Love Story by Erich Segal Page B

liquid.
    Anyway, after all sorts of blessings,
he got onto the bus and we waited and waved until it drove out of
sight. It was then that the awesome truth started to get to me.
    ‘Jenny, we’re legally married!’
    ‘Yeah, now I can be a bitch.’

12
    If a single word can describe our daily life during those first
three years, it is ‘scrounge.’ Every waking moment we were
concentrating on how the hell we would be able to scrape up enough
dough to do whatever it was we had to do. Usually it was just break
even. And there’s nothing romantic about it, either. Remember the
famous stanza in Omar Khayyam? You know, the book of verses
underneath the bough, the loaf of bread, the jug of wine and so
forth? Substitute Scott on Trusts for that book of verses and see how
this poetic vision stacks up against my idyllic existence. Ah,
paradise? No, bullshit. All I’d think about is how much that book
was (could we get it secondhand?) and where, if anywhere, we might be
able to charge that bread and wine. And then how we might ultimately
scrounge up the dough to pay off our debts.

    Life changes. Even the simplest
decision must be scrutinized by the ever vigilant budget committee of
your mind.

    ‘Hey, Oliver, let’s go see Becket
tonight’
    ‘Listen, it’s three bucks.’
    ‘What do you mean?’
    ‘I mean a buck fifty for you and a
buck fifty for me.’
    ‘Does that mean yes or no?’
    ‘Neither. It just means three
bucks.’
    Our honeymoon was spent on a yacht
and with twenty-one children. That is, I sailed a thirty-six-foot
Rhodes from seven in the morning till whenever my passengers had
enough, and Jenny was a children’s counselor. It was a place called
the Pequod Boat Club in Dennis Port (not far from Hyannis), an
establishment that included a large hotel, a marina and several dozen
houses for rent. In one of the tinier bungalows, I have nailed an
imaginary plaque: ‘Oliver and Jenny slept here - when they weren’t
making love.’ I think it’s a tribute to us both that after a long
day of being kind to our customers, for we were largely dependent on
their tips for our income, Jenny and I were nonetheless kind to each
other. I simply say ‘kind,’ because I lack the vocabulary to
describe what loving and being loved by Jennifer Cavilleri is like.
Sorry, I mean Jennifer Barrett.
    Before leaving for the Cape, we found
a cheap apartment in North Cambridge. I called it North Cambridge,
although the address was technically in the town of Somerville and
the house was, as Jenny described it, ‘in the state of disrepair.’
It had originally been a two-family structure, now converted into
four apartments, overpriced even at its’ ‘cheap’ rental. But
what the hell can graduate students do? It’s a seller’s market.
    ‘Hey, Ol, why do you think the fire
department hasn’t condemned the joint?’ Jenny asked.
    ‘They’re probably afraid to walk
inside,’ I said.
    ‘So am I.’
    ‘You weren’t in June,’ I said.
    (This dialogue was taking place upon
our reentry in September.)
    ‘I wasn’t married then. Speaking
as a married woman, I consider this place to be unsafe at any speed.’
    ‘What do you intend to do about
it?’
    ‘Speak to my husband,’ she
replied. ‘He’ll take care of it.’
    ‘Hey, I’m your husband,’ I
said.
    ‘Really? Prove it.’
    ‘How?’ I asked, inwardly
thinking, Oh no, in the street?
    ‘Carry me over the threshold,’
she said.
    ‘You don’t believe in that
nonsense, do you?’
    ‘Carry me, and I’ll decide
after.’
    Okay. I scooped her in my arms and
hauled her up five steps onto the porch.
    ‘Why’d you stop?’ she asked.
    ‘Isn’t this the threshold?’
    ‘Negative, negative,’ she said.
    ‘I see our name by the bell.’
    ‘This is not the official goddamn
threshold. Upstairs, you turkey!’
    It was twenty-four steps up to our
‘official’
    homestead, and I had to pause about
halfway to catch my breath.
    ‘Why are you so heavy? ‘ I