Sheila Connolly: Fundraising The Dead

The Society was a good place to work, especially now that our previous president had been pried out, kicking and screaming, by a board that felt that her priorities were “not consistent with the board’s long-term vision for the institution” (according to one highly confidential memo). Three years ago she had retreated with what dignity she could muster after her termination, to write a book about her experiences. Then the board had turned around and, after a highly publicized search, hired a person as diametrically opposite as they could find: Charles Elliott Worthington.

Where our late unlamented president had been plain and dumpy, Charles was tall, suave, and elegant; where his predecessor had had all the tact of a bulldozer and refused to listen to any idea that was not her own, Charles oozed charm from every pore (if he even had pores) and when speaking to you one-on-one, possessed the ability to make you believe that you were the only other person in the world. He radiated charisma, and his indefinable moneyed accent-British? Old New England?-didn’t hurt. Those of us who had seen his résumé knew he’d actually grown up in Ohio, but why quibble? He was photogenic and had made himself a highly visible part of the Philadelphia historical scene in short order, if the society pages in the Inquirer were any indication. Exactly what the Society needed, and I for one was thrilled, since that charm translated directly to dollars for us.

Charles had used that charm to win over the staff as well as donors. The budget deficit was in the double-digit range, and the staff turnover had been approaching fifty percent per year. Starting salaries were laughable; most of the new hires were innocent babes struggling to find the restrooms, never mind the collections. Charles hadn’t been able to turn the financial picture around yet, but he made it known that he was working on it, with the implicit promise of salary adjustments (there hadn’t been any for years), more specialized staffing, educational programs, and improved health care benefits. If I really thought about it, I had to admit that it would be a long time before all of these things materialized-if ever-but somehow he convinced people to stay on and keep working.

Why was I still here, when I could probably be making better money somewhere else, especially with the musical-chairs scene among Philadelphia fundraising staff? Curiosity, at least: I wanted to see how this played out, see if Charles really could turn things around (with a little help from me, of course). Most of the people on the staff were great and really cared about what they were doing. Plus, I loved the solidity of the 1900 building, the heady scent of the old leather and paper in the stacks, the incredible wealth of history in this one building. I’d always been a bookworm and a history nut, so I put up with a lot of garbage for the opportunity to sneak off into the stacks during my lunch hour and actually hold something that had once belonged to Ben Franklin, or to attend a meeting with my (very respectful) elbow on the same mantelpiece that Thomas Jefferson had leaned on while writing the Declaration of Independence. Heady stuff.

And it didn’t hurt, either, that Charles and I had been seeing each other socially since shortly after his arrival.

It was time to get down to business and start working the crowd. As I came down the stairs, careful not to trip in the stiletto heels I wasn’t used to wearing, I again scanned the gathering below me. In a corner a delightful if superannuated city council member, an ex officio board member, had snagged our youngest, blondest female employee and was spinning tales while leaning over to enjoy her cleavage. I spotted Membership Coordinator Carrie Drexel smiling up at another board member, chatting brightly, and Rich hovering nearby. And out of the corner of my eye I saw Alfred slink into the room, looking uncomfortable-I wondered briefly what had changed his mind. Our venerable head librarian, Felicity Soames, headed for him quickly and started talking to him, gently leading him out of the corner where he had scuttled. I wondered briefly if Alfred was looking for me, but whatever it was could wait. I had other fish to fry.

I reached the bottom of the stairs, took a deep breath, and pasted my social smile on my face. Here we go , I thought, as I waded into the fray. From the volume of chatter, things were going well, helped by the generous free drinks that the bartender was pouring. I nodded encouragement at our newest staff member, a shelving assistant who was taking coats from the latecomers. Then I forged my way through the crowd into the catalog room, which was even more packed. I’d been on the job long enough that I no longer needed to read name tags-I recognized the major players. It was a good turnout, not only in numbers, but the right people, the ones we needed the most. The ones whom we were courting, flattering, cajoling, wheedling, massaging-you name it, we had tried it on each and every one of them. And it seemed to be working. I finally spied Charles at the far end of the room, surrounded by a fawning crowd. I stopped to study him in action.

He looked every inch the distinguished leader of an important institution: tall, slender, with discreet touches of grey at his temples. His three-piece suit had clearly been made for him, and he always wore the vest. His shoes gleamed with polish. An antique signet ring glinted on one hand. His tie was a marvel of luxurious restraint. He cocked his aristocratic head to listen patiently to an anecdote from a doddering lady in dirty diamonds; he laid a firm and manly hand on the arm of a tweedy academic type standing next to him, who I happened to know had just published a critically acclaimed book; he made a self-deprecating joke that had the circle around him laughing.

Oh, he was good. Though it remained to be seen whether his obvious skills would translate into long-term help for the Society. Based on what I had seen in my years here, the place seemed to chew up and spit out directors: the most recent disaster had been exiled; her predecessor had fled to Vermont and refused to answer any communications, written or oral; the one before that had apparently succumbed to a lengthy wasting illness attributed to the stress of the position-or maybe some evil fungus that lurked among the old books. But I had a feeling that Charles was going to put them all to shame, and what was more, he seemed to enjoy his role.

Time to remind him to make his formal welcome. I wove through the crowd and touched his arm. He turned quickly, and seeing me, unleashed one of his high-voltage smiles. Sorry, Charlie, I don’t have any money to give you , I thought. Save it for the paying guests.

I leaned close to speak, savoring his subtle after-shave. “Charles, you should welcome our guests now. I’ll tell the caterer to start serving in fifteen minutes, but it’s going to take some time to move everyone in to dinner.”

“Of course,” he responded, sotto voce . He made his apologies to the group he’d been speaking with, then moved toward the center of the main wall to pose against the array of portraits of past presidents and board members, cleared his throat, and waited for the din to subside. Which it did promptly. Not for the first time, I wondered just how he did that.

“Ladies, gentlemen, I am delighted to welcome you this evening to celebrate the first hundred and twenty-five years for the Pennsylvania Antiquarian Society, as we take our first step toward a greatly enhanced future. It is gratifying to see so many old friends and supporters here, because we face some daunting challenges in the days ahead. But with the assistance of our able board and the valuable input from our architects and planners, we have developed a strategy to meet the challenges of the future, all the while preserving the best of the past. For that is our mission: to preserve and to protect our treasures, so that future generations may benefit from them.