“Ah, Dean Lambros,” the old man said tonelessly, “congratulations. I’m very pleased to see you’ve gotten everything you’ve always wanted.”
He then walked to his seat. Because, in truth, that is all they had left to say to each other.
During the ceremony, the gifts of the various classes were announced. Franklin Harvey rose to proclaim that the sum donated by the Twenty-fifth Reunion was a record $8.6 million.
There was an audible gasp.
But Frank raised his hand to postpone any further jubilation until he could add an important comment.
“Needless to say, we feel gratitude to the entire Class. But, if I may, I’d like to single out one individual who’s worked closely with me on this entire campaign for the past five years.
“It’s not just that he’s done yeoman service in raising funds. It’s more than that. His kindness and selflessness demonstrate the best of what a man can offer to the university and to his friends.
“I’d like this individual to stand, so we can show him our appreciation.” He turned and motioned to the honorand, saying, “Mr. Andrew Eliot.”
Andrew was stunned. No one had ever applauded him before. Not even his kids when they were young.
He stood up shyly, lost in the unfamiliarity of public appreciation. Pleased. Surprised. And overcome by this display of real affection.
For, though he had not known it — and perhaps still did not understand — he was, in
ANDREW ELIOT’S DIARY
June 9, 1983
I had to leave early to get Lizzie to the five-o’clock train. I was happy she had been there to see her dad acknowledged — deservedly or not — as someone whom the guys respected.
It had been the best day of my life. That is, until I got back to my apartment.
There were two stern-looking characters in drab suits waiting outside my door. The taller of them asked politely if I was Andrew Eliot.
As I nodded, both reached in their pockets and produced IDs. They were from the Secret Service.
The minute we got inside, they started firing questions in subdued tones.
Did I know George Keller?
Of course.
When had I seen him last?
Day before yesterday at the airport.
How would I describe his mood?
He seemed troubled, a bit depressed.
Any particular reason that I knew of?
There was, of course, his divorce. They knew about that. Then there was the matter of the guy at his lecture attacking him.
My heart was starting to beat fast. I asked them what the hell was going on.
They handed me a letter. It read:
The two agents then sat rue down and explained that I was about to be privy to a government secret.
George had committed suicide last night.
I was stunned. And instantly felt guilty for letting him get on that plane.
They emphasized that his death would be announced as having occurred from natural causes. Not merely.to avoid government scandal, but out of respect for a loyal public servant. Weighed down by the pressures of his job, George had probably succumbed to despair in a moment of weakness.
Funeral arrangements were being made. By a special Executive order George would be buried in Arlington National Cemetery (they emphasized what a rare honor this was for a civilian). Did I know anyone who should be informed?
What could I say? They probably should contact his ex-wife. She might want to attend. I could think of no one else.
They suggested that it might be better if I were the one to tell Cathy and gave me her number in New York.
They left me to my anguish and confusion. I finally gathered the courage to pick up the phone.
Cathy seemed very pleased to hear my voice, Until I got around to the reason I was calling. Without my telling her she guessed that it had been by his hand.
She was silent for a moment. And then apologized for not being able to cry. She said she had always been afraid he might do something like this. And in a very soft voice she thanked me for having tried to be George’s friend.
All I could answer was that I wished I’d been a better friend.
She replied that she wished she could have been a better wife. But it was impossible for George to accept love. From anyone.
I told her about his being buried at Arlington, which made him a sort of American hero. That probably would have meant a great deal to George. She agreed, but said the price was too high.
Then I asked if she wanted to attend the funeral. She said yes, but sounded anxious. I told her that, if she wanted, I’d fly to New York so we could travel to Washington together. She said she really would like that. I was glad she accepted. I would need her company too.
After we hung up I asked myself why the hell George had done it. He had so much to live for.
I guess he just didn’t know how to be happy.
When Commencement Day was over, The Class of ’58 returned to the Union one final time. Although champagne was served, the mood was curiously subdued.
After this reunion, they would probably never meet together as a class again — at least not in such numbers. They would spend the next decades reading obituaries of the men who had started out in 1954 as rivals and today were leaving Harvard as brothers.
This was the beginning of the end. They had met once more and just had time enough to learn that they liked one another.
And to say goodbye.
