Chapter 18 eighteen

I started thinking about God. I mean, the idea of ​​a supreme being somewhere in the dark began to creep into my heart.It's not that God's going to do that to me--Jenny, I should say--but I just want to punch him in the face and beat him up.No, the idea of ​​God I had at the time was just the opposite.For example, when I wake up in the morning and see Jennifer there, still there, I wish there was a God I could say thank you for waking up and seeing Jennifer.It's embarrassing to say that, downright embarrassing, but I really hope so. I'm desperately trying to stay on track, so of course I'll let her do the things I'm going to do early and so on.

"Are you meeting Stratton today?" she asked as I ate my second bowl of cornflakes. "Who?" I asked. "Raymond Stratton, '64," she said. "Your best friend. Had room with you before I did." "Oh, yes. We've got an appointment to play squash. I can't think of it." "Bullshit." "What did you say, Jen?" "You'd better play your squash, preppy. I don't want a fat, inactive husband, bastard!" "Okay," I said, "then we'll go downtown and have dinner." "What for?" she asked.

"What do you mean 'why'?" I yelled, trying to put on my usual feigned anger. "Don't you want me to take my ghost woman out to a restaurant for a meal?" "Who is she, Barrett? What's her name?" Janney asked. "What did you say?" "Listen to me," she explained. "If a husband takes his wife out to restaurants on days other than Sunday, he's got some other woman!" "Jennifer!" I snarl, and it's really hot. "I don't want to hear your nonsense at my breakfast table." "Then you just go home and sit down at my dinner table. OK?"

"OK." I told this God—and no matter who that God is or wherever he is—that I would live with it as long as it lasted.I don't care about the pain; as long as Jenny doesn't know, I can keep it in my heart.Lord, do you hear my prayer?You can ask me to pay whatever price you want. "Is that Oliver?" "Looking for me, Mr. Jonas?" He called me to his office. "Do you know anything about the Baker incident?" he asked. Of course I understand.Robert Le Becque, a photojournalist for Life magazine, was beaten badly by Chicago police when he was going to photograph a riot.Jonas listed this case as one of the key cases handled by the firm.

"I know the police picked him up, sir," I said to Jonas, light-hearted (ha!). "I wish the case to be yours, Oliver," he said. "Just me?" I asked. "You can take a young man as an assistant," he said. young people?I am the youngest in the office.But I understand the message in his words: Oliver, although your actual age is still young, you are already one of the "big bosses" of this firm, and you are mutual with us, Oliver. "Thank you, sir," I said. "When can you go to Chicago?" he asked. I have made up my mind not to tell anyone, and I have decided to bear the burden of my own mentality alone.So I mumbled some nonsense to old man Jonas, I don't remember exactly what I said, but the general idea was that I don't think I can leave New York for a while, and I hope he understands.But I knew that I must have disappointed him at the time by my reaction to this apparently profound gesture.Oh, Mr. Jonas, Mr. Jonas!How do you know my difficulties!

A strange phenomenon: Oliver Barrett got off work earlier than before, but his pace home was slower than before.How can this be explained? It has become a habit of mine to go window shopping on Fifth Street.I'm looking forward to all the lovely but ridiculously expensive things that I would have bought home for Jennifer if I didn't have to pretend to be... "normal". Yes, I am afraid to go home.Because, it has been a few weeks since I learned the truth, and now she is finally starting to lose weight.I mean, even though it's only a little thinner, she may not have noticed it herself, but I, who knows the details, have.

I used to look in the windows of the airlines and see the advertisements for flights: to Brazil, to the Caribbean, to Hawaii (“Leave all your worries behind and fly to the sun!”) etc., etc. .However, what TWA launched that afternoon was Europe in the off-season: a "shopping tour" in London, a "lover tour" in Paris... "Do you still want my scholarship? Can I still go to Paris, which I haven't been to since my mother's womb?" "Is our marriage still going?" "Who said there was going to be a wedding?" "Me. I'm talking right now."

"You want to marry me?" "right." "What's the reason?" I'm a coveted credit card guy, so I already have a Dining Club credit card.Swish!As soon as I signed my name on the dotted line of the registration form, I got two air tickets (still first class) to Lovers' Paradise with pride. When I got home, Jenny looked pale and gray, but I hoped my brilliant idea would bring some color to her cheeks. "Mrs. Barrett, I'll ask you to guess something," I said. "You must have been fired," guessed my optimistic wife. "It's not changing into a fish, it's turning into a bird and going to the sky," I said, drawing out two tickets.

"Fly all the way through the sky," I said. "Fly to Paris tomorrow night." "Bullshit, Oliver," she said.But his attitude was calm, without the usual bluff.According to her current tone, it seems that there is still a bit of intimacy: "Nonsense, Oliver." "Hey, could you please clarify what you mean by 'bullshit'?" "Well, Ollie," she said softly, "we can't do this nonsense." "What the hell are you doing?" I asked. "I don't want to go to Paris. I don't want Paris. I just want you—"

"You got it a long time ago, so good!" I interrupted her, and I could hear a forced smile in my tone. "I still need time," she went on. "You can't give me that." I just looked into her eyes carefully.There was indescribable melancholy in those eyes.But this melancholy is only understood by me.Her eyes seemed to say that she was suffering.It's because of me. We stood silently, supporting each other.If you want to cry, let us both cry together.But it would be best if no one cried. Then Jenny told me all about it, she said she had been feeling "out of breath," so she went to Dr. Sheppard again, but not for a doctor, but for a showdown: tell me what's wrong with me What's wrong, it's terrible.So he said it.

I felt a strange sense of guilt at not living up to my duty to tell her the truth.She understood this, and deliberately said a few nonsense. "Al, he's a Yale guy." "Who are you talking about, Jen?" "Ackerman. The hematologist. A total Yale guy. Undergrad and medical school there." "Oh," I knew she wanted to inject some light into this difficult journey. "At least he can read and write?" I asked. "It depends," said Mrs. Oliver Barrett, Radcliffe's '64 graduate, smiling. "But I can see he can talk. And I'm here to talk." "So that Yale doctor's pretty good," I said. "Not bad," she said.