“I bet I know who told you that one,” George said with irritation.
“No comment. I always protect my sources. Anyway, I’ve done some digging on my own and found that he was not averse to doing curious favors if it could help him win a point.”
“Could you be most specific?”
“Well, this may seem a small thing, but I think it’s typical of how he operated. Back in 1973, he okayed the sale to Russia of a sophisticated filter for satellite photography. I’m told Commerce had been sort of leery about letting them have it.”
George’s blood froze. He could barely listen to the rest.
“It’s my theory that Henry was trading for something. Now, what I’d like to know from you is—what did he get in return?”
George Keller had often testified before senatorial committees. He knew that the ironclad rule for any witness confronted with a startling question was to wait. And then answer as simply and directly as possible.
“I think you’re going up a blind alley on this one, Tom,” he said quietly.
“I’m positive I’m not.”
“What makes you so sure?”
“The expression on your face, Dr. Keller.”
Leighton paused for a moment and then said politely, “Are you willing to talk about it?”
George’s mind was in turmoil. He had to quash this story or his whole life would be ruined.
What could he trade this guy? A great deal, he decided quickly.
All he had to do to save himself, was … sell out Kissinger.
“Listen, Tom,” he said as casually as possible, “it’s a nice day. Why don’t we go for a walk?”
First George did some off-the-record bargaining. Without explaining why, he simply offered to exchange the insignificant filter story for whatever other information Leighton would request.
“Can I trust you, Tom?”
“I’ve got a reputation,” the journalist replied. “I’ve never betrayed my sources. And I never will.”
“I believe you,” George said.
He had to.
On June 25, the ax fell. Ronald Reagan called Alexander Haig into the Oval Office and gave him an envelope. It contained a letter accepting the Secretary’s resignation. Now all Haig had to do was formally resign.
The word in Washington was that Keller was going to get the job. The Washington Post went as far as to call him “the best appointment Reagan could possibly make.”
Dozens of reporters now kept vigil around his home, waiting for the moment when the new cabinet appointee and his wife would step outside to be photographed in triumph.
The major wire services had done their research and prepared a profile. The saga of the teenager who fled Communist oppression and had risen to the top. Only in America, et cetera.
Inside, George and Cathy were rooted by the telephone. They dared not speak to each other. All Cathy had said the entire evening—at regular intervals—was that she would love him even if he was not made Secretary of State.
He wanted desperately to take a drink, but she forbade him even a drop.
“You’ve got to keep your wits about you, George. There’ll be plenty of time for booze after this thing’s over, one way or another.
The phone rang. It was Henry Kissinger.
“Tell me, Mr. Secretary,” he said jovially, “will you still speak to me when you’re appointed?”
George was breathless with excitement.
“What do you know, Henry?” he asked quickly.
“Only what I read in the papers. Just be sure to mention me in your acceptance speech, eh?”
At ten minutes before midnight, the phone rang again.
“This is it,” George said to Cathy as he walked over, took a deep breath, and picked up the receiver.
“Yes?”
“George?” It was Caspar Weinberger, Secretary of Defense—and Harvard ’38. The omen was good.
“Hi, Cap,” George said weakly.
“Listen, George, the President’s done a lot of thinking about State—” He paused and then announced as gently as possible, “He’s decided to go with Shultz.”
“Oh.”
Seeing his devastated expression, Cathy grabbed his arm.
“I hope you understand there’s nothing personal,” the Defense Secretary continued. “It’s just that Ron feels more comfortable with—you know—the California boys. And I know that Shultz wants you to stay on as Deputy.”
George did not know what to say.
Weinberger tried to assuage his disappointment.
“Hey, Keller,” he said buoyantly, “how old are you? Forty-six—forty-seven? You’re too young to be where you are already, for heaven’s sake. If Reagan wins another term, I’m sure he’ll go with you.”
“Yes, Cap. Thanks.”
George hung up and looked at Cathy.
“I lost,” he said softly.
“You didn’t lose, George,” she said with deep emotion. “You just haven’t won yet.”
ANDREW ELIOT’S DIARY
November 17, 1982
One of the joys of being a reunion organizer as well as fundraiser is that I get to go to a lot of interesting places I would never normally be allowed into.
The White House, for instance.
Now, obviously the Reunion Committee wanted George Keller to lecture as part of the week’s events. Being his oldest Harvard friend, I was deputized to enlist him.
My first surprise when I called on the Department of State was that I got right through to him. My second was that he invited me to Washington for lunch. My third was that we would be eating not in some posh Washington bistro but at the White House Mess, so he could give me a short tour of the presidential premises.
It was fascinating. I even got to see the famous Situation Room, which was a real thrill because it was so disappointing. I mean, it’s just a windowless cubicle with a table and some chairs. To think that so many of recent history’s most portentous decisions have been made in this glorified phone booth!
It was here that George asked me to sit down and chat about what had brought me all the way to Washington.
I asked him how he felt about Harvard.
He responded by asking me how they felt about him. Specifically, did the faculty still regard him as a Kissinger hatchet man?
I replied as tactfully as I could that, though they had come down on him and Henry pretty hard during the war, that was now nearly ten years ago. Besides, we were all dying for him to speak to The Class. You know, tell them what it’s like to cross swords with Brezhnev and those guys.
“You’re a big hero to all of us,” I told him. “There’s no ambivalence about that.”
He smiled.
I then asked him if he was planning to come to the reunion anyway.
He confessed that he had been hesitant, afraid he’d hardly know anybody.
I countered by saying that now everybody knows him. Besides, most of the people I’d seen had changed so much physically, guys probably wouldn’t recognize their own roommates. I mean, Newall, for example, was balding and twenty pounds heavier.
I didn’t tell him that Dickie had also been having a little drinking problem of late (kind of drowning his middle-aged sorrows).
Anyway, I pressed on with my mission to persuade him to appear. And, after a little more flattery, he at last smiled okay.
He even complimented me on my negotiating powers. And said he’d give me a job anytime.
A little while later, he walked me to the White House gate, where a cab was waiting to take me to the airport.
I grinned from ear to ear all the way back to Boston. I, Andrew Eliot, had achieved a diplomatic coup with one of the world’s great diplomats.
When he returned to his office, George Keller had an unexpected visitor—his wife.
She was seated on the couch, clutching a sheaf of long printed paper.
“What a pleasant surprise.”
She waited to reply until he had closed the
door. “You bloody traitorous bastard!”
“What’s the matter?” he asked calmly.
“Why the hell did you collaborate with that mudslinger Tom Leighton?”
“Catherine, I don’t know what’s got into you. The man’s an important journalist for The New York Times. And I had lunch with him—once.”
“Come off it, Keller. A friend of mine from Newsweek just sent me these excerpts they’re printing from his book. The guy’s really vicious. And it’s obvious to me that the ‘source close to Kissinger’ he keeps quoting could only have been you.”
“Cathy, I swear—”
“George, I can’t take any more of your lies. You know I never had much love for Henry, but he was like a second father to you. And that book is an absolute defamation. Don’t you have any loyalties?”
“Catherine, you’re jumping to conclusions based on no evidence whatsoever. Can’t we discuss this at home?”
“No, George, I won’t be there. I’m leaving you.”
“Just because you think I talked to some ambitious reporter?”
“No, George. Because this proves to me how stupid I was to ever think I could change you. You’re a selfish bastard who can’t give love and isn’t even trusting enough to take it. Now, have I given you sufficient reasons?”
“Please, Cathy, may I have a chance to explain my side of this?”
“On one condition.”
“Name it.”
“You can have sixty minutes to present your case. But if I’m not convinced, you’ll sign papers for a Mexican divorce.”
“You mean you’ve already seen a lawyer?”
“No, my sweet,” she replied. “You’re so involved with yourself you forget I am a lawyer.”
ANDREW ELIOT’S DIARY
December 2, 1982
I’m getting married again.
It’s not a decision I’ve taken lightly. But after seventeen years of miserable bachelorhood I’ve come to understand why Noah’s Ark was not a singles’ cruise.
I’ve been fighting the prospect ever since my initial marital catastrophe. The only trouble is, I get lonely—especially around Christmastime. So I’ve finally resolved to get remarried. And by the time The Class gathers in June, I want to be able to trumpet the great news.
Now all I have to do is find a wife.
The possibilities are rich and various.
First, there’s Laura Hartley, whom I saw a lot of in New York. Of course, she’s probably too high-powered for me, being managing editor of a famous women’s magazine. I admire career girls and Laura sure is dynamic. It’s probably why, at thirty-nine, she hasn’t gotten married yet. I mean, she’s so dedicated to her job that sometimes when we’re in bed she leaps out to write down an idea for a column or a feature. And this can sometimes spoil the mood.
There are also a couple of other small problems.
First, she doesn’t eat.
Not that she’s overweight. On the contrary, Laura’s like a toothpick in boots. She’s on a perpetual diet of coffee and sugarless chewing gum. I don’t know how she survives, but it’s kind of rough on me since I have to gobble a sandwich when she isn’t looking.
The second difficulty is that she smokes. Not just occasionally, but an endless chain of unfiltered cigarettes that pretty well fog up her apartment. And with her near-emaciation and the low visibility, it is sometimes hard to know if she’s actually there.
Still I thought she was a definite candidate until I moved up to Boston.
This city is a real mecca for nubilities. To begin with, Beacon Hill is populated with clones of Faith—newer, turbo-charged models, you might say. Yet, I seem to have a Pavlovian aversion to female preppies. So I keep my distance from the deb set. Especially since there are so many other possibilities.
Like Cora Avery. She’s probably one of the most glowing examples of young womanhood in the whole United States. I met her while jogging along the Charles one afternoon. It was clear even despite her floppy sweatsuit that she had an absolutely amazing figure. I was able to keep up with her just long enough to get her phone number. And we started going out.
On our first date I learned that she was a gym teacher at Brookline High. And a marathon runner. And a skier. And a long-distance swimmer. For relaxation she did aerobic dancing.
Naturally she wanted to recruit me for all these invigorating activities, and initially I went along. The fact that every muscle in my body ached was compensated by the fact that she could give a really great massage.
For a while there I thought we really had something going. But when I started staying overnight at her place I began to get cold feet. Literally. She’d shake me at 5:00 A.M., make me down a cocktail of megavitamins, and drag me out to jog. None of Boston’s notoriously inclement weather could deter her. Like a mailman, neither snow nor rain nor sleet nor gloom of night could keep her from her appointed rounds. We’d get back at around seven, and instead of letting me tumble into a bath or back to bed, we had to spend another half-hour lifting weights. By the time I got to the office I was a wreck.
But she was a great kid and liked me a lot. She’d often call and suggest we spend a lunch hour together. Unfortunately, this was always at the Harvard pool. Where, after quickly downing a can of Nutrament, she would entice me into the water and I would wearily paddle while she churned her daily mile.
Even my friends remarked that I’d never looked better in my life. And I know if I married Cora I’d probably live to be at least a hundred.
But then there are a couple of drawbacks.
I was beginning to get so tired in the evenings that when she returned from dance class feeling all romantic, I was simply too exhausted to do anything but snooze. She began to think I was not interested in her body. In truth, I was obsessed by her body. It was my own that was the problem.
At the end of next semester she plans to move to Hawaii, where there are better facilities to train for the triathlon (a combination of swimming, biking, and marathoning).
So, time is running out.
The reason I’m having trouble deciding is that new opportunities present themselves at every turn.
There’s Roz, a divorcee who lives in Weston. She’s bright, well read, and (for a change) a terrific cook. She’s constantly asking me out to the house, which is where I find the single obstacle. Or rather, multiple one. Her five kids loathe me. And I guess they’d have to be included in a connubial arrangement.
There are lots of other candidates too. But none of them seems to be quite right.
Perhaps it’s my fault. I guess my expectations are too high. I’d like to marry someone who enjoys sitting quietly (without doing push-ups) and chatting about everything from politics to children. A woman who enjoys reading the same books and discussing them.
Most of all, I’d like to find someone as lonely as I. Who wants a hand to hold and a grown-up person to love. Maybe that’s too much to ask.
But I’ll keep looking.
From the “Milestones” section of Time magazine, January 4, 1983:
DIVORCED. George Keller, 47, Deputy Secretary of State, and Catherine Fitzgerald Keller, 39, political activist; on grounds of irreconcilable differences; after nine years of marriage; no children.
THE REUNION
June 5–9, 1983
We shall not cease from exploration
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time.
T.S. ELIOT
CLASS OF 1910
They began to gather on Sunday, June 5. Advance reservations indicated that over six hundred members of The Class would be coming from every state and even Europe and Asia. Registration was at the Freshman Union, where they had all embarked on their great journey twenty-nine years earlier.
But who were these strange people—balding, bespectacled, overweight, and shy? How had they come to usurp the hall reserved for the firebrands of The Class of ’58? The o
nly clue was the badges that they wore on their lapels.
Paradoxically, most of them were more frightened at the prospect of their return to Harvard than when they first arrived as undergraduates. For now there was one conspicuous item missing from their spiritual luggage—unbounded faith in their potential.
They were no longer like astronauts striding to the launch pad full of hope, ready to fly to the moon and beyond. They were most of them weary travelers whose horizons ended at the office parking lot.
And for all their glittering achievements, their triumphal entries into the pages of Who’s Who, they knew they had suffered the irreparable loss of what was once their most precious gift. Their youth.
The Class of ’58 had come home as grown-ups. The great expectations that once had burned in them had been replaced by ghosts of old ambitions.
The secret word was compromise. Nobody said it outright, but they all could sense it. Yet somehow it was comforting to see that everyone had aged. They had weathered all the storms of harsh reality, and here were seeking shelter in a place where they had once believed no rain could ever fall on them.
They were gazing at one another. Some too timid to approach the old acquaintances they thought they recognized—but were too far away to read the badges.
And yet how different from the looks they had exchanged while waiting on line for that first dinner in their freshman year. They all were adversaries then. Independent, trusting only in themselves. The Union air had been suffused with feelings of omniscience and infallibility.
But now they treated one another with a new affection. There were no hierarchies. They were meeting for the first time as fellow human beings. For they were not there to worship. The Class had gathered to commune.
Gradually they could allow themselves to laugh. And talk of football games and college pranks. The good old times when Ike was in the White House and all was right with the world.
The reunion had begun.