundred yards to the entrance of our place? Anyway, I drove slowly once we were on Barrett soil. It's at least a half mile in from Groton Street to Dover House proper. En route you pass other … well, buildings. I guess it's fairly impressive when you see it for the first time.

'Holy shit!' Jenny said.

'What's the matter, Jen?'

'Pull over, Oliver. No kidding. Stop the car.'

I stopped the car. She was clutching.

'Hey, I didn't think it would be like this.'