Эрик Сигал – Love Story / История любви (страница 3)

We were all alone out there, and it was dark and cold and late. I kissed her again. But not on the forehead, and not lightly. It lasted a long nice time. When we stopped kissing, she was still holding on to my sleeves.

“I don’t like it,” she said.

“What?”

“The fact that I like it.”

As we walked all the way back (I have a car, but she wanted to walk), Jenny held on to my sleeve. Not my arm, my sleeve. Don’t ask me to explain that. At the doorstep of her dorm, I did not kiss her good night.

“Listen, Jen, I may not call you for a few months.”

She was silent for a moment. A few moments.

Finally she asked, “Why?”

“Though I may call you as soon as I get to my room.”

I turned and began to walk off.

“Bastard!” I heard her whisper.

I turned again and scored from a distance of twenty feet.

“See, Jenny, you can dish it out, but you can’t take it![20]”

My roommate, Ray Stratton, was playing poker with two football buddies as I entered the room.

“Hello, animals.”

They responded with appropriate grunts.

“What did you get tonight, Ollie?” Ray asked.

“An assist and a goal,” I replied.

“Off[21] Cavilleri.”

“None of your business,” I replied.

“Who’s this?” asked one of the monsters.

“Jenny Cavilleri,” answered Ray. “Wonky music type.”

“I know that one,” said another. “A real tight-ass[22].”

I ignored these bastards as I took the phone into my bedroom.

“She plays piano with the Bach Society[23],” said Stratton.

“What does she play with Barrett?”

“Probably hard to get[24]!”

The animals were laughing.

“Gentlemen,” I announced as I took leave, “up yours[25].”

I closed my door, took off my shoes, lay back on the bed and dialed Jenny’s number.

We spoke in whispers.

“Hey, Jen…”

“Yeah?”

“Jen… what would you say if I told you…”

I hesitated. She waited.

“I think… I’m in love with you.”

There was a pause. Then she answered very softly.

“I would say… you were a lier.”

She hung up.

I wasn’t unhappy. Or surprised.

3

I got hurt in the Cornell game.

It was my own fault, really. At a dramatic moment, I made the unfortunate error of calling their center a “fucking Canuck[26].” I forgot that four members of their team were Canadians – all, it turned out, extremely patriotic, well-built and within earshot[27]. To make matters worse, the penalty was called on me: five minutes for fighting. I could see our coach tearing his hair out as I climbed into the box.

Jackie Felt, our coach, came over. It was only then I realized that the whole right side of my face was a bloody mess. “Jesus Christ,” he kept repeating as he worked me over with a styptic pencil[28].

“Jesus, Ollie.”

I sat quietly, staring blankly ahead. I was ashamed to look onto the ice, where my worst fears were quickly realized: Cornell scored. The Red fans screamed. Cornell could very possibly win the game – and with it, the Ivy title. Shit – and I had barely gone through half my penalty.

By now the fans for both sides had forgotten me. Only one spectator still had his eyes on the penalty box. Yes, he was there.

Sitting among the Harvard rooters was Oliver Barrett III.

Across the gulf of ice, Old Stonyface observed in expressionless silence as the last bit of blood on the face of his only son was stopped. What was he thinking, do you think? “Tch tch tch[29]” or something like that?

But of course, who could tell what he was thinking? Oliver Barrett III was a walking, sometimes talking Mount Rushmore[30]. Stonyface.

The crowd roared again, but really wild this time. Another Cornell goal. They were ahead. And I had two minutes of penalty to go! Davey Johnston skated past me, angry. And did I notice tears in his eyes? I mean, okay, the title was at stake, but Jesus – tears! However Davey, our captain, had this incredible luck: seven years and he’d never played on a losing side, whether in high school or in college. It was like a legend. And he was a senior. And this was our last serious game.

Which we lost, 6–3.

After the game, an X-ray determined that no bones were broken, and then twelve stitches were sewn into my cheek by Richard Selzer, M.D.[31]

There was nobody in the locker room. I thought they had been at the motel already. I supposed no one wanted to see me or speak to me. With this terrible bitter taste in my mouth – I felt so bad I could taste it – I packed my gear and walked outside. There were not many Harvard fans out there.

“You’ll probably want a steak,” said a familiar voice. It was Oliver Barrett III. How typical of him to suggest the old-fashioned cure for a black eye[32].

“Thank you, Father,” I said. “The doctor took care of it.” I indicated the gauze pad covering Selzer’s twelve stitches.

“I mean for your stomach, son.”

At dinner, we had yet another in our continuing series of nonconversations, all of which start with “How’ve you been?” and conclude with “Anything I can do?”

“How’ve you been, son?”

“Fine, sir.”

“Does your face hurt?”

“No, sir.”

It was beginning to hurt like hell.

“I’d like Jack Wells to look at it on Monday.”

“Not necessary, Father.”