The Class (71 page)

School."

Ted had to laugh. "The son of a Cambridge - townie is

playing cricket? The next thing I'll hear is- that he's got a knighthood."

"Oh, I doubt if that'll be for a few years."

He took a swig of coffee. "Have you decided when you're moving back, yet?"

"Not for another year at least."

"Shit."

"Please, Ted. I've got several good reasons, I assure you."

"Give me one."

"I want Teddie to finish his education here. He's doing so well the headmaster is certain if we let him go the whole route here, he'll breeze into any college in the world."

"Come on, Sara. I thought the one thing we still agreed on was that he would go to Harvard."

"That ought to be his decision-when the time comes.

Anyway, you've still got quite a few years to give him a good sales pitch,"

They were both silent for a moment.

"You said you had other reasons for wanting to stay."

"Well, I've been offered a classics tutorship at

Somerville College."

"Professional congratulations and personal objections," he responded.

"Since when do you have the right to object to anything I

do?" she asked, more bemused than angry.

He paused and then continued with great difficulty. "What

I mean is-I miss you. I miss being married to you, and I was wondering if. . . if maybe you had any vestigial feelings of regret."

"Of course I have regrets, Ted. The day our divorce became final was the bleakest of my life."

"Then do you think there's a chance that we might-you know-give it another try?"

She looked at him with sadness, and simply shook her head. Perhaps he should have suspected that there was someone in her life when she offered to let him stay with young Ted in Addison Crescent for the month of July while she was on vacation. Especially since she was so vague about her plans.

All she would vouchsafe was that she was going to Greece to "visit the places I've been writing about." -

"Who with?" he had bravely asked.

"Oh," she had replied evasively, "several million Greeks." But it did not take Ted long to discover who his ex-wife's traveling companion was. For his son's conversations were liberally sprinkled with references to "Francis." And unless

he was alluding to the famous talking mule from the movies of Ted's childhood, it had to be Francis James, classics tutor at Balliol.

"I'd like to meet that guy someday," Ted said, at the nth mention of his name. -

"Oh, you'd really like him," his son replied. "He's an absolutely smashing chap."

My God, he thought, my son really is an Englishman.

That July, Ted tried to be a father. He sat through

countless cricket matches. Got a lot of theater tickets. And made numerous attempts at conversation over dinner.

But a gap as wide as the Atlantic separated them.

The young man was polite, good-natured, and friendly. Yet, the only thing they could discuss was distant plans for higher education. Ted tried to sell his son on Harvard.

"Teddie, there's something I've gotta explain to you.

Going to Harvard is an experience that changes your life. I

mean, it certainly did mine."

The young man looked at his father and said, "Frankly, I

rather like my life the way it is."

Ted Lambros had spent the month with someone who bore his name but in all other ways was someone else's child.

At the end of July, a tanned Sara returned from Greece with an equally bronzed -Francis James and announced that they had decided to get married. -

To Ted's chagrin, the first congratulation came in the

form of a spontaneous "Super!" from his son, who rushed to throw his arms around the tall, bespectacled classics tutor. Trying to mask his chagrin, Ted offered his hand and his congratulations to Francis. -

"Thank you, " the Englishman responded. And added with

warm sincerity, "I've always been one of your great admirers. If those articles you've been publishing are anything to go

by, your Euripides book is going to be magnificent. How close are you to finishing?"

"I sent off the manuscript to Harvard last week," said Ted, feeling strangely hollow at announcing the accomplishment.

"Mummy says it's absolutely brilliant," young Ted interjected.

Ah, his father thought, at least the kid still respects me.

And then his son concluded, "I'm dying to hear what you think of it, Francis."

Ted now realized that there was nothing to keep him in Oxford. He took the next morning's plane to Boston and went up to Canterbury to await the verdict of the Harvard University Press.

It did not take long. In fact, that very weekend Cedric Whitman called him, bursting with enthusiasm. He had been designated First Reader for the Press and he could neither maintain his anonymity nor restrain his admiration.

"Cedric," Ted inquired tactfully, "while we're exchanging confidences, may I ask you who the other reader is?"

"Someone who admires you almost as much as I do-the newly emeritus Professor of Greek at Oxford."

"Cameron Wylie?" Ted asked, his elation dissipating.

"The very same," Whitman answered. "And I can't imagine his report will be less favorable than mine."

I can, thought Ted as he hung up.

He spent the next week playing dawn-to-dusk tennis with

any professor, undergraduate, or groundskeeper he could lay his hands on. He could not bear the tension.

And then a hand-addressed envelope with an Oxford postmark at last arrived. He dared not open it in the presence of the department secretary. Instead, he rushed to the men's

-room, locked himself in one of the booths, and tore it open.

He read it several times and then began to howl at the top of his voice.

A few moments later, Robbie Walton, summoned by the secretary, arrived to see what was wrong.

"Rob," cried Ted, still in the confines of his narrow kingdom, "I'm made in the shade. Cameron Wylie still thinks I'm a bastard, but he loves my Euripides book!"

"Hey," said Rob with amusement, "if you'll come out of there, I'll buy you a drink."

D

anny Rossi began to grow tired. Not of music. And certainly not of the applause that seemed to surround him

quadraphonically both on and off stage. Nor was he weary of the unending parade of women who presented themselves for his sexual signature.

No, what he felt was fatigue in its most literal sense.

His forty-year-old body was weary. He found himself growing short of breath at the mildest physical activity.

Danny had never been an athlete, but several times when

-he was in Hollywood homes and invited to - take -a dip, he found that he could barely swim one length of the pool. If he were still at Harvard, he joked to himself, he would not

be

- able to last the requisite fifty yards. And he increasingly

found himself going to bed merely to sleep.

He finally decided to consult a noted internist in Beverly

Hills.

After a full workup, during which every inch of him was probed and every bodily fluid analyzed, he sat down across the glass-and-chrome desk in Dr. Standish Whitney's office.

"Give it to me, Stan." Danny smiled uneasily. "Am I going to die?" -

"Yes," the doctor replied poker-faced. Then immediately added, "But not for at least another thirty or forty years."

"Then why am I always so goddamn tired?" Danny asked. "For

one thing, Danny, any guy with a love life as active as yours would be worn out. Although let me quickly say that no one ever died from too much sex. On the other hand, you do other things besides screw. You compose. You conduct. You play

and-I presume-you must spend some time rehearsing. Also, if an airline pilot traveled as much as you, he'd be grounded. Are you reading me?" - -

"Yes, Stan."

"You're giving your system a lot of wear and tear. Do you think you could cut down on any of your activities?"

"No," Danny answered candidly. "I not only want to do all the things I do, I have to do them. I know that may sound strange-"

"Not at all," the doctor interrupted. "This is L.

A.-paradise for the compulsives. You're not the first patient I've seen who wants to die young and leave a beautiful corpse."

"Correction," Danny retorted. "I don't want to die young,

I just want to keep on living young. Isn't there anything you prescribe for your other 'compulsives'? I mean, I assume they don't slow down either."

"No," Dr. Whitney answered, "but they come to me at least once a week for a little booster shot."

"What's in it?" -

"Oh, megavitamins mostly. Plus a little of this and a little of that to lift you up and mellow you out. If you'd like, we could try a series and see if it helps."

Danny felt like Ponce de Leon when he caught sight of the

Fountain of Youth. "Any reason why we can't start right now?

- "None at all," Dr. Whitney said with a smile. And rose to go and mix his potion.

Danny was a born-again workaholic.

During the next month he felt like a teenager. He breezed through his frenetic schedule of work and play. He could once again go from conducting an evening concert to an amorous rendezvous. Then go back to his home in Bel-Air and practice the piano for several hours.

In fact, the only problem was that, on the few occasions

when he actually wanted to sleep, he felt too stimulated. For this the good Dr. Whitney kindly prescribed some soothing phenothiazine.

During the past year or so, his relationship with Maria had gradually evolved from silent antagonism to a kind of entente cordiale. Whenever he was in Philadelphia they play-acted happy couple for the outside world and loving

parents for their daughters. What went on his Hollywood Hills

"bachelor pad" was, of course, never discussed.

Now that the girls were at school, Maria resolved to build

a life for herself. To find something real to do behind the

~facade of their cardboard marriage.

For a thirty-eight-year-old former dance teacher, the schoolhouse doors were bolted shut. There was no way to pick up where she had left off. And she was painfully aware that although she had brains and a good education, she had no particular skill to offer the job market. Some of her suburban friends worked for various charities. But that seemed to Maria to have too much of a social aspect to be genuinely satisfying.

She did agree to help out with the annual auction to raise money for the local PBS television station. After all, having spent so much time in studios with Danny, she felt she had absorbed some knowledge of how television worked. At least

she might be able to contribute a suggestion or two.

Being the wife of the city's symphony conductor, Maria was something of a minor celebrity. And the officials at the station tried to persuade her to appear on camera to attract contributions from viewers.

She was coaxed by Terence Moran, the charming, prematurely white-haired president of the station.

"I can't," she protested. "I'd be a nervous wreck."

"Please, Mrs. Rossi," he insisted. "All you'd have to do is stand in front of one of the tables and say a few words aboot the objects on it." -

"I'm sorry, Mr. Moran. My voice would freeze. You'd either have to superimpose the dialogue or do a voice-over yourself."

The youthful executive smiled. "I'll accept that compromise," he said. --

"You will?" said Maria, slightly taken aback.

"Sure. You just stand there and point to the items and

I'll describe them from off-camera. Is it a deal?"

"No, not yet," Maria replied anxiously. "I'd have to know your director's shooting plans."

"Mrs. Rossi," Moran responded affably, "I'm so keen to get you on even for a split second that I'll let you literally call the shots." -

"Okay, '~ she relented. "I -guess I can't get out of it now. If you must show me, let it be in a wide establishing shot in front of the table. But I want your word of honor

that the minute you begin to describe the merchandise, you'll