“What could this possibly have to do with my professional future?”
The administrator replied, unblinking, “Everything.”
“Can you explain that, please?”
“Listen,” the dean replied patiently, “you don’t seem to understand. If Jastrow can’t play, my head’s right there on the block with yours.”
“Why? You’re a full professor. You’ve got tenure.”
“I’ve also got three kids and a mortgage. They could freeze my salary forever. You’ve got to realize that Canterbury alumni are a very powerful group. And they feel pretty strongly about this place.”
“And its football team,” Ted added sarcastically.
“Yes, dammit, and its football team!” the dean shot back with exasperation. “Can’t you fathom that every time we beat Yale or Dartmouth, our grads interpret it as a sign that we’re superior in other ways as well? And let me tell you, the Monday after one of those victories, checks pour in like manna from heaven. An undefeated season can literally mean millions of dollars. And I’m not going to sit by and let a sanctimonious punk like you mess up the system. I mean, you don’t seem particularly grateful to be here.”
“Why should I be grateful, dammit?” Ted retorted. “I’ve already published more than the rest of the department put together.”
The dean shook his head. “You amaze me. You still have no idea what it takes to get ahead in the academic world.”
“I’m a good teacher and I’ve written an important book. I should think that would suffice.”
Tony Thatcher grinned. “It didn’t suffice for Harvard, did it? I mean, they didn’t seem to want to make a professor out of a Cambridge townie. And, frankly, neither do some of our boys.”
Ted had been in street fights. He had been kicked and punched and bruised. But now he felt inwardly lacerated. While he had already seen that a provincial place like Canterbury judged him on social grounds, he never would permit himself to think that his rejection at Harvard had been on anything other than academic criteria.
But he was suddenly uncertain about everything. He didn’t know whether to stay or leave. And so he remained frozen in his chair awaiting — fearing — what Thatcher would say next.
Finally, the dean addressed him in soft, paternal tones. “Ted, let me tell you what’s going to happen. You’re going to pass Chris Jastrow. And he, in turn, is going to pass for innumerable touchdowns — to the delight of our generous alumni. Now, of course, you and I are aware that the boy doesn’t know the first thing about Latin. But we also know that in the scheme of things, it isn’t all that important. What matters is that nobody rocks the boat. That way, everybody’s future is brighter — including yours.”
He rose and held out his hand in amical valediction.
“I’m sorry,” Ted said quietly, “but you still haven’t convinced me.”
“Professor Lambros,” the dean responded cordially, “let me leave you with one little thought. If we should deny you tenure at the end of this year, you might not find another teaching job anywhere.…”
“That’s a crock.”
“No, that’s a fact. Because no matter how much you’ve published, the dean of wherever you apply is going to check with us for a character reference. You know, to find out if you’re ‘collegial.’ ” He paused and then added almost in a whisper, “Need I say more?”
“No,” Ted answered, barely able to hear his own voice.
Sara was livid.
“They can’t do this to you. It’s cruel, it’s barbaric — and it’s totally unethical.”
“You’re right. But it’s also frighteningly possible.”
He was sitting on their dilapidated couch utterly bereft of confidence. Sara had never seen him so shaken.
She sat down and put her arms around him. “Ted, Canterbury’s not the end of the world. There are other schools that would kill to get you, even if these guys here say you’re a total shit.”
He lowered his head for several minutes.
At last he spoke. “Suppose they’re not bluffing? Suppose Tony Thatcher does have the power to blacklist me? What then?”
Sara Lambros thought for a moment and carefully weighed every syllable of her reply.
“Ted, I love you because you’re brave and good and honest. And I’ll stick by you no matter what happens. Isn’t that enough?”
He raised his head and looked at her. “I can’t lie to you, Sara. I’ve never been so scared in all my life.”
Before either of them could say another word, their little son burst joyfully into the room. “Daddy, Daddy,” he chirped and ran to his father’s arms. “Jarnie Emerson tried to beat me up again.”
“Again?” Ted asked bemusedly, as he continued to embrace his son.
“Yeah,” said the boy, “but this time I did what you told me. I punched him right back in the belly. It made him cry.”
Ted smiled and thought to himself, At least there’s one fighter in the family.
They barely spoke at dinner. Sara assumed her husband was just emotionally spent and was thankful for the respite. She was somewhat surprised when he stood up and reached for his parka.
“Where’re you going?” she asked.
“I don’t know, I thought I’d walk to Canterbury Hall. It’s such a nice place when nobody’s around. I want to grade those exams tonight — so I can exorcise this whole business.”
“Good idea,” she answered, sensing that he had regained some confidence. “I can sit here and abstract one or two pieces from Wege zu Euripides.”
He kissed her on the forehead. “Sara, you are the Tenth Muse.”
“Thanks, sport, but I’m happy just being plain Mrs. Lambros. Now go off, do your homework, and come back to my loving arms.”
He sat in his tiny office and looked out over Windsor Green. A preview of snows to come had powdered its broad surface, which glowed softly in the moonlight. Now and then students passed, and the air was so still he could hear their laughter from afar.
The bell tolling ten o’clock admonished him to complete his task. He turned back to the pile of bluebooks on his desk and set about transcribing the results for submission to the dean’s office. They hadn’t been bad. A handful of A’s, two C’s, and the rest varying shades of B. All in all, something a language teacher could take pride in.
Of course, there was the no-show of a certain football player. But that was quite another matter.
It took him less than two minutes to enter the grades. Now only the space following Christopher Jastrow ’69 remained — like the new snow outside — fresh, clean, and unsullied. Blank.
What should it be — F, Incomplete, or ABX (meaning absent from the exam)? Any of these would put the quietus on the little bastard’s football career.
He sat there, staring at the paper, writing nothing.
At first he had no notion of what he was going to do. But then gradually it dawned on him that he had left the house and gone to his lonely, underheated cubicle for a definite reason. To get away from Sara. To elude the beacon of her conscience.
Sara was unable to understand the kind of fear that gripped him. Her family had status, substance, and security. He still felt like an immigrant, desperately needing roots in his new country. Perhaps her forebears had made compromises in generations past. But they were buried deeply now in the unshakable foundation of her respectability.
It was such a little thing to do. In years to come he would resent acting out of false bravado. This was not ancient Athens. He was not Socrates. So why the hell should he drink hemlock for some small-time football star? What lofty principle would be served by failing Jastrow?