Oliver's Story

He clearly cuts it with Joanna.

That's enough of jealous prying, Oliver. Now show you're cool and change the subject.

'How's King Louis?'

'Crazier than ever,' she replied. 'They all send love and tell you any Sunday … '

No. I wouldn't want to meet the oboist.

'Great. I'll come sometime,' I lied.

There was a little pause. I sipped my coffee.

'Hey, can I level with you, Oliver?' she whispered furtively.

'Sure, Jo.'

'I'm embarrassed, but I'd … like another piece of pie.'

Gallantly, I fetched her one, pretending it was for myself. Joanna Stein, M.D., expressed eternal gratitude.

Our hour soon was up.

'Good luck in San Francisco, Jo,' I said in parting.

'Please keep in touch.'

'Yeah. Sure,' I said.

And I walked very slowly downtown to my office.

Three weeks later came a turning point.

After years of threatening to do so, Father actually turned sixty-five. They held a celebration in his office.

The shuttle I flew up on was an hour late because of snowy weather. By the time I entered, many had drunk deeply at the flowing punch bowls. I was in an undulating sea of tweed. Everyone was saying what a jolly fellow Father was. And soon they would be singing it.

I behaved. I talked to Father's partners and their families. First Mr Ward, a friendly fossil, and his future-fossil children. Then to the Seymours, once a lively couple, now reduced to but a single melancholy topic: Everett, their only son, a helicopter pilot in Vietnam.

Mother stood at Father's side, receiving envoys from the far-flung Barrett enterprises. There was even someone from the textile workers' union.

I could easily distinguish him. Jamie Francis was the only guest who didn't wear a Brooks or J. Press suit.

'Sorry you were late,' said Jamie. 'Wish you coulda heard my speech. Look — the members all pitched in.'

He pointed at the board-room table, where a gold Eternamatic clock shone 6:15.

'Your father's a good man. You should be proud,' continued Jamie. 'I've sat around a table with him nearly thirty five years and I can tell you that they don't come any better.'

I just nodded. Jamie seemed intent on giving me a replay of his testimonial.

'Back in the fifties, all the owners ran like rats and set up plants down South. They left their people high and dry.'

That's no exaggeration. New England mill towns nowadays are almost ghost towns.

'But your dad just sat us down and said, 'We're gonna stay. Now help us be competitive.''

'Go on,' I said, as if he needed prompting.

'We asked for new machinery.. I guess no bank was nuts enough to finance him … '

He took a breath.

'So Mr Barrett put his money where his mouth was. Three million bucks to save our jobs.'

My father never told me this. But then I'd never asked.

'Of course the pressure's really on him now,' said Jamie.

'Why?'

He looked at me and spoke two syllables: 'Hong Kong.'

I nodded.

He continued. 'And Formosa. And they're starting now in South Korea. What the hell!'

'Yeah, Mr Francis,' I replied, 'that's wicked competition.' As well I knew.

'I'd use stronger language if we weren't in your father's office. He's a really good man, Oliver.

Not like — if you'll pardon me — some other Barretts.'

'Yeah,' I said.

'In fact,' said Jamie, 'I think that's; why he's tried so damn hard to be fair to us.'

Suddenly, I looked across the room and saw a wholly different person where my father had been standing. One who'd shared with me a feeling that I had never known he had.

But unlike me, had done much more than talk about it.

Justice triumphed in November.

After several seasons of our discontent, Harvard beat the ass off Yale in football. Fourteen-twelve. Decisive factors were the Lord and our defensive unit. The first sent mighty winds to hamper Massey's throwing game; the second stalled a final Eli drive. All of us in Soldiers Field were smiling.

'That was fine,' said Father as we drove to downtown Boston.

'Not just fine — fantastic!' I replied.

The surest sign of growing old is that you start to care about who wins the Harvard-Yale game.

But as I said, the crucial thing is that we won.

Father parked the car near State Street in his office lot.

And we headed toward the restaurant to feast on lobster and banalities.

He strode with vigor. For despite his age, he still rowed on the Charles five times a week. He was in shape.

Our conversation was conspicuously football-oriented. Father never had — and I sensed never would — asked me the fate of my relationship with Marcie. Nor would he broach the other subjects he assumed taboo.

And so I took to the offensive.

As we passed the offices of Barrett, Ward and Seymour, I said, 'Father?'

'Yes?'

'I'd like to talk to you about … the Firm.'

He glanced at me. He didn't smile. But it took every muscle in his body to restrain himself.

Athlete that he was, he wouldn't break his stroke until he crossed the finish line.

This was no sudden whim. And yet I never told my father by what complicated paths I had arrived at the decision to be … part of things. For it had taken time to work out.

Unlike my usual decisions, I had pondered every day (and night) since I'd returned from Father's party more than half a year ago.

To start with, I could never love New York again.

It's not a city to cure loneliness. And what I needed most was to belong. Somewhere.

And maybe it was not just that I came to see my family with different eyes. Maybe I just wanted to go home.

I've tried to be so many things so far, just to avoid confronting who I am.

And I am Oliver Barrett. The Fourth.

December 1976

I've been in Boston nearly five years now. I worked in tandem with my father till he left the firm.

At first, I do confess, I missed the legal action. But the more I got involved, the more I found that what: we