But not in swimming, driving or reading maps. Or even—as I recently had tried to recreate the situation—in teaching someone how to light a stove.
It means you learn about yourself from constant dialogue with one another. Establishing new circuits in the satellite transmitting your emotions.
Jenny would have nightmares and would wake me up. In those days, before we knew how sick she was, she’d ask me, genuinely scared, “If I can’t have a baby, Oliver—would you still feel the same?”
Which didn’t prompt a knee-jerk reassurance on my part. Instead, it opened up a whole new complex of emotions that I hadn’t known were there. Yes, Jen, it would upset my ego not to have a baby born of you, the person that I love.
This didn’t alter our relationship. Instead, her honest qualm provoking such an honest question made me realize that I wasn’t such a hero. That I wasn’t really ready to face childlessness with great maturity and big bravado. I told her I would need some help from her. And then we knew ourselves a whole lot better, thanks to our admissions of self-doubt.
And we were closer.
“Jesus, Oliver, you didn’t bullshit.”
“Did the unheroic truth upset you, Jenny?”
“No, I’m glad.”
“How come?”
“Because I know you never bullshit, Oliver.”
Marce and I don’t have that kind of conversation yet. I mean, she tells me when she’s down and when she’s nervous. And that she worries sometimes when she’s on the road that I might find a new “diversion.” Actually, that feeling’s mutual. Yet strangely, when we talk we say the proper words, but they trip out too easily upon the tongue.
Maybe that’s because I have exaggerated expectations. I’m impatient. People who have had a happy marriage know exactly what they need. And lack. But it’s unfair to make precipitous demands of someone who has never had a . . . friend . . . that she could trust.
Still, I’m hoping someday she will need me more. That she will maybe even wake me up and ask me something like:
“If I can’t have a baby, would you feel the same?”
Chapter Twenty-six
“Marcie, I may cry a lot this week.”
It was 6 A.M. and we were standing at the airport.
“Eleven days,” she said. “The longest that we’ve been apart.”
“Yeah,” I said, and smiled. “But I was thinking I just might receive a dose of tear gas at the demonstration.”
“You act like you’re looking forward to it, Oliver.”
Touché. To catch a little gas is kind of macho in some circles. She had caught me with my ego down.
“And also don’t provoke a goddamn cop,” she added.
“I promise. I’ll behave.”
They called her flight. A fleeting kiss and then I trotted—yawning—to get on the shuttle down to Washington.
I candidly confess. I like it when Important Causes ask my help. This Saturday was New Mobe’s huge November End-the-War parade in Washington. Three days earlier, the organizers called me to come down and help negotiate with all the boys in Justice. “We really need your bod,” said Freddie Gardner. I was peacock proud until they told me that it wasn’t only for my legal expertise but “ ’cause you cut your hair and look like a Republican.”
The issue was what route the march would take. Traditionally, parades in Washington go right down Pennsylvania Avenue and by the Presidential Palace. Squads of government attorneys argued this one had to be more south. (How far? I thought. The Panama Canal?)
Marcie got a blow-by-blow each night.
“Kleindienst kept insisting, ‘There’ll be violence, there’ll be violence.’ ”
“How the hell did he know?” Marcie asked.
“That’s just the point. I asked him, ‘How the fuck do you know?’ ”
“You employed those words?”
“Well . . . all but one. In any case he answered, ‘Mitchell says so.’ ”
“How the hell does Mitchell know?”
“I asked. He wouldn’t answer. I had the sudden urge to throw a punch.”
“Oh, that’s mature. Are you behaving, Oliver?”
“If sexy thoughts were crimes, then I’d get life.”
“I’m glad,” she said.
Our phone bills were phenomenal.
Thursday afternoon two bishops and a pride of priests arranged a Mass for Peace outside the Pentagon. We were forewarned that they would be arrested, so we had a congregation packed with lawyers.
“Was there any violence?” Marcie asked that evening.
“No. The cops were really courteous. But man, the crowd! It was incredible. They shouted things at priests they wouldn’t shout in drunken bars! Christ, I wanted to throw punches.”
“Did you?”
“Mentally.”
“That’s good.”
“I miss you, Marce. I’d like to get my hands on you.”
“Keep that inside your head as well. What happened to the priests?”
“We had to go to court in Alexandria to help the bailing out. It went okay. Why did you change the goddamn subject? Can’t I say I miss you?”
By Friday, the administration had revenge. Doubtless through the prayers of Mr. Nixon (via Billy Graham), Washington was throttled by a cold wet chill. And yet it didn’t stop the candlelight procession, headed by Bill Coffin, Yale’s amazing chaplain. Damn, that guy’s enough to bring me to religion. And in fact I went to hear him later in the National Cathedral. I just stood in back (the place was mobbed) and kind of breathed the solidarity. And would’ve given anything for Marcie’s hand to hold.
As I was making my unprecedented visit to a house of God, in Du Pont Circle hordes of Yippies, Crazies, Weathermen and other mindless assholes staged a nasty riot. Thereby giving credibility to everything I’d been denying all week long.
“Those bastards!” I told Marcie on the phone. “They aren’t even for a cause—except self-advertisement.”
“Those are the guys you should have punched,” she said.
“You’re goddamn right,” I said with disappointment.
“Where were you?”
“In church,” I said.
In rather rainbowed language Marcie indicated disbelief. Then I quoted Coffin’s sermon and convinced her.
“Hey, you know,” she said, “tomorrow’s papers will have half a column on the service and three pages on the riot.”
Sadly, she was right.
I had trouble sleeping. I felt guilty that while I was in the poshness of my cheap motel, so many thousand marchers were encamping on cold floors and benches.
Saturday was chilly and windy, but at least the rain had stopped. Having no one to bail out or anything to argue for, I wandered over to St. Mark’s, which was a rendezvousing place for everyone.
The church was filled with people bunking out, or having coffee, or just sitting silently to wait the cue. Everything had been well organized, with marshals to keep marchers from the cops (and vice versa). There were medicos to handle unexpected crises. Here and there I even saw a person over thirty.
By the coffee urn, some doctors were explaining to a group of volunteers how to react should tear gas manifest itself.
Sometimes when you’re lonely, you imagine that you see a face you know. One female doctor looked extremely like . . . Joanna Stein.
“Hello,” she said, as I was pouring coffee. It was Joanna.
“Don’t let me interrupt the first-aid seminar.”
“That’s okay,” she said. “I’m glad to see you here. How are you?”
“Cold,” I said.
I wondered if I should apologize for never having called her back. It didn’t seem the moment. Though I think her gentle face was asking.
“You look tired, Jo,” I said.
“We drove all night.”
“That’s rough,” I said, and offered her a swig of coffee.
“Are you by yourself?” she asked.
What was her implication?
&n
bsp; “I hope I’ll be with half a million others,” I replied. And thought I’d covered every loophole.
“Yeah,” she said.
A pause.
“Uh, by the way, Jo, how’s your family?”
“My brothers are down here somewhere. Mom and Dad are stuck in New York, playing.”
Then she added, “Are you marching with a group?”
“Oh, sure,” I said, as casually as possible. And instantly regretted lying. For I knew she’d have invited me to join her friends.
“You’re . . . looking well,” Jo said to me. And I could tell that she was marking time in hopes that I might show more interest.
But I felt embarrassed simply standing there and trying to chat superficially.
“I’m sorry, Jo,” I said. “I’ve got some buddies waiting for me in the cold. . . .”
“Oh, sure,” she said. “Don’t let me keep you.”
“No—it’s just . . .”
She saw I was uneasy and she let me go.
“Enjoy yourself.”
I hesitated, then I started to go off.
“Remember me to all the music freaks,” I called.
“They’d love to see you, Oliver. Come any Sunday.”
Now I was some distance from her. Casually I turned and saw she’d joined another woman and two men. Clearly those she’d driven down with. Other doctors? Was one guy her boyfriend?
None of your damn business, Oliver.
I marched. I didn’t chant because it’s not my way. Like one huge centipede we passed the District Court, the FBI and Justice, the Internal Revenue, and turned just at the Treasury. At last we reached the ithyphallic tribute to the Father of Our Country.
I froze my ass off sitting on the ground. And did a little dozing during the orations. But to me it came alive when that huge multitude joined voice and sang “Give Peace a Chance.”
I didn’t sing. I’m not a vocal person. Actually, if I’d been with Joanna’s group I might have. But it’s strange to try a solo in a crowd.
I was pretty tired as I unlocked my New York basement door. Just then the phone began to ring. I mustered up a final sprint and grabbed it.
I was bushed enough to be light-headed.
“Hi,” I squeaked falsetto. “This is Abbie Hoffman, wishing you a Yippie New Year!”
Pretty humorous, I thought.
But Marcie didn’t laugh.
Because it wasn’t Marcie.
“Uh—um—Oliver?”
My little joke had been a tiny bit mistimed.
“Good evening, Father. I—uh—thought you might be someone else.”
“Um—yes.”
A pause.
“How are you, son?”
“I’m fine. How’s Mother?”
“Fine. She’s here as well. Um—Oliver, about next Saturday . . .”
“Yes, sir?”
“Are we meeting in New Haven?”
I’d forgotten all about the date we’d made last June!
“Uh—sure. Of course.”
“That’s fine. Will you be driving?”
“Yes.”
“Then shall we meet right at the Field House gate? Say, noon?”
“Okay.”
“And dinner afterwards, I hope.”
Come on, say yes. He wants to see you. You can hear it in his voice.
“Yes, sir.”
“That’s fine. Uh—Mother wants to say hello.”
And thus my week of demonstration ended as I chatted undemonstratively with my parents.
Marcie called at midnight.
“The news said Nixon watched a football game while you were marching,” she reported.
At this point it didn’t matter.
“The goddamn house is empty,” I replied.
“Just one week more . . .”
“This separation crap has got to end.”
“It will, my friend. In seven days.”
Chapter Twenty-seven
In my family, tradition is a substitute for love. We do not effuse affection on each other. But we instead attend the tribal functions that give testimony to our . . . allegiance. The yearly festivals are four: Christmas, Easter, and Thanksgiving, naturally. And then that sacred rite of autumn, Holy Weekend. The last occasion is of course the moral Armageddon, when the Good and Evil in the world do battle, Light opposes Dark. In other words, The Game. Fair Harvard versus Yale.
It is a time to laugh and a time to weep. But most of all, it is a time to bellow, shriek, act like demented juveniles, and drink.
In my family, however, celebration is a trifle more sedate. While some alumni have their tailgate parties, lunching Bloody Marily upon the parking fields before the clash, the Barretts take Harvardian athletics straight.
When I was a child, my father brought me to each game at Soldiers Field. He was no once-a-year man; we saw every one. His explanations were meticulous. At ten years old, I was conversant with the most exotic signals of the referees. Moreover, I learned how to cheer. My father never screamed. He’d utter, nearly to himself, “Good man,” “Ah, fine,” and suchlike exclamations when the Crimson acted well. And if, perchance, our gladiators weren’t up to snuff, as when we lost by fifty-five to zilch, he’d comment, “Pity.”
He had been an athlete, Father. Rowed for Harvard (secondarily, Olympic single sculls). He wore the honored tie with black and crimson stripes which meant he’d earned his H. Which also gave him the prerogative of football tickets in the best position. At the president’s right hand.
Time has neither dimmed nor altered rituals of Harvard-Yale encounters. All that’s changed has been my status. Rites of passage passed, I now possess an H myself (in hockey). I am thus entitled on my own to fifty-yard-line seats. In theory, I could bring my son and teach him how to tell a penalty for clipping.
And yet, with the exception of the years I was in college, and then married, I attend the Harvard-Yale game with my father. Mother, in the single autocratic gesture of her life, renounced the ceremony years ago. “I don’t understand it,” she had told my father, “and my feet get cold.”
When the game is held in Cambridge, we have dinner in the venerable Boston eating institution Locke-Ober’s. When the battle’s in New Haven, Father favors Kaysey’s—less patina, better food. This year we were seated in the latter, having watched our alma mater bow by 7–0. Play had been lethargic, hence there wasn’t too much football to discuss. Which left the possibility that nonathletic topics might impinge. I was determined not to speak of Marcie.
“Pity,” Father said.
“It’s only football,” I replied, my reflex ever to take adversary stances to his points of view.
“I expected Massey to be throwing more,” said Father.
“Harvard’s good on pass-defense,” I offered.
“Yes. Perhaps you’re right.”
We ordered lobster. Which takes time, especially with this huge crowd. The place was loaded to the gills with loaded Yalies. Bulldogs baying victory songs. Hymns to heroism with the pigskin. Anyway, we had a relatively quiet table and could hear each other. If indeed we had the substance of a dialogue.
“How are things?” my father asked.
“About the same,” I answered. (I confess, I don’t facilitate our conversations.)
“Are you . . . getting out a bit?” He tries to take an interest. I’ll concede he tries.
“A bit,” I said.
“That’s fine,” he said.
Today I sensed my father was uneasier than last year. And uneasier than he had been when we had dinner in New York before the summer.
“Oliver,” he said, and in that tone which heralded portentous things, “may I be personal?”
Can he be serious?
“Of course,” I said.
“I’d like to talk to you about the future.”
“What about my future, sir?” I asked while inwardly dispatching my defensive unit to the field.
“Not yours exactly, Oliver. The Family??
?s.”
I had a sudden thought that he or Mother might be ill or something. They’d announce it to me in the same impassive way. Or even send a letter (Mother would).
“I’m sixty-five,” he said.
“Not till March,” I answered. My precision aimed to prove involvement of a sort.
“Well, nonetheless, I have to think as if I’m sixty-five already.” Was my father looking forward to a social security check?
“According to the rules of partnership . . .”
But as he started, I tuned out. For I had heard a sermon from the selfsame text upon this same occasion twelve months previous. I knew the message.
Now the only difference was the post-game choreography. Last year, after several conversations with the Crimson cream, we’d headed into Boston to the favored restaurant. Father chose to park right by his State Street office, home of the sole enterprise that bore our name overtly: “Barrett, Ward and Seymour, Inc. Investment Bankers.”
As we ambulated toward the eatery, Father pointed upward to the darkened windows and remarked, “It’s awfully quiet in the evening, isn’t it?”
“It’s always quiet in your private office,” I replied.
“The eye of the tornado, son.”
“You like it, though.”
“I do,” he said. “I like it, Oliver.”
Not the money, certainly. And not the naked power involved in floating giant issues for a city or utility or corporation. What he liked, I think, was the Responsibility. If the word could ever be applied to him, I’d say my father’s “turn-on” was Responsibility. To the Mills that launched the Firm, the Firm itself, its Sacred Institute of Moral Guidance, Harvard. And of course, the Family.
“I’m sixty-four,” my father had announced that night in Boston one whole Harvard-Yale ago.
“Next March,” I’d said, consistently assuring him I knew his birthday.
“. . . and according to the rules of partnership, I must retire at sixty-eight.”
There was a pause. We walked the quiet stately streets of downtown Boston.
“We should really talk about it, Oliver.”
“What, sir?”
“Who follows me as senior partner . . .”
“Mr. Seymour,” I suggested. After all, as both the stationery and the doors affirmed, there were two other partners.