“Fine,” she replied, “but only if it’s coffee.”
George then suggested several spots in fashionable Georgetown that he’d heard of and wanted to check out.
“Oh no,” she answered pleasantly, “I don’t feel up to facing the jeunesse dorée of Washington. Why don’t we just drive to my place and have coffee there?”
“Okay,” George replied. “You lead and I’ll follow.”
She lived alone on South Royal Street in Old Town Alexandria — an attractive three-room walk-up.
As she fussed with an espresso machine, George studied the posters on her wall. They were mostly colorful souvenirs from her Latin American travels. Except for one, which piqued his curiosity.
“Say, Cathy,” he asked, pointing to the large white-and-blue placard that had pride of place over her sofa, “is that some kind of joke?”
“Oh, you mean my antinuclear artwork?” she responded blithely. “No, I was actually pretty active in the antiwar movement in college. I was even in a couple of big marches.”
“Then I don’t understand —”
“What? How I got the NSC job? Or why I wanted it?”
“Both, I guess.”
“Well,” she said, sitting down beside him and handing him a cup, “to begin with, this is a free country and I’m not ashamed to say I think we’re wrong to be in Vietnam. On the other hand, I obviously don’t advocate the violent overthrow of the government, or I wouldn’t have gotten security clearance. Ergo, you might say I’m an idealist who wants to work for change within the system.”
“Very noble,” George responded. “Are there many others like you in the NSC corridor?”
“One or two.” She smiled. “But I’m certainly not going to name any names to ‘Kissinger’s shadow.’ ”
She stopped herself, suddenly embarrassed.
“Is that what they call me — ‘Kissinger’s shadow’?”
“Well, you two are pretty inseparable. I suppose it’s just a little jealousy on the part of those of us who work across the tracks. I mean, somebody mentioned that you were probably the youngest guy with an actual office in the White House.”
“What else do they say?” George coaxed.
“You’re putting me on the spot. Can’t we change the subject?”
“Yes, but only if you let me guess what the other staffers think of me. My intuition says they consider me conceited, arrogant, and ruthless.”
He looked at her for a response.
“No comment,” she pleaded.
“You don’t have to, because it’s true. I am all of those things.”
“I don’t believe you.” Cathy smiled. “I think that somewhere underneath that stuffed shirt of yours there beats the heart of Santa Claus.”
Thanks for the leap of faith,” said George.
“Actually, I think the boss is that way too. Henry just likes to make tough noises. That’s why you two get on so well. It’s probably your European backgrounds.”
“What do you know about my background?”
“What everybody knows, I guess. I mean, we’re sworn to secrecy about government affairs, so what else can we use for gossip if not our colleagues’ private lives?”
“But I don’t have a private life,” George retorted.
“Too bad. You could probably make some girl extremely happy.”
“I doubt it. I’m the least romantic person in Washington.”
“But you’re probably the most brilliant. I’ve read your articles in Foreign Affairs and — though I disagree with most of your conclusions — they’re amazingly astute.”
“I’m flattered.” He touched her on the shoulder lightly and inquired, “Have you got anyone to make you happy?”
“Not at this moment. No.”
“May I apply for the position?”
“You may,” she smiled. “But then I’ll have to interview you.”
“How about dinner Friday night?”
She nodded. “That’s great. I’ll try to finish by nine. Is that okay?”
“That’s fine,” said George. “It’s somewhat early for me, but I’m really looking forward to it.”
“Kala Christouyina!”
“Merry Christmas!”
The Lambros clan had much to celebrate in December of 1968 as they all crowded around the festive table at the family home in Cambridge.
One week earlier Ted had received the official word of his promotion to tenure — effective July first of next year. Unbelievably, the departmental vote had been unanimous.
Indeed, Ted had been so conspicuously successful in his teaching that enrollments for his courses in the winter term were immense. And if this trend continued, the deanery might vote another junior slot so that the department could expand.
Little Ted seemed totally adjusted to the change of schools and even started to excel at peewee hockey. To top it off, Sara had convinced Evelyn Ungar, Director of the Harvard University Press, to let her do some freelance classics editing by mail.
Alumni contributions had reached new heights, due in no small part to the magnificent achievements of Canterbury’s undefeated football team. In the season finale, they crushed Dartmouth, their traditional rival, 33-0, Chris Jastrow was named first-string Ivy quarterback and looked likely to be drafted by the pros. Even Tony Thatcher was elevated to Dean of the College. So Ted had friends in high places.
O tidings of comfort and joy!
As soon as Ted and Sara returned to Windsor, they began to look for a house. And to take lessons in cross-country skiing. The omnipresent whiteness gave the campus an aura of enchantment.
After a few weeks of searching, they found a solid old place on Barrington Road with a magnificent view of the mountains. It needed fixing up, but then, as Ted rationalized, this activity would be an outlet for some of his wife’s creative energies.
For, though she never complained, slipping and sliding down icy winter paths was not exactly summa felicitas for Sara Lambros. She began to toy with the idea of graduate school, studying the Harvard catalog to work out courses she could squeeze into a weekly forty-eight-hour visit to Cambridge.
Ted did not discourage her. Yet, at the same time, he did not disguise the fact that he felt her absence, even for so short a time, might have a negative effect on little Teddy.
But then Sara was soon heavily involved in refurbishing the house.
With all this nesting, hibernating, growing roots in snow and so forth, it was natural that the couple wanted to increase and multiply. (“Teddie would enjoy a little sister, don’t you think?”) And yet each month brought only disappointment.
“Damn,” Sara would exclaim. “I’m really sorry, Ted.”
“Hey look,” he would reply. “Maybe we just screwed up on the calculations. Stay loose. Be patient, honey.”
“I will,” she’d answer, with a wan smile, “Just promise that you won’t lose patience with me.”
He took her in his arms.
“Listen, for another kid like Teddie, I’d gladly wait a dozen years.”
His words were comforting, but with each succeeding lunar cycle seemed to be spoken with a little less conviction.
When Ted wrote Cameron Wylie to report the good news of his tenure, the Regius Professor’s reply included more encouragement to visit Oxford.
Though he had been but newly elevated, Ted was bold enough to ask the college for leave of absence. As he argued in his letter, a break from teaching would allow him to complete his research on Euripides. This, he subtly implied, would bring further glory to the college. The response of the executive committee that adjudicated his petition was quite unexpected.