Erich Segal - The Class

“I guess the nickname’s going to stick,” Jason said when he joined them later. “Now everybody calls me saba — ‘grandpa.’ ”

As they were driving back to the kibbutz, Yossi asked Jason how he intended to spend his ten days of freedom before active duty.

“I want to go back and look at every inch of ground I marched over,” he replied. “Only this time I want to do it with a car … and a guide.”

“The Bible is the best thing for that,” Yossi offered.

“I know,” said Jason. And then added shyly, “but I was hoping Eva would be my tour leader.”

In the days that followed, they covered four thousand years of history. From King Solomon’s mines deep in the Negev, up through the stark desert to Beersheba, home of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob.

As they drove out of Sodom — where the infamous profligacies described in Genesis were now replaced by massive fertilizer works, Jason quipped, “Don’t look back, Eva. Remember Lot’s wife.”

“I never look back,” she answered with a tiny smile.

From there it was north to Em Gedi, the lowest point on earth, where they swam — or rather floated — in the buoyant salty Dead Sea.

And finally, Jerusalem, the city conquered by King David ten centuries before Christ, and still the spiritual capital of the world.

Its very stones exuded a kind of holiness that even Jason could somehow feel. They were not able to visit the remains of the holy Temple of Solomon as it was on the Jordanian side of the divided city.

“We’ll get to see it some day,” Eva said, “when there’s peace.”

“Will we live that long?” asked Jason.

“ I intend to,” Eva replied. And then added, “And even if! don’t, my children will.”

During the entire journey, Jason and Eva had slept within a few feet of each other. First outdoors in the Negev, now in a cheap hostel. Yet, their only physical contact was when he helped her climb a rock or a monument.

Spending days and nights in such spiritual proximity had created a bond between them. And yet their friendship remained platonic.

Toward the end of their first day in Jerusalem, Jason told Eva he was going to the YMCA on King George Street to try to pick up a game of tennis. She said she would take a walk and meet him later for dinner.

It did not occur to her that he had not brought a racket along. She herself was too preoccupied with wanting to make a personal visit.

The afternoon shadows were lengthening as she entered the cemetery on Emek Refaim and walked slowly toward the area where her childhood friend was buried, A hundred yards from the grave she stopped short.

Jason was already there, standing motionless, his head bowed. Even from a distance she could see he was crying.

She turned and walked silently off, deferring her grief to his.

From the “Class Notes” section of the Harvard Alumni Bulletin of October 1965:

1958

Born: to Theodore Lambrosand Sara Harrison Lambros(Radcliffe ’58), a son, Theodore Junior, on September 6, 1965. Lambros has recently been promoted to Assistant Professor of Classics at Harvard.

Ironic, isn’t it? Just as Ted and Sarah, my Ideal Couple, are reaching new heights of marital bliss with the birth of their first child, I am becoming a statistic.

Much to the delight and profit of the legal profession, Faith and I are divorcing.

Although it isn’t in anger, it is with what you might call a lot of deeply held indifference. It seems that she never really thought that being married to me was “a fun thing.” Our lawyers are citing “irreconcilable differences,” but that’s because the fact that Faith finds being out here “an utter bore” is not sufficient grounds for divorce.

Actually, I can’t see how she could say her life in the country was dull. She was having so many affairs that her schedule must have bordered on the hectic.

When I first started to suspect that she was branching out into the realm of extramarital dalliance, I was worried what my friends would think. I shouldn’t have. She was having flings with almost all of them.

In some ways I wish I had never found any of this out. Because frankly, I didn’t realize anything was really wrong. I mean, our weekends were pleasant enough. And she seemed to be enjoying herself. But, unfortunately, one of my buddies at The Lunch Club thought it his duty as a fellow Harvardman to let me know, in so many words, that I was the laughing stock of southern Connecticut.

On that all-too-short train ride home, I tried to figure out a way to broach the whole thing with Faith. But when she met me at the door, I didn’t have the guts to confront her.

Hell, I kept telling myself, maybe it isn’t true. And so I went through the motions of drinks and dinner and going to bed. Still, I was awake all night, my heart pounding, wondering what to do.

Finally I understood what was behind my Hamlet-like hesitation. It was not really any doubt of her infidelity. I noticed in retrospect how cozy she had been with so many of the guys at the club during those weekend dances.

What was shaking me to the core was the fact that I knew I’d be losing the children.

I mean, no matter how promiscuous you prove the woman to be, the court inevitably gives her custody. And I can’t bear the thought of not being able to come back at night and hear little Andy shout, “Daddy’s home” as if I were king of the universe. Or to be there when Lizzie speaks her first sentence.

Not only have they given meaning to my life, but I’ve discovered that being a father is actually something I do pretty well.

I grew so desperate thinking about all this, that at around 4:00 A.M. I had the wild notion of grabbing both kids and rushing off in the car somewhere. But, of course, that wouldn’t have solved anything.

The next morning I called in sick (which was not a total lie), so I could have it all out with Faith. She didn’t deny anything. I actually think she wanted me to know. She certainly said a very quick “yes” when I asked her whether she wanted a divorce.

I inquired when it was exactly that she had discovered she didn’t love me anymore. She replied that she never actually had been in love with me but had, at one time, merely thought she was.

Now, having discovered that she was wrong, she deemed it best that we separate. I told her it was pretty irresponsible to have two kids with a guy she didn’t really like.

To which she retorted, “That’s what I can’t stand about you, Andrew. You’re such a sentimental drip.”

She asked if I wouldn’t mind packing a bag and moving out that morning, as she had a very busy day. I retorted that I damn well did mind, and I would stay until Andy got home from nursery school so I could talk to him. She told me to suit myself as long as I was out of the house by dinnertime.

As I mindlessly threw some shirts and ties together in a suitcase, I wondered how the hell you explain to a four-year-old why Daddy is going away. I know you’re not supposed to lie to kids, But saying, “Mummy doesn’t love me,” seemed hardly conducive to the health of his psyche.

By the time the nanny brought him home, I had cooked up a story about having to live in New York to be nearer my work. That he shouldn’t worry, I would be out to see him and Lizzie every weekend. And I was sure we could still spend the summer together in Maine. Or at least part of it.

I watched the expression on his little face when I recounted this fiction. And I could see that he understood the truth. It broke my heart. Even at four, my son was disappointed that I couldn’t be totally honest with him.