Erich Segal - The Class

She stood up and took his hand. “Come on, Rossi, let’s get some sleep.”

They descended the stairway arm in arm. And when they reached the second floor, she did not let go. Instead she drew him down the corridor.

“Your bedroom?” he asked.

“No, Danny. Our bedroom.”

It was ego-crushing time today. The Twentieth Anniversary Report of The Class arrived.

There were some surprises. Although, of course, I read about it last year in the papers, it was still amazing to read Danny Rossi’s entry and to see confirmed that he has actually retired from the piano. I’m in awe at the courage it must have taken for him to turn his back on all that public adoration. He’s also given up conducting in Los Angeles. And will base all his activities in Philadelphia.

Although one of the reasons he gave was that he wanted to compose more, it was evident that his primary motivation was his wish to spend more time with his wife and kids. As he put it, they’re what really matter in this life.

I’m awed by the guy’s humanity. The way he’s put his values into focus.

On the gloomy side, in addition to the handful of deaths announced, I’ve noticed that a lot of long-term marriages have lately broken up. As if one of the partners couldn’t shift his or her gears into the third decade.

I guess the Eisenhower marriages remained unchanged by the Democratic Camelot that JFK created. But probably — to keep on with the metaphor — the Nixon years made couples listen to the tapes of their relationships. To face the truth about themselves and leave.

On the bright side, several of our classmates have kids who’re freshmen.

On the dark side, my son isn’t one of them. Or maybe I should say my former son, since I haven’t heard from him at all.

Even after all this time, whenever I pick up my mail, I pray that maybe there’s a letter or a card from him. Or something. And if I see a longhaired hippie begging on the street I always give the guy at least a buck or two, hoping that wherever Andy is, somebody else’s father will be generous to him.

I can’t let myself believe that I’ve lost him forever.

Naturally, in my own report I didn’t mention that my kid’s disowned me. I simply said that I was tired of Wall Street and, in looking for a change, lucked out. I’ve been asked by the director of the new Campaign for Harvard College to come up to Cambridge and join the team that’s trying to raise three hundred and fifty million for our alma mater.

Needless to say, when Frank Harvey called me with that offer, I jumped at the chance. Not only to leave the concrete capital of all my sorrows, but to start life anew in the only place I’ve ever been happy.

Basically, my job involves contacting members of our Class, reestablishing our old rapport, and, after due ingratiation, getting them to cough up big for Harvard.

Since I really believe in what I’m doing, I don’t look at it as selling. It’s more akin to missionary work. As an added bonus, I’ve been put on the committee that’s planning our big Twenty-fifth Reunion (June 5, 1983)! It’s said to be a high point of our lives — and I’m entrusted to make sure it is.

Naturally, I spoke to Lizzie before giving Harvard my consent. She’s growing up to be a super person —I guess no thanks to me. Although the fact that Mummy lives so far away has, I think, been a help. I see her several times a month and feel we’re getting closer now.

Being a romantic (like her dad), she keeps urging me to find a wife. I kind of make a joke of it. But every morning when I look at that one lonely toothbrush in the glass, I know she’s right.

Maybe being back at Harvard I’ll regain my confidence.

But then I’m not sure I ever had any.

Alexander Haig did not win the Republican nomination in 1980. But Ronald Reagan, who did, and was subsequently elected President, chose him as Secretary of State.

Haig, then head of United Technologies in Hartford, immediately called his fellow Connecticut resident, George Keller, and offered him the government’s second-highest foreign-policy position — Deputy Secretary of State.

“How soon could you start, old buddy?” Haig asked.

“Well, anytime,” said George elatedly. “But Reagan doesn’t even take office till January.”

“Yeah, but I’m going to need you before then to prepare for my confirmation hearing with the Foreign Relations Committee. There are some guerrillas in the senatorial jungle who’ve been waiting years to take a shot at me.”

Haig was not exaggerating. For his examination lasted five days. Questions were fired at him from every angle. All the ghosts of Watergate were unearthed. Not to mention Vietnam, Cambodia, the NSC wiretaps, Chile, the CIA, and the Nixon pardon.

As he sat beside his future boss, occasionally whispering a word or two, George felt the sleeping demons in him start to wake. During his own upcoming confirmation hearing, would some hostile senator or young ambitious congressman discover his little “favor” for the Russians long ago?

But his worries turned out to be in vain. Since the committee vented so much spleen at Haig, all residual anti-Nixon animus was spent. George was not only eloquent and poised but witty. And approved by unanimous vote.

The Haig-Keller foreign-policy team started strongly and impressively, fulfilling Reagan’s promise to put new muscle into the American leadership.

And yet, paradoxically, George found the Secretary of State to be somewhat insecure in private. At the end of one long work session, George felt comfortable enough to broach the matter.

“Al, what’s eating you?”

“George,” he replied, welcoming the opportunity to unburden himself, “how can I run foreign policy when I never get to see Reagan alone? There are always a half-dozen of his California cronies putting their two cents in. I swear if this keeps up I’ll offer him my resignation.”

“That’s a very Kissingeresque gesture.” George smiled.

“Yeah.” Al grinned. “And it always worked for Henry.”

Haig made his move the following week after a White House luncheon for the Prime Minister of Japan. He asked the President for five “completely private” minutes of his time.

Reagan threw his arm warmly around Haig’s shoulder. “Al, I’d be glad to give you ten.”

As George stood watching the two men walk around the White House lawn, Dwight Bevington, the National Security Adviser, was suddenly at his shoulder.

“Say, George,” he said with bonhomie, “if your boss is trying an end run, he’s wasting his time. Besides, we all know who the real brains are at State. In fact, I think you and I should try to make our contacts closer.”

Before George could reply, the Secretary returned, a broad smile on his face.

“I don’t know what it is about Ronnie,” beamed Haig, as they were riding together back to State, “but he sure can make a guy feel good. He dismissed my offer to resign and promised we’d have direct communication. Say, I saw that Bevington was buttonholing you. Digging for anything?”

“In vain,” George said calmly.

“Good man. You know I’m counting on your loyalty, old buddy.”

George Keller was now certain that his boss’s days were numbered. And he began positioning himself to jump ship before it sank.

He started having occasional lunches with Bevington just to offer him the benefit of his own experience. But he always reported the meetings to his boss.

He was never overtly disloyal to Alexander Haig. Possibly because events moved so swiftly that he didn’t have the chance.

Desperate to prove his effectiveness to the Reagan administration, the Secretary of State found a rare opportunity in the spring of 1982.