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This item: Oliver's Story: A Novel. In Stock. Ships from and sold by Amazon. Love Story. Published in the book become immediate popular and critical acclaim in fiction, romance books. The main characters of Olivers Story novel are John, Emma. The book has been awarded with Booker Prize, Edgar Awards and many others. 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.
But he simply replied, 'You were the one who mentioned veterinarians. 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 put-down of such athletic trivia as Ivy tides.
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. We ran the usual conversational gamut, which centers around Old Stony's favorite nontopic, my plans.
Was I supposed to smile at my father's rosy rhetoric? I haven't heard. III said very uprightly, 'just to inquire. Of course. I don't know why, but O. III has a way of disparaging me even while uttering laudatory phrases. Maybe it was because he was taking the opposite view. I doubt if he could have. The meal was as lousy as the conversation, except that I could have predicted the staleness of the rolls even before they arrived, whereas I can never predict what subject my father will set blandly before me.
I didn't know what he meant and vice versa. Was that it for the topic? Would we now discuss other current affairs or government programs?
I had momentarily forgotten that our quintessential theme is always my plans. I'm sure Old Stony never listens to me anyway, so I'm not surprised that he didn't react to my quiet little sarcasm. At about eleven-thirty, I walked him to his car. Good night, sir. Not that those many hours at the wheel could be taken as some kind of parental gesture. My father simply likes to drive. I have no doubt that Oliver Barrett III was out to break his Ithaca-Boston speed record, set the year previous after we had beaten Cornell and taken the title.
I know, because I saw him glance at his watch. I went back to the motel to phone Jenny. It was the only good part of the evening. I told her all about the fight omitting the precise nature of the casus belli and I could tell she enjoyed it. Not many of her wonky musician friends either threw or received punches. I creamed him. Maybe you'll beat up somebody in the Yale game, huh?
How she loved the simple things in life. I quickly concluded that this meant points for me. Obviously the 'Cliffie who greeted me read the Crimson and knew who I was. Okay, that had happened many times. More significant was the fact that Jenny had been mentioning that she was dating me. The Crime says four guys jumped you.
And I got the penalty. Five minutes. Some musical wonk? It was not unknown to me that Martin Davidson, Adams House senior and conductor of the Bach Society orchestra, considered himself to have a franchise on Jenny's attention. Not body; I don't think the guy could wave more than his baton. Anyway, I would put a stop to this usurpation of my time. I ambled into the lounge area. From afar I could see Jenny on the phone.
She had left the booth door open. I walked slowly, casually, hoping she would catch sight of me, my bandages, my injuries in toto, and be moved to slam down the receiver and rush to my arms. As I approached, I could hear fragments of conversation. Of course! Oh, me too, Phil. I love you too, Phil. Who was she talking to? It wasn't Davidson - there was no Phil in any part of his name. His photo suggested sensitivity, intelligence and about fifty pounds less than me.
But why was I bothering about Davidson? Clearly both he and I were being shot down by Jennifer Cavilleri, for someone to whom she was at this moment how gross! I had been away only forty-eight hours, and some bastard named Phil had crawled into bed with Jenny it had to be that! How could she be so two-faced? She kissed me lightly on my unhurt cheek. I always make the other guy look worse. She grabbed my sleeve and we started toward the door. When we were outside, about to step into my MG, I oxygenated my lungs with a breath of evening, and put the question as casually as I could.
What do you call yours? When she was very young, her mother was killed in a car crash. All this by way of explaining why she had no driver's license.
Her father, in every other way 'a truly good guy' her words , was incredibly superstitious about letting his only daughter drive.
This was a real drag during her last years of high school, when she was taking piano with a guy in Providence. But then she got to read all of Proust on those long bus rides.
I had been so out of it, I hadn't heard her question. Of stone. Of absolute stone. You're a big Harvard jock. I guess she didn't know everything, after all. Too bad I had to shoot myself down by giving her my father's. There was a little silence. It involves a kind of muscular intimidation as well.
I mean, the image of athletic achievement looming down on you. I mean, on me. Her eyes widened like saucers. I've got enough of my own. I told her how I loathed being programmed for the Barrett Tradition - which she should have realized, having seen me cringe at having to mention the numeral at the end of my name. And I did not like having to deliver x amount of achievement every single term. I mean he just takes me absolutely for granted. Doesn't he run lots of banks and things? And there I got my first inkling of a cultural gap between us.
I mean, three and a half years of Harvard-Radcliffe had pretty much made us into the cocky intellectuals that institution traditionally produces, but when it came to accepting the fact that my rather was made of stone, she adhered to some atavistic Italian-Mediterranean notion of papa-loves-bambinos, and there was no arguing otherwise. I tried to cite a case in point. That ridiculous nonconversation after the Cornell game.
This definitely made an impression on her. But the goddamn wrong one. She was still obsessed with the fact that he had traveled so far for such a relatively trivial sports event. If I was, would I be going out with you? For a strangely long while there wasn't any. I mean, there wasn't anything more significant than those kisses already mentioned all of which I still remember in greatest detail.
This was not standard procedure as far as I was concerned, being rather impulsive, impatient and quick to action. If you were to tell any of a dozen girls at Tower Court, Wellesley, that Oliver Barrett IV had been dating a young lady daily for three weeks and had not slept with her, they would surely have laughed and severely questioned the femininity of the girl involved.
But of course the actual facts were quite different. I didn't know what to do. Don't misunderstand or take that too literally. I knew all the moves. I just couldn't cope with my own feelings about making them. Jenny was so smart that I was afraid she might laugh at what I had traditionally considered the suave romantic and unstoppable style of Oliver Barrett IV. I was afraid of being rejected, yes. I was also afraid of being accepted for the wrong reasons.
What I am fumbling to say is that I felt different about Jennifer, and didn't know what to say or even who to ask about it. I just knew I had these feelings.
For her. For all of her. I'm studying. You're looking at my legs. Every chapter. But can I help it if you think so? I was crouching by her chair. She looked back into her book. Our first physical encounter was the polar opposite of our first verbal one.
It was all so unhurried, so soft, so gentle. I had never realized that this was the real Jenny - the soft one, whose touch was so light and so loving. And yet what truly shocked me was my own response. I was gentle, I was tender. Was this the real Oliver Barrett IV? As I said, I had never seen Jenny with so much as her sweater opened an extra button. I was somewhat surprised to find that she wore a tiny golden cross.
On one of those chains that never unlock. Meaning that when we made love, she still wore the cross. In a resting moment of that lovely afternoon, at one of those junctures when everything and nothing is relevant, I touched the little cross and inquired what her priest might have to say about our being in bed together, and so forth.
She answered that she had no priest. She smiled back. She explained that it had been her mother's; she wore it for sentimental reasons, not religious. The conversation returned to ourselves. I guess. He may not be a genius or a great football player kind of slow at the snap , but he was always a good roommate and loyal friend. And how that poor bastard suffered through most of our senior year.
Where did he go to study when he saw the tie placed on the doorknob of our room the traditional signal for 'action within'? Admittedly, he didn't study that much, but he had to sometimes. But where did he sleep on those Saturday nights when Jenny and I decided to disobey parietal rules and stay together? Ray had to scrounge for places to sack in - neighbors' couches, etc. Well, at least it was after the football season.
And I would have done the same thing for him. 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. Christ, you must be making it. I mean, it was never like this before. I mean, this total freeze-out on details for big Ray. I mean, this is unwarranted. Christ, what does she do that's so different?
Christ, I greatly fear, old buddy. My sanity? Your freedom. Your life! He really meant it. We'll have that apartment in New York.
Different babies every night. We'll do it all. That girl's got you. Stratton was somehow unconvinced. 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. 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. I play okay. Not great. Not even 'All-Ivy. You play okay. I just mean you should always keep at it.
I'm gonna study with Nadia Boulanger, aren't I? A famous music teacher. In Paris. I was lucky. I got a good scholarship too. I can hardly wait. Maybe I was too rough, I don't know.
You'll go to Law school - ' 'Wait a minute - what are you talking about? And her face was sad. We're together now, we're happy. You can stuff any crazy kind of toy into it. But when the holiday's over, they shake you out. What about Paris, which I've never seen in my whole goddamn life? I'm saying it now. There was nothing more to say, really. 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 Barrens', 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? The MG was at sixty in under ten seconds. You'll really like him. 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. Actually, I missed the turnoff myself that afternoon. I was three hundred yards down the road when I screeched to a halt.
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. I guess it's fairly impressive when you see it for the first time. No kidding. Stop the car. She was clutching. I mean, I bet you have serfs living here. It'll be a breeze. As we waited for the ring to be answered, Jenny succumbed to a last-minute panic. Was either of us joking? The door was opened by Florence, a devoted and antique servant of the Barrett family. God, how I hate to be called that!
I detest that implicitly derogatory distinction between me and Old Stonyface. My parents, Florence informed us, were waiting in the library. Jenny was taken aback by some of the portraits we passed. Not just that some were by John Singer Sargent notably Oliver Barrett II, sometimes displayed in the Boston Museum , but the new realization that not all of my forebears were named Barrett. There had been solid Barrett women who had mated well and bred such creatures as Barrett Winthrop, Richard Barrett Sewall and even Abbott Lawrence Lyman, who had the temerity to go through life and Harvard, its implicit analogue , becoming a prize-winning chemist, without so much as a Barrett in his middle name!
I come from a long line of wood and stone. In the case are trophies. Athletic trophies. It is, however, also quite true that he enjoyed significant rowing triumphs on various other occasions. The well-polished proof of this was now before Jennifer's dazzled eyes. Under the bed. It was the Sonovabitch. This is Jennifer - ' 'Ah, hello there. I noted that he was not wearing any of his Banker Costumes. No indeed; Oliver III had on a fancy cashmere sport jacket.
And there was an insidious smile on his usually rocklike countenance. In perverse moments I wondered how her boarding-school nickname might have affected her, had she not grown up to be the earnest do-gooder museum trustee she was. Let the record show that Tipsy Forbes never completed college. To which, all the time wondering if they had caught Jenny's humor, I could but add: 'Ah?
Everybody was quiet. I tried to sense what was happening. Doubtless, Mother was sizing up Jennifer, checking out her costume not Boho this afternoon , her posture, her demeanor, her accent. Face it, the Sound of Cranston was there even in the politest of moments. Perhaps Jenny was sizing up Mother. Girls do that, I'm told. It's supposed to reveal things about the guys they're going to marry.
Maybe she was also sizing up Oliver III. Did she notice he was taller than I? Did she like his cashmere jacket? Oliver III, of course, would be concentrating his fire on me, as usual. What would he say to that? I suppose not. Mother, who is always on his side, whatever the circumstances, turned the subject to one of more universal interest - music or art, I believe. I wasn't exactly listening carefully. Subsequently, a teacup found its way into my hand. Or so Oliver told himself. How do you go about getting back into life?
How do you ask somebody out on a date after eight years? Supposedly mature adults should live by logic, listen to their reason.
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