Love Story

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 fiancé, 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:

I finished, and there was a wonderful hush in the room. Then Ray Stratton handed me the ring, and Jenny and I — ourselves — recited the marriage vows, taking each other, from that day forward, to love and cherish, till death do us part.

By the authority vested in him by the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, Mr. Timothy Blauvelt pronounced us man and wife.

Upon reflection, our 'post-game party' (as Stratton referred to it) was pretentiously unpretentious. Jenny and I had absolutely rejected the champagne route, and since there were so few of us we could all fit into one booth, we went to drink beer at Cronin's. As I recall, Jim Cronin himself set us up with a round, as a tribute to 'the greatest Harvard hockey player since the Cleary brothers.'

'Like hell,' argued Phil Cavilleri, pounding his fist on the table. 'He's better than all the Clearys put together.' Philip's meaning, I believe (he had never seen a Harvard hockey game), was that however well Bobby or Billy Cleary might have skated, neither got to marry his lovely daughter. I mean, we were all smashed, and it was just an excuse for getting more so.

I let Phil pick up the tab, a decision which later evoked one of Jenny's rare compliments about my intuition ('You'll be a human being yet, Preppie'). It got a little hairy at the end when we drove him to the bus, however. I mean, the wet-eyes bit. His, Jenny's, maybe mine too; I don't remember anything except that the moment was liquid.

Anyway, after all sorts of blessings, he got onto the bus and we waited and waved until it drove out of sight. It was then that the awesome truth started to get to me.

'Jenny, we're legally married!'

'Yeah, now I can be a bitch.'