In any church, I swear I looked at Jenny, who had obviously failed to cover

this crucial topic in her phone conversation.

"Oliver," she explained, "it was just too goddamn much to hit him with

at once."

'What's this?" asked the ever affable Mr. Cavilleri. "Hit me, hit me,

children. I want to be hit with everything on your minds."

Why is it that at this precise moment my eyes hit upon the porcelain

statue of the Virgin Mary on a shelf in the Cavilleris' dining room?

"It's about the God-blessing bit, Phil," said Jenny, averting her gaze

from him.

"Yeah, Jen, yeah?" asked Phil, fearing the worst. "Uh-kind of negative

on it, Phil," she said, now glancing at me for support-which my eyes tried

to give her.

"On God? On anybody's God?"

Jenny nodded yes.

"May I explain, Phil?" I asked.

"Please."

"We neither of us believe, Phil. And we won't be hypocrites."

I think he took it because it came from me. He might maybe have hit

Jenny. But now he was the odd man out, the foreigner. He couldn't look at

either of us.

"That's fine," he said after a very long time. "Could I just be

informed as to who performs the ceremony?"

"We do," I said.

He looked at his daughter for verification. She nodded. My statement

was correct.

After another long silence, he again said, "That's fine." And then he

inquired of me, in as much as I was planning a career in law, whether such a

kind of marriage is-what's the word?-legal?

Jenny explained that the ceremony we had in mind would have the college

Unitarian chaplain preside ("Ah, chaplain," murmured Phil) while the man and

woman address each other.

"The bride speaks too?" he asked, almost as if this- of all

things-might be the coup de grace.

"Philip," said his daughter, "could you imagine any situation in which

I would shut up?"

"No, baby," he replied, working up a tiny smile. "I guess you would

have to talk."

As we drove back to Cambridge, I asked Jenny how she thought it all

went.

"Okay," she said.

CHAPTER 10

Mr. William F. Thompson, Associate Dean of the Harvard Law School,

could not believe his ears.

"Did I hear you right, Mr. Barrett?"

"Yes, sir, Dean Thompson."

It had not been easy to say the first time. It was no easier repeating

it .

"I'll need a scholarship for next year, sir." "Really?"

"That's why I'm here, sir. You are in charge of Financial Aid, aren't

you, Dean Thompson?"

"Yes, but it's rather curious. Your father"

"He's no longer involved, sir."

"I beg your pardon?" Dean Thompson took off his glasses and began to

polish them with his tie.

"He and I have had a sort of disagreement."

The Dean put his glasses back on, and looked at me with that kind of

expressionless expression you have to be a dean to master.

"This is very unfortunate, Mr. Barrett," he said. For whom? I wanted to

say. This guy was beginning to piss me off.

"Yes, sir," I said. "Very unfortunate. But that's why I've come to you,

sir. I'm getting married next month. We'll both be working over the summer.

Then Jenny

-that's my wife-will be teaching in a private school. That's a living,

but it's still not tuition. Your tuition is pretty steep, Dean Thompson."

"Uh-yes," he replied. But that's all. Didn't this guy get the drift of

my conversation? Why in hell did he think I was there, anyway?

"Dean Thompson, I would like a scholarship." I said it straight out. A

third time. "I have absolutely zilch in the bank, and I'm already accepted."

"Ah, yes," said Mr. Thompson, hitting upon the technicality. "The final

date for financial-aid applications is long overdue."

What would satisfy this bastard? The gory details, maybe? Was it

scandal he wanted? What?

"Dean Thompson, when I applied I didn't know this would come up.

"That's quite right, Mr. Barrett, and I must tell you that I really

don't think this office should enter into a family quarrel. A rather

distressing one, at that."

"Okay, Dean," I said, standing up. "I can see what you're driving at.

But I'm still not gonna kiss my father's ass so you can get a Barrett Hall

for the Law School."

As I turned to leave, I heard Dean Thompson mutter, "That's unfair."