Erich Segal - The Class

“I couldn’t agree more,” she said, and added sarcastically, “So why don’t you take a vacation and come on the road with me?”

His best arguments could not dissuade her. In the end, she even convinced him to drive her to the airport.

Cathy lost count of the number of speeches she made. Paradoxically, she often found the women harder to convince than the men. Most of them were actually frightened of losing their “second class” status. But she could empathize with their feelings; they had been so inculcated to be subordinate that they were afraid of being unable to stand on their own. Her job was to give them the courage of their own worthiness. And it was damn tiring.

In the space of three months, she and her fellow crusaders harangued, debated, and cajoled their way across Illinois, Oklahoma, and Florida in a heroic — if losing — effort.

Although they regularly spoke by telephone, she and George did not see each other till Memorial Day weekend, when they were Andrew’s guests at the Eliot summer house in Maine.

As they were flying back to Washington, Cathy remarked, “Your old roommate is lovely. Why isn’t a guy like that married again?”

“I’m afraid he lacks confidence,” George replied.

“I noticed. But I don’t see why. I mean, he’s so kind and considerate. And he’s got a great sense of humor. I think what he needs is a good woman to straighten him out.”

“That would take a lot of doing, Cathy. Do you know anybody up to the job?”

“There must be dozens of women,” she replied. “I mean, I could do it.” She smiled at him. “But of course I’m spoken for.”

“Lucky me.” He smiled back, taking her hand.

“You’re right, darling. I’m glad you finally noticed.”

Late one afternoon in November 1975, George was alone in his office, dictating comments on an area report, when Kissinger opened the door.

“What’s the matter, Henry? You look a little upset.”

“Well,” said the Secretary, as he sat down in an easy chair, “to tell the truth, I am a bit depressed.”

“Why?”

“It’s the view of Mr. Ford that one man should not be both Secretary of State and National Security Adviser.”

“But you’ve done both jobs brilliantly.”

“Yes, I thought so, too. But he wants me to resign the NSC. Frankly, I think it will undermine the perception of my position.”

“I’m sorry, Henry,” George said with genuine sympathy. But it’s not as if you ye fallen from power completely.”

“No, you’re right. In fact, it may make it easier for me to operate, since I have such a good relationship with my successor.”

“Who’s the new Security Adviser?”

Kissinger looked poker-faced at his one-time Harvard tutee and answered, “You.”

I saw my former roommate’s picture in The New York Times today.

George Keller’s been appointed to succeed Kissinger as the head of the National Security Council. He’s moving back into the West Wing of the White House, where he’ll be able to knock on the President’s door anytime he wants and really get to turn the steering wheel of government.

On the seven-o’clock news tonight some pundits were speculating that George is being groomed for something even bigger.

Rumor has it that Gerry Ford would be more comfortable with someone he himself selected as Secretary of State. They say if he’s reelected — which looks likely — he’ll bring in a fresh new team, starring George. What a coup! He’s really got the world by the tail. Fame, power — and a terrific wife. Some guys have all the luck.

Something occurred to me. If I phoned George at the White House, would he still take my call?

Telegrams and letters poured into the White House congratulating George on his appointment. At the end of the day, his secretary handed him two overflowing shopping bags so that he could read them with Cathy.

“I’ll look silly walking in the White House parking lot like this,” he protested mildly.

And then he thought, Hell, I’ll enjoy every minute of it. My car is parked inside the presidential compound now.

Cathy greeted him on the doorstep. “I’ve prepared a celebration feast,” she said, hugging him.

“Who’s coming?” he inquired. “Nobody. Now, are you ready for a drink?”

“Absolutely.”

As she pulled him toward the living room, she whispered, “I’ve got a surprise for you. It’s something I’ve been saving for a long time. Look.”

She pointed to the coffee table, where she had placed two glasses and a bottle of—

“Hungarian champagne!” George gaped. “Where did you get that stuff?”

“It wasn’t easy, let me tell you.”

They got a little drunk, picked at the food, made love in the living room, and then got drunker still.

“Hey,” Cathy murmured, “you certainly brought home a load of telegrams.”

“I didn’t know I had so many friends.”

“Don’t worry, love. Now that you’re one step from the Oval Office, you’ll discover a lot of brand-new pals. Ah, come on, let’s open some and see who wants to get in good with you.”

They giggled and then started reading.

Naturally, the governor of every state had cabled. Likewise the mayors of important cities. Democrats no less than Republicans. In fact, anyone who harbored aspirations of a diplomatic or political nature.

And even several major personalities from Hollywood.

“Well, one thing’s sure,” Cathy grinned, “I won’t let you travel on your own from now on. Some of these are pretty close to propositions.”

George was savoring it all. Because he knew this was only the beginning. The best was yet to come.

“Hey,” she hailed him boozily. “This one’s a little screwy. Who the hell is ‘Michael Saunders from the good old days’?”

George was puzzled. “Let me see it.”

He studied the telegram and gradually the message became clear.

QUITE A LONG ROAD FROM THE WIENER KELLER EH OLD BOY? YOUR FIRST ENGLISH TEACHER MIKI WISHES YOU SUCCESS. IF YOU’RE EVER IN CHICAGO LOOK ME UP.

“Does that mean anything to you?” his wife inquired.

“Not anymore,” he answered, crumpling the paper and tossing it into the fire.

In the third year of his rebachelored life, Ted Lambros thought of himself as the embodiment of Andrew Marvell’s famous lines. Indeed, he told himself, the poet was unconsciously setting forth the formula for academic success. A professor on his own can really get a lot of work done.

Immediately upon his return to Canterbury, Ted had sold the home on Barrington Road and moved into an apartment at the top of Marlborough House, the best faculty accommodation available.

His triennium as chairman of the Classics Department had been singularly impressive. Enrollments had increased, the number of majors had doubled, and he had even managed to goad his colleagues into publishing a word or two. He had also succeeded in winning tenure for his former student Robbie Walton, the young man who had gotten him to Canterbury in the first place. Lambros always paid his professional debts.

It is arguable whether Ted had been an angry young man, but it was beyond doubt that he was a furious middle-aged one. He was fueled by rage to toil night and day, serenas noctes vigilare , as Lucretius put it.