Lincoln's Briefs

by Wayne, Michael

  And so he went off to see the registrar. Joel recounted the unfortunate turn his academic career had taken: how he had signed up for a course on the American Civil War believing that it would be taught by “a well-known authority” on the subject. “A great passion of mine, the Civil War,” he assured the registrar. But then, for reasons he had never entirely understood, Professor Templeton had been replaced by a mere graduate student—“a graduate student without any appreciation of the great drama and significance of the war, or of its deep complexity.” It was perfectly understandable, Joel said, that he had performed poorly on the examination. He had prepared for an essay question that would challenge him intellectually, present him with the opportunity to discuss some issue of momentous historical significance. Instead he faced the mundane task of answering multiple choice questions that merely tested his ability “to dredge up trivia.”

  The registrar, a large, affable bear of a man, sighed. He had been listening to students explain away their failings for over twenty-five years. The excuse Joel offered ranked rather low on the scale of originality, he thought. But it was his responsibility to give helpful advice to undergraduates, and so he informed Joel about the petition process. If Joel had indeed received a grade that he believed was unfair, he could submit a petition to the Dean Responsible for All Matters Unrelated to Generating Revenue. In the event his petition was successful, he would have the option of writing a make-up examination or dropping History 393 without penalty (meaning, the registrar said, he could sign up for a new course in the coming term). However, the dean would approve a petition, the registrar also told him, only if he found the arguments and supporting evidence compelling. The fact that Professor Templeton had been suspended would not, in and of itself, be sufficient. And he picked up the copy of the Student Handbook on his desk and directed Joel’s attention to the following provision: “In the event that an instructor finds it necessary, for whatever reason, to retire from a course before its scheduled completion, the chair of the department concerned will be responsible for securing the services of a qualified replacement.”

  “But Todd or Tom was not really a qualified replacement,” Joel protested, though rather weakly.

  “Apparently he was in the eyes of the chairman of the History department. In any case, the appropriate time to raise an objection would have been when the new instructor took over the course, not after you received your final grade.” And here the registrar pointed to a paragraph in the handbook that made that very point.

  “But I never looked at the handbook,” Joel protested again.

  The registrar rolled his eyes. He never failed to be amazed at how much value students placed in ignorance.

  But Joel had few options. So he sent off a petition to the dean. He had gathered from his conversation with the registrar that there would be little point in alluding to the conspicuous shortcomings of Todd or Tom. Instead he settled for this simple statement: “The final grade that I received does not reflect my true abilities.” Which, as it happens, was not only inaccurate but repeated the explanation most frequently offered by undergraduates wishing to have failing grades removed from their transcripts. “Funny,” the dean once commented to the registrar, “how no student ever seems to question whether an A reflects his true abilities.”

  When Joel received the letter from the dean indicating that his petition had been rejected, he went to see the registrar again to find out whether he had any further recourse. The registrar was out of his office, however, since every Wednesday afternoon during the summer he relived his misspent youth by playing hockey with some faculty and graduate students from the History department. (One Wednesday Yale Templeton had appeared at the rink in response to bullying by the wife of the department chairman at the end-of-term reception. However, all he knew about hockey had come from physical education classes at the Robinson-Fallis Academy for Boys, and so he showed up in shorts and running shoes. He watched with fascination as his colleagues careened recklessly around the ice, periodically spinning out of control and colliding with each other, or falling head first into the boards or goalposts. He never returned.)

  It was because the registrar was off at his weekly hockey game that Maureen was given the task of dealing with Joel. She had taken on the position of assistant to the registrar’s administrative assistant only three days earlier, having just completed her bachelor of arts in English literature. She was a sensitive person. “Hypersensitive” as the professor in her Tudor Poetry and Prose course had warned the teaching assistant assigned to grade her essay examining images of love in The Faerie Queene. And when she learned from Joel about the unforeseen set of circumstances that had led to his failing grade in History 393, her heart went out to him. “Oh, but you must submit a petition!” she exclaimed.

  He had already done that, he replied. And then he showed her the response he had received from the dean.

  “That is so unfair!” she said. And then she proceeded to tell him about the Committee on Standing. Which is when he fell in love with her.

  The Committee on Standing was responsible for hearing appeals from students whose petitions had been turned down by the dean. It was made up of a representative from the dean’s office, the registrar, and five members of the faculty. “You know,” Maureen told Joel, “sometimes the dean does make a mistake. You just have to find the right words in putting together your case.”

  “But I explained that the grade did not reflect my true abilities,” Joel told her.

  Maureen nodded sympathetically. It was a perfectly legitimate excuse, she believed. Indeed, it was the very same excuse she had unsuccessfully used only weeks earlier in an attempt to get the teaching assistant in her Tudor Poetry and Prose course to raise the grade on her paper about images of love in The Faerie Queene.

  “I think you should appeal to the Committee on Standing,” she said. “But write more than one sentence this time. Spell out in detail exactly why the grade you received does not reflect your true abilities. Maybe you can talk about other courses you have taken.”

  “Well, I got a B-in Introduction to Semiotics,” Joel pointed out. He did not mention that the class average was A. Vince Gionfriddo had received a B+. Nor did he mention that his transcript included mostly Ds and Fs, and that he had spent the better part of his life at the university on academic probation.

  Maureen mused, “It really is ridiculous, you know. I mean, grades should reflect ability. In my Tudor Poetry and Prose course the TA gave me a C+ on a paper that was worth at least a B, so I went to the professor to complain. You know what he said? ‘Were you sick when you wrote the paper? Did you have any family problems?’ Like the low grade was my fault.”

  When the Committee on Standing held its meeting there were three items on the agenda, all written appeals by students whose petitions to have failing grades removed from their transcripts had been denied by the dean. Two of the students invoked the familiar “the grade does not reflect my true abilities” excuse. Their requests were rejected with barely any discussion. Joel, on the other hand, drew attention to mitigating circumstances that had “prevented him from performing at the level necessary for success in the course,” circumstances that, “out of a sense of propriety,” he had chosen not to mention in his petition to the dean. Said circumstances were as follows: Shortly before he took the final examination he had contracted lupus. The beloved family pet, a dachshund, had contracted lupus as well. When his mother was driving the dog to the veterinarian, her car had been sideswiped by an ambulance carrying his grandmother, who had just suffered a stroke. Both his mother, who was pregnant, and his grandmother, who was also pregnant, had been killed in the accident. Unhinged, his father had joined the French Foreign Legion and disappeared into the heart of darkest Africa. Meanwhile the beloved dachshund, who was also pregnant, had survived the accident, but run off, never to be seen again. “Oh, and I should mention one other thing. The grade I received does not reflect my true abilities.”

  Since the
meeting of the Committee on Standing fell on a Wednesday afternoon, the registrar was unable to attend. Maureen was there, however, having volunteered to serve as his representative. She was very surprised to hear about Joel’s serious illness, the tragic deaths of his mother and grandmother, and the disappearance of his father and beloved dachshund, none of which he had mentioned during their interview. But when the mathematician on the committee suggested that his letter strained credulity, Maureen spoke at great length and with great feeling about what a diligent and serious student she had found Joel to be and how impressed she had been with his truthfulness. And so, with only the mathematician dissenting, the committee voted to overturn the ruling of the dean and erase the failing grade for History 393 from Joel’s record.

  Joel was, of course, delighted when he received the news. His parents would be delighted as well, he managed to convince himself. And if not, at least they would probably be willing to provide him with financial support for another term so he could finally complete the one course he needed to graduate. But which course? There were so many offered at the university, covering such a wide range of subjects, and Joel was equally disinterested in each and every one of them. “It really is too bad,” he reflected, “that I’ve already had the introduction to semiotics, whatever semiotics is.”

  But then one afternoon, while he was sitting on the steps of Graves Hall looking absently out across Regency Circle, Heather came running up to him. He had not seen her since the day of the protest and did not recognize her with her clothes on. “Isn’t it wonderful!” she exclaimed. “We won!”

  “We who? Won what?” Joel wondered.

  “President Butterworth has lifted the suspension on Yale Templeton. He’ll be able to return to teaching next term.”

  And suddenly Joel knew exactly what course he was going to take. And as he went off to register for History 393, his heart filled with love once more. For Heather. And for Professor Templeton as well.

  XLIX

  Heather was right, of course, about Yale Templeton being allowed to return to teaching in the fall. But she was wrong about the reason. When Felicia Butterworth decided to lift his suspension, it was not because of the protest in May or threats by campus activists to begin a new round of demonstrations once classes resumed. As you have already learned, she was responding to orders from the White House (through a self-described Mob boss in Chicago) to get whatever evidence Yale Templeton had found that proved Abraham Lincoln faked his own assassination and moved to Canada so he could fulfill his dream of living as a transvestite.

  But no one outside of the Dean Responsible for Relations with the Mafia and Felicia Butterworth herself knew the true story. And once rumours began to circulate that she had decided to lift the suspension, observers inevitably reached the conclusion that she had caved in to pressure. Recall what Heather said to Joel: “We won!”

  Now, to understate the obvious, Felicia Butterworth was a proud woman. The thought that anyone might suppose she was the slightest bit influenced by the opinions of faculty members or students was infuriating to her. It was essential from her perspective that the formal announcement lifting the Templeton suspension be accompanied by a face-saving public relations campaign. And for that reason she called the Dean Responsible for Relations with the Mafia and the Vice-President for Manipulating the Media to a meeting in her office.

  The Vice-President for Manipulating the Media was an efficient, middle-aged woman who had joined the university administration after serving for a decade in the Central Communications Office of the Ontario government. She had all the qualities that Felicia Butterworth looked for in a female executive: She was unmarried, childless, easily intimidated, and entirely lacking in principles. She appeared at the meeting in practical pumps and glasses and wore a trim grey Armani Exchange suit. Although she had not been told, nor did she consider it her place to ask, why Felicia Butterworth had decided to lift the suspension, she understood what was expected of her. “There’s no denying it,” she said. “The optics here could be more than a little unfavourable. It’s important that people believe you were acting from a position of strength.”

  “Which I always do,” bristled Felicia Butterworth.

  “Exactly,” continued the Dean Responsible for Relations with the Mafia, addressing the Vice-President for Manipulating the Media. “We simply want to make sure that our corporate sponsors understand that.”

  “Well then here’s a thought,” suggested the Vice-President for Manipulating the Media. “In politics it’s pretty standard practice to disguise partisan proposals by claiming that they have the most benevolent of intentions.”

  “Like when the government says cutting taxes for the rich benefits the poor,” quipped the Dean Responsible for Relations with the Mafia.

  “Exactly the example I was going to use,” lied the Vice-President for Manipulating the Media. “In this case we would concoct some reason why suspending Professor Templeton was in his own best interests. Say, to make him see how crazy it was to go around telling people that Lincoln was a transvestite. We release a statement to the press that basically says ‘He’s mended his ways; he can return to teaching.’”

  “Except that it would be preferable not to revisit the Lincoln issue at this point,” replied Felicia Butterworth irritably.

  The Vice-President for Manipulating the Media shifted uncomfortably in her chair. “Well, of course we could always come up with some other explanation for the suspension. The bottom line is, you say it served its purpose.”

  Felicia Butterworth put her fingers to her mouth in thought. “I don’t think so,” she said at last. “As soon as we acknowledge that the suspension was for disciplinary reasons, it becomes impossible to explain why I have decided to name Templeton the first Abraham Lincoln Distinguished Professor of the American Civil War.”

  “What!” exclaimed the Vice-President for Manipulating the Media. “You’re appointing him to a chair!”

  “Yes,” replied Felicia Butterworth curtly. “Why? Do you have some objection?”

  “No, no. Of course not,” replied the Vice-President for Manipulating the Media, dropping her eyes. To borrow time she helped herself to a Tostitos tortilla chip from a bowl on the table. “Of course not,” she repeated, though this time under her breath. And then she said out loud, “I suppose we could, uh, argue that the suspension was technically not really a suspension?”

  “‘Not really a suspension?’” said Felicia Butterworth.

  “Ah, the Clinton defence,” broke in the Dean Responsible for Relations with the Mafia. He was smiling when he said it.

  “Oh. The Clinton defence,” repeated Felicia Butterworth, who, to the relief of the Vice-President for Manipulating the Media, was smiling as well. “No. That won’t do here. The suspension was consummated.”

  The Vice-President for Manipulating the Media dutifully forced up a laugh, and then helped herself to another Tostitos chip.

  “Any other thought?” asked Felicia Butterworth. “Perhaps something a little more helpful this time.” Her smile had disappeared.

  “Well,” coughed the Vice-President for Manipulating the Media. She was starting to regret her decision to take the Tostitos. “In the government we always assumed that as a last resort we could fall back on the respect Canadians traditionally show to authority.”

  “The wilful national commitment to naiveté, you mean,” countered Felicia Butterworth. “Go on.”

  “Well perhaps you could say …” (and here the Vice-President for Manipulating the Media looked around for water but found none) “… you could say it was all a subterfuge. You could say …” (and here she momentarily had to catch her breath to keep from choking) “… you could say Templeton was off on a secret mi—” (and now she was choking).

  “A secret what?” demanded Felicia Butterworth.

  “Mission?” guessed the Dean Responsible for Relations with the Mafia.

  The Vice-President for Manipulating the Media, who was sinkin
g to her knees and clutching her throat, pointed at the dean and nodded.

  “What sort of mission?” asked the Dean Responsible for Relations with the Mafia.

  “That’s the beauty … of it,” gasped the Vice-President for Manipulating the Media, on her knees on the floor. “It’s secret, confidential … too sensitive … for anyone except … President … Butterworth … to … know.”

  The Dean Responsible for Relations with the Mafia turned back to Felicia Butterworth. “I can see where that might work in government. But at a university?”

  Felicia Butterworth was intrigued, however. “Certainly it would make it easier to explain why Templeton was being honoured with a chair. You know, services to the university. That sort of garbage. Still,” she spoke out loud to herself, “it could be a tough sell, the idea that the suspension was a charade all along. That I sent Templeton off where? Someplace up north, I suppose. On some special assignment?”

  “Some … special … assign … ment … of … the … ut … most … sensitiv—” choked out the Vice-President for Manipulating the Media before losing consciousness.

  “The utmost sensitivity,” mused Felicia Butterworth. The phrase appealed to her. “A secret assignment of the utmost sensitivity and vitally important for the future of the university … No, for the future of the country.”

  The Dean Responsible for Relations with the Mafia was skeptical. “I don’t know. Will anyone buy it? At the very least we’ll have to get some of the faculty on side.”