Teddy went to a college fund-raiser held in the ballroom of a large downtown hotel, the sort of event where faculty are encouraged to mingle with influential alums and donors. The featured speaker was St. Joseph’s new president, Theresa Whittier, an attractive middle-aged woman of clearly mixed race, whom Teddy had not yet met. The first ever layperson to lead the college, she’d been hired to come to grips with its finances, which for decades had been in a slow but relentless decline. In her brief remarks she told her audience that she’d spent the first two months of the semester getting feedback from faculty, staff and alumni about bold new initiatives the college might undertake without—and here she got a laugh—breaking what was left of the bank. Institutions, she claimed, were like individuals. They got into ruts.
Copy that, Teddy thought. He’d come to the event in the hopes of getting out of a rut of his own. His daily routine of teaching classes and holding office hours, going out for long walks in the late afternoon, opening a bottle of wine in the early evening and finishing it over a solitary dinner, then settling in for the rest of the evening with a novel or an old movie on TV, was comfortable, even pleasurable, if unexciting, the even keel he’d always sought. Lately, though, several friends, noting how often he turned down social invitations, had begun asking if he was depressed. Was it his imagination, or did these inquiries trail an implied criticism? Were these people suggesting that in his shoes they’d certainly be depressed? Or were they genuinely concerned? Was he depressed?
Okay, but in the entire history of the world, name a single person whose spirits were ever lifted by attending a fund-raiser. As he stood in the coat-check line at the end of the evening, trying to think of one, Teddy felt a tap on his shoulder, and when he turned around, there stood Theresa Whittier. “Okay,” she said, “so what’s your big idea?”
He’d had three glasses of wine, so he said, without hesitation, “Seven Storey Books, a small publishing house that specializes in smart books on religious topics.”
“And you are?”
Teddy took out and showed her the lanyard he’d put in his jacket pocket as soon as he was admitted to the ballroom.
“I thought I’d met all the regular faculty, Teddy.”
“I’m irregular faculty,” he explained.
“What? Like seconds in a clothing store?” she asked, an eyebrow arched.
“Sort of. Adjunct faculty.”
“Ah, right. The dirty little secret of the academy. A series of one-year appointments?”
“Depending on need.”
The eyebrow arched again. “You don’t seem bitter.”
“I don’t have to attend department meetings. What’s that worth?”
“Point taken. So, describe these books we’re going to publish.”
“Theology aimed at the layman. Nothing too heavy. The intersection of faith and good works. Memoir.”
“Like Merton.”
He nodded. “Maybe the occasional novel. Even a book of poems, if it’s the right book of poems.”
“And who would know whether it is or isn’t?”
“Me. Actually, I have a book in mind for our first title. It’s called The God Project.”
“Can I read it?”
“I’ll drop it by your office.”
“Work up a budget while you’re at it.”
When her coat came, he held it out for her to slip on. “Been a while since anyone’s done that,” she noted, sliding her arms through the sleeves.
“You’re not offended, I hope?” Because these days nearly everything offended someone.
“No,” she smiled, “but holding the door might be overdoing it.”
“Right. Gotcha, no door.”
The following week she sent for him. “Okay,” she said, handing back The God Project manuscript.
“Okay?”
“Okay, St. Joe’s will fund Seven Storey Books, with you as its general editor.”
“Wow.”
“I spoke with your author,” Theresa went on, grinning now. “He’s regular faculty. I gather you roughed him up a bit with your critique?”
“There was a good book in there. I just helped him find it.”
She seemed to accept this explanation without necessarily buying it. After discussing some practical details and procedures, she told him he could get to work setting up the press. When they shook hands, she regarded him quizzically and said, “You’re an odd man, Teddy.”
He considered telling her that this was a fairly odd thing to say about anyone she’d met so recently. “In what respect?”
“Is it your usual MO, going through life with your badge in your pocket? Not wanting people to know who you are?”
“Pretty much.”
“So I’ve gathered. When I made inquiries, nobody seemed to really know you. I believe the phrase was, ‘He keeps to himself.’ ”