'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.
11
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 fiance, 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.
'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:
