Into my hand.

"Thank you," I said, then added, "We'll have to be going soon."

"Huh?" said Jenny. It seems they had been discussing Puccini or

something, and my remark was considered somewhat tangential. Mother looked

at me (a rare event).

"But you did come for dinner, didn't you?"

"Uh-we can't," I said.

"Of course," Jenny said, almost at the same time. "I've gotta get

back," I said earnestly to Jen. Jenny gave me a look of "What are you

talking about?" Then Old Stonyface pronounced:

"You're staying for dinner. That's an order." The fake smile on his

face didn't make it any less of a command. And I don't take that kind of

crap even from an Olympic finalist.

"We can't, sir," I replied. "We have to, Oliver," said Jenny.

"Why?" I asked. "Because I'm hungry," she said.

'We sat at the table obedient to the wishes of Oliver III. He bowed his

head. Mother and Jenny followed suit. I tilted mine slightly.

"Bless this food to our use and us to Thy service, and help us to be

ever mindful of the needs and wants of others. This we ask in the name of

Thy Son Jesus Christ, Amen."

Jesus Christ, I was mortified. Couldn't he have omitted the piety just

this once? What would Jenny think? God, it was a throwback to the Dark Ages.

"Amen," said Mother (and Jenny too, very softly). "Play ball!" said I,

as kind of a pleasantry. Nobody seemed amused. Least of all Jenny. She

looked away from me. Oliver III glanced across at me.

"I certainly wish you would play ball now and then, Oliver."

We did not eat in total silence, thanks to my mother's remarkable

capacity for small talk.

"So your people are from Cranston, Jenny?"

"Mostly. My mother was from Fall River."

"The Barretts have mills in Fall River," noted Oliver III.

"Where they exploited the poor for generations," added Oliver IV.

"In the nineteenth century," added Oliver III.

My mother smiled at this, apparently satisfied that her Oliver had

taken that set. But not so.

"What about those plans to automate the mills?" I volleyed back.

There was a brief pause. I awaited some slamming retort.

"What about coffee?" said Alison Forbes Tipsy Barrett.

We withdrew into the library for what would definitely be the last

round. Jenny and I had classes the next day, Stony had the bank and so

forth, and surely Tipsy would have something worthwhile planned for bright

and early.

"Sugar, Oliver?" asked my mother.

"Oliver always takes sugar, dear," said my father. "Not tonight, thank

you," said I. "Just black, Mother."

Well, we all had our cups, and we were all sitting there cozily with

absolutely nothing to say to one another. So I brought up a topic.

"Tell me, Jennifer," I inquired. "What do you think of the Peace

Corps?"

She frowned at me, and refused to cooperate.

"Oh, have you told them, O.B.?" said my mother to my father.

"It isn't the time, dear," said Oliver III, with a kind of fake

humility that broadcasted, "Ask me, ask me." So I had to.

"What's this, Father?"

"Nothing important, son.

"I don't see how you can say that," said my mother, and turned toward

me to deliver the message with full force (I said she was on his side):

"Your father's going to be director of the Peace Corps."

Jenny also said, "Oh," but in a different, kind of happier tone of

voice.

My father pretended to look embarrassed, and my mother seemed to be

waiting for me to bow down or something. I mean, it's not Secretary of

State, after all!

"Congratulations, Mr. Barrett." Jenny took the initiative.

"Yes. Congratulations, sir."

Mother was so anxious to talk about it.

"I do think it will be a wonderful educational experience," she said.

"Oh, it will," agreed Jenny.

"Yes," I said without much conviction. "Uh-would you pass the sugar,

please."