Oliver's Story

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 under stand 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 turned 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.

'Seymour and his family own twelve percent,' my father said, 'and Ward has ten.'

Let the record show I did not ask for these details.

'Aunt Helen has some token shares, which I control for her.' He took a breath and said, 'The rest is ours … '

I wanted to demur. Thus to prevent his finishing the thought.

' … and ultimately yours.'

I longed to change the subject, but was too aware of the emotional investment on my father's part. This clearly was a moment he'd prepared for with no small concern.

'Couldn't Seymour still become the senior partner?' I inquired.

'Yes. But that's if no one took … direct responsibility for all the Barrett interests.'

'Well, suppose he did?' The implication was, suppose,' didn't.

'Well, according to the rules of partnership, they have the option to buy out our shares.' He hesitated. 'But of course things wouldn't be the same.'

His final phrase was not a sequitur. It was a plea.

'Sir?' I asked.

'The Family … involvement,' Father said.

He knew I understood. He knew I knew why we had strolled so slowly. Yet the topic had exceeded walking distance. We had arrived at Locke-Ober's.

There was only time for him to add before we entered, 'Think about it.'

Although I nodded that I might, I knew I wouldn't think about it for a second.

Atmosphere inside was not too staid that evening. For the Crimson had wrought miracles that afternoon. The Lord had sent His wrath upon the Yalies in the final minute, through His messenger, a junior quarterback named Chiampi. Sixteen points in less than fifty final seconds let the Harvards tie the favored Elis. Cosmic equipoise. And cause for celebration. Mellifluid melodies were wafting everywhere.

Resistless our team sweeps goalward

With the fury of the blast.

We'll fight for the name of Harvard

Till the last white line is past.

There was no further talk of family tradition on that occasion. Footballism filled the air. We lauded Chiampi, Gatto and the Crimson line. We toasted Harvard's first unbeaten season since before my father entered college (!).

Now, one November later, all was different. Solemn. Not because we'd lost the contest. But because, in fact, a whole entire year had passed. And still the question lingered open. Actually, by now it gaped.

'Father, I'm a lawyer, and I feel commitments. If you will, responsibilities.'

'I understand. But Boston as a base of operations wouldn't totally preclude involvement with your social causes. Quite the opposite; you might conceive of working in the Firm as activism from the other side.'

I didn't want to hurt him. So I didn't say that what he called 'the other side' was to a great extent what I'd been fighting.

'I can see your point,' I said, 'but frankly … '

Now I hesitated, long enough to smooth my vehement objections into nonabrasive words.

'Father, I appreciate your asking. But I'm sort of, really, well … extremely … disinclined.'

I guess I'd been definitive. Father didn't add his usual request to think about it.

'I understand,' he said. 'I'm disappointed, but I understand.'

On the turnpike back, I felt sufficiently relieved to banter with myself:

'One tycoon per family's enough.'

And hoped that Marcie was at home by now.