Chapter 6

I love Ray Stratton.

He may not be a genius or a great football player (kind of slow at the

snap), but he was always a good roommate and loyal friend. And how that poor

bastard suffered through most of our senior year. Where did he go to study

when he saw the tie placed on the doorknob of our room (the traditional

signal for "action within")? Admittedly, he didn't study that much, but he

had to sometimes. Let's say he used the House library, or Lamont, or even

the Pi Eta Club. But where did he sleep on those Saturday nights when Jenny

and I decided to disobey parietal rules and stay together? Ray had to

scrounge for places to sack in-neighbors' couches, etc., assuming they had

nothing going for them. Well, at least it was after the football season. And

I would have done the same thing for him.

But what was Ray's reward? In days of yore I had shared with him the

minutest details of my amorous triumphs. Now he was not only denied these

inalienable roommate's rights, but I never even came out and admitted that

Jenny and I were lovers. I would just indicate when we would be needing the

room, and so forth. Stratton could draw what conclusion he wished.

"I mean, Christ, Barrett, are you making it or not?" he would ask.

"Raymond, as a friend I'm asking you not to ask."

"But Christ, Barrett, afternoons, Friday nights, Saturday nights.

Christ, you must be making it."

"Then why bother asking me, Ray?"

"Because it's unhealthy."

"What is?"

"The whole situation, 01. I mean, it. was never like this before. I

mean, this total freeze-out on details for big Ray. I mean, this is

unwarranted. Unhealthy. Christ, what does she do that's so different?"

"Look, Ray, in a mature love affair-"

"Love?"

"Don't say it like it's a dirty word."

"At your age? Love? Christ, I greatly fear, old buddy."

"For what~ My sanity?"

"Your bachelorhood. Your freedom. Your life!" Poor Ray. He really meant

it.

"Afraid you're losing a roommate, huh?"

"Shit, in a way I've gained one, she spends so much time here."

Iwas dressing for a concert, so this dialogue would shortly come to a

close.

"Don't sweat, Raymond. We'll have that apartment in New York. Different

babies every night. We'll do it all."

"Don't tell me not to sweat, Barrett. That girl's got you.

"It's all under control," I replied. "Stay loose." I was adjusting my

tie and heading for the door. Stratton was somehow unconvinced.

"Hey, Ollie?"

"Yeah?"

"You are making it, aren't you?"

"Jesus Christ, Stratton!"

I was not taking Jenny to this concert; I was watcbing her in it. The

Bach Society was doing the Fifth Brandenburg Concerto at Dunster House, and

Jenny was harpsichord soloist. I had heard her play many times, of course,

but never with a group or in public. Christ, was I proud. She didn't make

any mistakes that I could notice.

"I can't believe how great you were," I said after the concert.

"That shows what you know about music, Preppie."

"I know enough."

We were in the Dunster courtyard. It was one of those April afternoons

when you'd believe spring might finally reach Cambridge. Her musical

colleagues were strolling nearby (including Martin Davidson, throwing