He hung up and looked at Sara, who, by now, was also giggly. “This is a farce, Ted. We should take the receiver off the hook and go to bed.”
That instant the telephone rang yet again.
It was Bill Foster from Berkeley.
This was not a voice Ted had hoped to hear after midnight, when he was tired and semi-sloshed. But mercifully Bill did all the talking.
“Listen, Ted, I know it’s late back there, so I’ll make it short. We really want you here and look forward to getting your written acceptance so we can list you on our prospectus.”
“Thanks, Bill,” Ted answered, trying to sound both sober and sincere. And having difficulty doing either.
The next day was the most painful of Ted’s life. Not only because he had a terrible hangover. But because somehow he had to muster the courage to walk into Boylston Hall. To go to the Classics office. To say good morning to the secretary, as if nothing were different.
And, still worse, to have to confront the senior professors and exchange bland cordialities, suppressing all the curiosity — and violent anger — he felt inside.
As he entered the Yard and passed John Harvard’s statue, he was even anxious about running into John Finley, fearing that his idol might resent him now that he was a “failure.”
But he realized that he had to go through the motions of normalcy. He could not sulk like Achilles in his tent. Certainly not, especially since he was no longer a great hero — at least in Harvard’s eyes. He had been blackballed. Rejected from the club.
From nine to ten he walked like a somnambulist through Elementary Greek. And then deliberately tried to preserve the numbness he felt as he went to pick up his mail in the department office.
Mercifully, no one else was there, so all he had to do was exchange perfunctory salutations with the secretary. Ted could not help but marvel at her ability to camouflage her awareness — for she really did know everything — of yesterday’s events. It was, he joked inwardly, a quality that departmental secretaries probably shared with undertakers. They had to keep an affable demeanor in the midst of catastrophe.
But on the way to his eleven-o’clock lecture, the adrenaline began to flow in him again. What the hell, he thought, I’m not going to give these kids a bum deal just because those bastards kicked me where it hurts.
Fortunately, he had a subject he could dig into — Euripides’ tragedy Hippolytus. He could speak about the injustice of the gods.
Ted took the podium and gave one of the most stirring lectures of his life.
The students applauded — a rare occurrence in the middle of a semester.
Screw the garbologists. I’d like to see those fogies set a class on fire like that. No, dammit, they may have crumpled my career like a paper cup, but they won’t crush me.
His son greeted him at the door. Here, Ted thought, is at least one guy who still thinks I’m terrific.
He kissed Sara, and while she prepared dinner, went through the ritual of putting his son to bed. The high point was Ted’s off-key rendition of “Nani to moro mou, nani,” a Greek lullaby.
Then he sat down at the kitchen table with Sara and gradually removed the mental armor he had worn all day.
“Do you feel wretchedly terrible, or just terribly wretched?” she asked gently.
“Well, I got through the first day of being a nonperson without punching anybody or throwing myself into the Charles.”
“That’s good,” she said, smiling.
The telephone rang.
“I’m sorry, Ted, I forgot to take it off the hook when we sat down. Let me get rid of whoever it is.”
But Sara did not hang up immediately. “It’s Robbie Walton,” she called out. “I think you should speak to him. He’s really upset for you.”
Ted nodded and went to the phone. When Rob, the first graduate student whose thesis he had directed, had left Harvard to begin an instructorship at Canterbury College, he had vowed eternal gratitude.
“How could Harvard do this to you?” Rob said with anguish.
“Listen, it’s the breaks of the game. Let this be a lesson to all of us.”
“Anyway, I’ll bet you’ve got a million alternatives. At least you deserve to.”
“I’ve got a couple,” Ted answered noncommittally. “How are things at Canterbury, Rob?”
“Not bad. Some of the kids are really bright — and the place is unbelievably gorgeous. The Classics Department is a little quiet, though. I mean, they haven’t got anybody like Ted Lambros.”
“Maybe that’s because they haven’t asked,” Ted replied, only half in jest.
“You mean you’d actually consider coming up here?”
“Frankly, at this point, I’m not really sure what I want. I’m gonna just play it by ear for a while.”
Suddenly Bobbie grew excited.
“Hey, listen, if you’re at all serious about Canterbury, I’ll tell the dean first thing in the morning. My God, he’ll go bananas!”
“Well,” Ted answered casually, “it might be interesting to see what would happen if you mentioned it. Thanks, Rob.”
“What kind of Machiavellian mischief are you up to now?” Sara asked when he sat down again.
“Honey, that little maneuver is called keeping your options open.”
“I’d call it dirty pool.”
“Sara, haven’t you learned by now? ‘Dirty’ is the only way to play the academic game.”
Robbie called two days later. He was exultant. “I knew it,” he effused. “I gave your book to Tony Thatcher — he’s Dean of Humanities — and it really turned him on. He told me to arrange a date with you for a guest lecture. How’s Wednesday the fourteenth?”
“Fine,” Ted replied, trying to underplay his satisfaction, “that sounds fine.”
In the next few days Ted devoured all the information he could obtain about Canterbury College. Founded in 1772, it was one of the oldest colleges in America. And unlike Harvard and Yale, which acquired their names from mere commoners, it had a noble cachet. The college was established on the order of Frederick Comwallis, Archbishop of Canterbury under King George III, to train ministers for the colonies.
But to Sara, Canterbury had always been merely a football rival from the wilds of Vermont. Though she had heard how pretty its campus was, she had never heard particular praise for its classics department.
If she had dared to speak with total candor, Sara would have confessed that she actually liked Berkeley even better than Harvard. But the idea of going to Canterbury seemed to lift Ted’s spirit so. After all, here he would be the undisputed king of the mountain. Sara’s only misgivings — unspoken, of course — were about having to live on that mountain.
After a leisurely afternoon drive, they checked in at the rustic but elegant Windsor Arms and went immediately to sit on its front porch to gaze at the fairyland spread out before them, Directly ahead, across the lush town green, stood Hillier Library, its white Georgian tower stretching proudly toward a cloudless sky.
“Gosh, Sara, it’s even more imposing than Eliot House, isn’t it?”
“No,” she replied, “but it is beautiful.”
Just then Robbie arrived and greeted them effusively. He was wearing an orange blazer, white button-down shirt, and rep tie.
“I’ve been designated your official guide,” he said. “We’ve got plenty of time for a thorough tour and a cup of tea before your lecture.”
Rob was an ardent convert to the Canterbury way of life.
“Breathe that air,” he urged. “It’s the purest stuff you’ve ever had in your lungs. No city pollution out here.”