Rexford’s manager, Bernie Bittermann, had gotten in the habit of calling Theo from New York for updates on his client. By now a devoted believer in Miss Potts, Bittermann had defended her skepticism in their talk only last evening. The C.P.A. was himself suspicious of “the born-again phase,” particularly after hearing that Reverend Fletcher was an unmarried female; but if Rhodora wanted to hope religion might help, let her. In Bittermann’s own opinion, surely any deities still in the business had given up on Rexford’s promises to reform long before now. The financial manager certainly had. His hopes, he confided to Theo, were more modest: that Rexford wouldn’t lose interest in Rhodora Potts before he finished his long overdue play, which would happen before his producers sued him for their advance on it. “I don’t know,” he sighed over the phone from his Brooklyn brownstone, “what that young woman is holding over Ford, but if my wife plans to remodel our upstairs bath, she better pray Miss Potts doesn’t let go of it.”
What Rhodora held over Ford Rexford was, Theo told him, that primordial source, according to songs, of the circumrotation of the earth. That love makes the world go round, Theo had always been fully willing to believe. And now he could see planets turning all about him at the Spitz—among them, Steve Weiner and Jorvelle Wakefield, Bill Robey and Joel Elliott. And he too, glowing bright, was ready to cross stars with Maude Fletcher if only the universe would whirl her into his orbit.
Thinking in this vein about love, Theo paused in midcampus on his way to his appointment with Dean Tupper, and rubbed for luck the foot of the statue of the prudish Amos Latchett.
“Hi, Dr. Ryan!” a female voice called enthusiastically. Theo waved at a young woman sprinting toward him across the green. It was Cathy Bannister, the honors senior in his “Classics of the Stage” class; behind her walked Jenny Harte; they appeared to be friends despite their chasm of academic rank. Both wore black T-shirts dotted with red “8%!” buttons. Reaching him, Cathy thrust a flyer in his pocket and slid a red rosebud into the lapel of his jacket. Jenny pointed at his upper lip where his mustache had been, then gave him an okay sign. They were both quite beautiful, he noticed, luscious as the rosebuds they carried; they both seemed so happy to see him, too; no doubt about it.
Cathy said, “I’ve got my Streetcar costume all set, Dr. Ryan. The whole class just loves it, you know, doing real scenes in class instead of, you know, just that boring read-and-take-notes stuff.”
“I told you they would,” Jenny said.
“Except Joe.” Cathy frowned. “Joe thinks acting’s weird. He hates me to do anything weird. He’s just a big ole horrible macho pig.”
“Joe Botzchick’s her fiancé, “Jenny explained. “And he’s an ox, really, not a pig.”
“Aw, he’s a sweetie,” Cathy protested happily.
Theo glanced at his flyer. boycott bleecker! ran the headline. The reasons why were listed below, as were plans for an upcoming rally in front of Coolidge Building. “Is this the Herbert Crawford in the history department who’s behind this?” he asked.
“Herbie!” Cathy did a mock swoon. “If I didn’t love Joe, I could go for Herbie in a major way! Herbie’s great. Right, Jenny?” Giggling, she knocked herself playfully into her friend’s side.
Theo spoke firmly. “Cathy, Dr. Crawford is married.”
“Oh, he’s separated from her.” She shrugged. “I mean legally.”
How did undergraduates know these things? “Well, still…” He checked his watch. “Look, I’ve got to run,” he told them.
“Bye, Dr. Ryan!” Cathy caroled, twisted him around, and patted her hands across his back.
Jenny Harte turned once to wave at him and to call, “Good-bye, Sky!”
Off they breezed like the wind, blonde hair sprayed out behind them. Beautiful.
Chapter 10
Aloft
They have tied me to a stake, I cannot fly, But bearlike I must fight the course.
—Macbeth
Atop the Coolidge Building, Dean Buddy Tupper Jr. stood at his post by the huge window watching his enemies below.
Down on the campus, Professor Herbert Crawford and Reverend Maude Fletcher stood where they’d been stationed for weeks, right in front of the doors of Bleecker Dining Hall. Above the doors still flew the big red banner that read boycott bleecker. The black-dressed, red-buttoned crowd of radicals with them had swelled in number. Tupper watched his secretary, whom he’d sent to reconnoiter, milling about on the steps, taking down the names of faculty picketers. Suddenly, Herbert Crawford spotted her and shouted in the poor woman’s face:
Don’t eat Tupper’s supper! Don’t eat Tupper’s supper! Boycott Bleecker! Boycott Bleecker!
Watching his secretary flee back down the steps and scurry off, the provost slammed the plate glass with his fist, then returned to his desk and other problems. The Physics Department needed an extra $670,000 for “lab equipment.” What were they building over there, hydrogen bombs? Plus, he’d just gotten rid of a nutcase from the Classics Department who claimed he’d been denied tenure because he was a vegetarian. Plus, Dean Claudia Pratt had been in here about more tuition rebates for graduate students, and had taken the opportunity to predict, “the Bleecker thing isn’t going away.”
And now he had an upcoming appointment with Theo Ryan, who was probably going to whine about why he’d been passed over for the position Scottie Smith was trying to dick them around about. It was always something.
As the provost rose to shake hands with the big ruddy young man, he found himself favorably surprised by Theo Ryan’s appearance. He hadn’t remembered him as quite so well-groomed a figure. Maybe he should add him to the list of faculty eligible for display purposes at dinner parties to which potential donors were lured.
It was always Tupper’s habit to squeeze as much information out of supplicants as he could before they started squeezing him for whatever it was they wanted. (And he didn’t fool himself: no one ever came to see him without wanting something—including his wife.) So he forestalled Ryan by growling immediately, “John Hood’s just backed out of running your London Year Abroad program in the fall. Says his mother’s got cancer.” (Tupper looked skeptical, either about the fact, or its relevancy.) “Can you think of anybody else might be good?”
Theo pulled in his long legs, his knees nearly chest high; the visitor’s chair was elegant but rather small—a strategy of Tupper’s to diminish whoever sat there. “Well, sir, Dean Tupper, yes. I’d recommend Jonas Marsh. I’ve talked to him about the London program often—he’s applied a number of times—and he has very sensible ideas.”
Amazing: if this young man had gotten anything resembling sense out of Jonas Marsh at all, perhaps he was administrative material. Tupper tapped the ring against the bronze football on his mammoth desk. “Marcus Thorney suggests this guy Rice.”
Theo said nothing.
“Fact, Norm and I were set to give the program to Thorney himself. But now he’s up for chairman. Whadda you think?”
“I’m a supporter of Steve Weiner’s.”
“Hmmm.”
“He’d make a great chairman.”
“You don’t think Thorney would?”
Theo stopped himself from resting his chin on his knees. “Dr. Thorney and I are not particularly congenial.”
“Um hum.” That was for sure; Tupper had read the scathing letter Marcus Thorney had written opposing Ryan’s tenure promotion. He raked his hand down his flattop. “What’s he got against you?”
Getting ready to say, “I don’t know,” Theo changed his mind. “You’ll have to ask him that; my theories are necessarily prejudicial. But I do think Dr. Thorney’d be an excellent choice…for London.”
The young fellow was politic and witty too, mused the provost. Maybe this time there was something to all of Norman’s gushing. Tupper found himself feeling warmly about this good-looking kid; he was big, even
taller than the Bone-Cruncher himself, and it was comfortable being with other big people instead of your run-of-the-mill wimpy academic runts. He rubbed the football and grumbled, “Jonas Marsh, hunh? Kind of a nutcase, isn’t he? Between you and me?”
“Jonas cares passionately about things. He’s intemperate, but I don’t think he’s crazy.”
Stood up for his friends too, even the ones that were bonkers. Tupper rapped his class ring on the desk edge. “You played college ball, Ryan; Yale man, right? You were big enough, that’s for damn sure.”
“Yes, sir. But I was out the last two years with a knee injury.” Frankly, the end of his football career had not exactly broken Theo’s heart, but he certainly wasn’t about to say so. “Had to be operated on.” That was true; in the fall of his junior year, he’d been knocked down by stampeding fans at a Mets game his father had taken him to.
“Too bad,” Tupper mumbled, and slapped the football. “Okay. I figure you’re coming in here to bitch about wanting to run the Spitz Center. Norman Bridges pushed hard for you on that.”
Theo nodded. “I’m very grateful for Norman’s support, but as I’ve told him, I’m not qualified to turn the Spitz into what it could be.”
Modest, too. “So what do you think of this Scottie Smith guy?”
Theo said, “I think he’s famous.”
Dean Tupper scratched an eyebrow with the ring, then he looked at Theo, then he grinned. “Yeah, he’s famous.”
“Dean Tupper. That’s why I’m here.” Theo opened his briefcase, took out a sheaf of papers. “I oppose Smith’s appointment strongly. Oh, he’s slick maybe, but at base he’s only an opportunist.”
“Opportunist?” (Ryan didn’t even know the half of it, unless he’d listened in on Smith’s phone call demanding two hundred and fifty thousand dollars a year!) “But you guys in English are the ones bitching about reputation, reputation. And they say Smith’s a name.” Tupper picked up a national magazine with Scottie Smith’s face on the cover; the youthful American director, his head shaved, and wearing satin knee pants and a gold brocaded vest, was seated cross-legged on an outmoded electric chair in Attica prison.
Theo shook the magazine indignantly. “Well, look at this! That’s my point. He’s just a fad. Fads fade. I know the theater, Dean Tupper, and I know that’s true.”
Tupper frowned suspiciously. “But Norm said you’d be all for this. He says the rest of the English Department is happy as dogs in a butcher shop.”
Theo handed the provost the first page of his papers. “I’ve put together some background on Scottie Smith.”
“Listen, I already know he’s a fag. We can’t hold sexual preference against him.” Tupper twisted his face into a smile. “Hell, half my goddamn faculty’s queer already, from what I hear.”
“Sexual preference isn’t what I’m talking about.” Theo pointed at the paper.
As he read, Tupper’s slab of a face turned the color of raw steak. “Crap Above! Is this all true? Three times in the Betty Ford Center and still hooked on alcohol and cocaine? What kind of willpower is that?”
Theo nodded, handing the provost the second sheet of paper. “This information comes from professional theater people who have worked with and know Smith.”
“Boy prostitutes? Arrested in a private S&M club for doing what! Well, now, wait a minute, this bit here, not being really British, that’s not a negative. We’ve got too damn many foreigners on this campus as it is.”
Theo placed the third piece of paper on Tupper’s desk.
Tendons twitching, the provost spluttered, “Went into this theater’s endowment? Spent their endowment! His last producer filed Chapter Eleven! In God’s blue heaven what is the matter with Norman? Telling me to hire the filthiest pervert that ever lived!”
“Norman, of course, didn’t know. It’s just that I have a lot of contacts in the business. Smith has been very discreet, really.”
“Discreet! He’s been in jail!”
“Only the once.”
“Why didn’t you tell Norman!”
“Norman was so eager, and the department is in such a fractious—”
“That’s for damn sure!”
“I came to you first, Dean Tupper. If you’ve committed to Scottie Smith already, then—”
Tupper beat at the grinning face on the magazine cover. “Committed! Forget committed! Why, I wouldn’t let that creep drink stale water from my dead dog’s bowl. Listen, Ryan, I’m glad somebody’s playing defense here!”
It was now time for Theo to set before the provost his alternate proposal, neatly typed on triple-spaced pages, and signed by eight friends of his in the English Department. It suggested that a committee be formed to study the need to establish, independent of English, an undergraduate program in theater studies at Cavendish, based in the Spitz Center. It suggested that in the meantime, (1) Thayer Iddesleigh be retained as the programs coordinator of the Center, (2) in the following year, an N.Y.U. adjunct professor named Barbara Sanchez, who’d directed two dozen off-Broadway shows, be hired as artistic director of the Spitz Theater, (3) her salary be paid by the Spitz Endowment, leaving free the third Ludd Chair, (4) the third Ludd Chair be bestowed on Norman Bridges who, after his long services to Ludd Hall, certainly deserved the recognition and the raise.
The provost looked up and stared at Theo, who stared back. “Well, well,” Tupper growled “Well, well. Interesting ideas.”
“Thank you,” said Theo. “Let me also say that if you bring in this Barbara Sanchez, who comes very highly recommended, I can guarantee you a deal that will put the Spitz on the map from its opening night.”
Tupper pulled contemplatively on his ear. “Shoot.”
“A world premiere by the biggest name in the American theater.”
“Which is?”
“Joshua ‘Ford’ Rexford.”
Tupper was not a man who followed the arts, but even those who’ve never followed baseball recognize the name of Babe Ruth. He leaned back in his leather chair. “Can we afford Rexford?”
Theo smiled. “He’s not interested in money.”
“That’d be a change.” The provost picked up the bronze football and slapped it from hand to hand. “Why would he do it?”
“Ford?” Theo didn’t miss the twitch of the provost’s eye at this easy use of the first name. “He told me he would. Barbara Sanchez was his suggestion.”
Tupper looked at the magazine cover of Scottie Smith. “It’s a thought. Let me think about it.” He stood and rapped his ring twice on the desk top.
“Thank you very much, Dean Tupper.” Theo stood.
At this moment, Lady Luck, to whom Theo had sung in his audition, rescued him from a sudden spin down to the bottom of fortune’s wheel. Just as he was about to exit and so expose his back to Tupper, Luck sent President Kaney in, unannounced, through the door. “As you were,” Kaney ordered them pleasantly.
Theo had never personally met the Old Man, though he recognized him and, of course, had heard the rumors. He started to hold out his hand, but the general paraded straight over to the desk and so blocked from Tupper’s view the sight of young Dr. Ryan suddenly catching a horrified glimpse of the back of his jacket reflected in the mirror above a table crowded with gleaming football trophies. He was horrified because taped across the shoulders of his new linen sports coat was a wide sticker that read, don’t eat tupper’s supper. So much for Cathy Bannister’s simply patting his back out of high-spirited affection!
Could he now back all the way out of the opulent room without knocking into a lamp? Perhaps he could, since President Kaney had Tupper’s full attention; for some reason, he was sternly telling the provost, to whom he was not related, “Your mother was a virgin when we married, and I expect the same behavior from you, young man.”
Backstepping, Theo reached frantically behind him to rip off the sticker. H
e had half of it balled in his fist when Kaney abruptly snatched the bronze football out of Tupper’s hand and hurled it at the plate-glass window, which being very thick, didn’t shatter.
“Manly sports are very well in their place,” Kaney announced in his southern slur, “but this is not the place, and this is not the time.” Then he wheeled on Theo, who by now was pulling off the last bit of tape, and shook a thin finger at him. “Stop scratching.” He wheeled on the provost. “This soldier here is thoroughly infested with lice. Or worse.” He marched over, inches from Theo’s face. “Pull yourself together, son. Remember the Spartan boy who let a fox chew up his little stomach and never broke rank.”
Theo stuffed the sticky wad in his pocket. “Yes, sir, General Kaney, sir,” he replied. And then he saluted.
Quick on his feet too, thought Tupper. And it was truer than he knew.
Out in the reception room, Theo astonished the provost’s secretary who’d just returned from spying on the protesters. She was Theo’s churlish next-door neighbor, the one who’d called the police on him twice, once when Ford Rexford had blown out his speakers playing Ethel Merman hits and once when his drama students had built him in the front yard a surprise snowman meant to represent the God of Classical Comedy—a fat Greek fellow wearing a chaplet of grapes, bright socks strapped with leather, and a gargantuan erection.
Theo astonished her by leaning over her desk and handing her, with his Sky Masterson smile, the red rose.
Chapter 11
Enter a Messenger with a Letter
The players cannot keep counsel. They’ll tell all.
—Hamlet
Theo saw, massed on the desk in the anteroom to the chairman’s office at Ludd Hall, an enormous heaped pile of envelopes, manuscripts, and folders veiled in smoke, as if stacked there for a bonfire and already smoldering. Behind this hump, the top of a red bobbed head suddenly moved. “Hi ya,” mumbled Mrs. Fruchaff, cigarette dangling from the corner of her lip. Her thick-lensed glasses enlarged her eyes like those of a fish staring out of an aquarium.
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