I mean, we can even have it sent up to the office!"

Not that we were interested in California, but I'd still like to know

precisely what Mr. was discussing. Jenny and I came up with some pretty wild

possibilities, but for L.A. they probably weren't wild enough. (I finally

had to get Mr. off my back by telling him that I really didn't care for "it"

at all. He was crestfallen.)

Actually, we had made up our minds to stay on the East Coast. As it

turned out, we still had dozens of fantastic offers from Boston, New York

and Washington. Jenny at one time thought D.C. might be good ("You could

check out the White House, Ol"), but I leaned toward New York. And so, with

my wife's blessing, I finally said yes to the firm of Jonas and Marsh, a

prestigious office (Marsh was a former Attorney General) that was very

civil-liberties oriented ("You can do good and make good at once," said

Jenny). Also, they really snowed me. I mean, old man Jonas came up to

Boston, took us to dinner at Pier Four and sent Jenny flowers the next day.

Jenny went around for a week sort of singing a jingle that went "Jonas,

Marsh and Barrett." I told her not so fast and she told me to go screw

because I was probably singing the same tune in my head. I don't have to

tell you she was right.

Allow me to mention, however, that Jonas and Marsh paid Oliver Barrett

IV $11 ,8oo, the absolute highest salary received by any member of our

graduating class.

So you see I was only third academically.

CHAPTER 16

CHANGE OF ADDRESS

From July 1,1967

Mr. and Mrs. Oliver Barrett IV

263 East 63rd Street

New York, N.Y. 10021

"It's so nouveau riche," complained Jenny. "But we are nouveau riche,"

I insisted.

What was adding to my overall feeling of euphoric triumph was the fact

that the monthly rate for my car was damn near as much as we had paid for

our entire apartment in Cambridge! Jonas and Marsh was an easy ten-minute

walk (or strut-I preferred the latter gait), and so were the fancy shops

like Bonwit's and so forth where I insisted that my wife, the bitch,

immediately open accounts and start spending.

"Why, Oliver?"

"Because, goddammit, Jenny, I 'want to be taken advantage of!"

I joined the Harvard Club of New York, proposed by Raymond Stratton

'64, newly returned to civilian life after having actually shot at some

Vietcong ("I'm not positive it was VC, actually. I heard noises, so I opened

fire at the bushes"). Ray and I played squash at least three times a week,

and I made a mental note, giving myself three years to become Club champion.

Whether it was merely because I had resurfaced in Harvard territory, or

because word of my Law School successes had gotten around (I didn't brag

about the salary, honest), my "friends" discovered me once more. We had

moved in at the height of the summer (I had to take a cram course for the

New York bar exam), and the first invitations were for weekends.

"Fuck 'em, Oliver. I don't want to waste two days bullshitting with a

bunch of vapid preppies."

"Okay, Jen, but what should I tell them?" "Just say I'm pregnant,

Oliver."

"Are you?" I asked.

"No, but if we stay home this weekend I might be."

We had a name already picked out. I mean, I had, and I think I got

Jenny to agree finally.

"Hey-you won't laugh?" I said to her, when first broaching the subject.

She was in the kitchen at the time (a yellow color-keyed thing that even