CHAPTER 21

 

 

The task of informing Phil Cavilleri fell to me. Who else? He did not

go to pieces as I feared he might, but calmly closed the house in Cranston

and came to live in our apartment. We all have our idiosyncratic ways of

coping with grief. Phil's was to clean the place. To wash, to scrub, to

polish. I don't really understand his thought processes, but Christ, let him

work.

Does he cherish the dream that Jenny will come home?

He does, doesn't he? The poor bastard. That's why he's cleaning up. He

just won't accept things for what they are. Of course, he won't admit this

to me, but I know it's on his mind.

Because it's on mine too.

 

Once she was in the hospital, I called old man Jonas and let him know

why I couldn't be coming to work. I pretended that I had to hurry off the

phone because I know he was pained and wanted to say things he couldn't

possibly express. From then on, the days were simply divided between

visiting hours and everything else. And of course everything else was

nothing. Eating without hunger, watching Phil clean the apartment (again!)

and not sleeping even with the prescription Ackerman gave me.

Once I overheard Phil mutter to himself, "I can't stand it much

longer." He was in the next room, washing our dinner dishes (by hand). I

didn't answer him, but I did think to myself, I can. Whoever's Up There

running the show, Mr. Supreme Being, sir, keep it up, I can take this ad

infinitum. Because Jenny is Jenny.

That evening, she kicked me out of the room. She wanted to speak to her

father "man to man.

"This meeting is restricted only to Americans of Italian descent," she

said, looking as white as her pillows, "so beat it, Barrett."

"Okay," I said.

"But not too far," she said when I reached the door. I went to sit in

the lounge. Presently Phil appeared. "She says to get your ass in there," he

whispered hoarsely, like the whole inside of him was hollow. "I'm gonna buy

some cigarettes."

"Close the goddamn door," she commanded as I entered the room. I

obeyed, shut the door quietly, and as I went back to sit by her bed, I

caught a fuller view of her. I mean, with the tubes going into her right

arm, which she would keep under the covers. I always liked to sit very close

and just look at her face, which, however pale, still had her eyes shining

in it.

So I quickly sat very close.

"It doesn't hurt, Ollie, really," she said. "It's like falling off a

cliff in slow motion, you know?"

Something stirred deep in my gut. Some shapeless thing that was going

to fly into my throat and make me cry. But I wasn't going to. I never have.

I'm a tough bastard, see? I am not gonna cry.

But if I'm not gonna cry, then I can't open my mouth. I'll simply have

to nod yes. So I nodded yes.

"Bullshit," she said.

"Huh?" It was more of a grunt than a word.

"You don't know about falling off cliffs, Preppie," she said. "You

never fell off one in your goddamn life."

"Yeah," I said, recovering the power of speech. "When I met you."

"Yeah," she said, and a smile crossed her face. " 'Oh, what a falling

off was there.' Who said that?"

"I don't know," I replied. "Shakespeare."

"Yeah, but who?" she said kind of plaintively. "I can't remember which

play, even. I went to Radcliffe, I should remember things. I once knew all

the Mozart Kochel listings."

"Big deal," I said.

"You bet it was," she said, and then screwed up her forehead, asking,

"What number is the C Minor Piano Concerto?"

"I'll look it up," I said.

I knew just where. Back in the apartment, on a shelf by the piano. I

would look it up and tell her first thing tomorrow.

"I used to know," Jenny said, "I did. I used to know."

"Listen," I said, Bogart style, "do you want to talk music?"

"Would you prefer talking funerals?" she asked.

"No," I said, sorry for having interrupted her. "I discussed it with

Phil. Are you listening, Ollie?" I had turned my face away.

"Yeah, I'm listening, Jenny."

"I told him he could have a Catholic service, you'd say okay. Okay?"

"Okay," I said.

"Okay," she replied.

And then I felt slightly relieved, because after all, whatever we

talked of now would have to be an improvement.

I was wrong.

"Listen, Oliver," said Jenny, and it was in her angry voice, albeit

soft. "Oliver, you've got to stop being sick!"

"Me?"

"That guilty look on your face, Oliver, it's sick." Honestly, I tried

to change my expression, but my facial muscles were frozen.

"It's nobody's fault, you preppie bastard," she was saying. "Would you

please stop blaming yourself!"

I wanted to keep looking at her because I wanted to never take my eyes

from her, but still I had to lower my eyes. I was so ashamed that even now

Jenny was reading my mind so perfectly.

"Listen, that's the only goddamn thing I'm asking, Ollie. Otherwise, I

know you'll be okay."

That thing in my gut was stirring again, so I was afraid to even speak

the word "okay." I just looked mutely at Jenny.

"Screw Paris," she said suddenly.

"Huh?"

"Screw Paris and music and all the crap you think you stole from me. I

don't care, you sonovabitch. Can't you believe that?"

"No," I answered truthfully.

"Then get the hell out of here," she said. "I don't want you at my

goddamn deathbed."

She meant it. I could tell when Jenny really meant something. So I

bought permission to stay by telling a lie:

"I believe you," I said.

"That's better," she said. "Now would you do me a favor?" From

somewhere inside me came this devastating assault to make me cry. But I

withstood. I would not cry. I would merely indicate to Jennifer-by the

affirmative nodding of my head-that I would be happy to do her any favor

whatsoever.

"Would you please hold me very tight?" she asked. I put my hand on her

forearm-Christ, so thin-and gave it a little squeeze.

"No, Oliver," she said, "really hold me. Next to I was very, very

careful-of the tubes and things- as I got onto the bed with her and put my

arms around her.

"Thanks, Ollie."

 

Those were her last words.