Lincoln's Briefs

by Wayne, Michael

  “Yes. The faculty,” murmured Felicia Butterworth. Her mind was working rapidly now.

  The Dean Responsible for Relations with the Mafia shook his head. “The idea of Yale Templeton being sent off on some secret mission of vital importance. Who would believe a story like that? I mean, who in his right mind?”

  “Yes,” murmured Felicia Butterworth. “Who, indeed?” And at that she pushed the button on the intercom in front of her and called to her secretary. “Dolores, make an appointment for me with H. Avery Duck.”

  L

  H. Avery Duck considered wearing his bicycle helmet for his meeting with Felicia Butterworth. He did have on a variety of protective under-gear that his wife had purchased for him at Just Hockey, in the city’s east end.

  He was entirely in the dark as to why Felicia Butterworth had asked to see him. Her secretary had provided no explanation, and he himself had only partially completed the report he was preparing in support of free speech on campus (with special reference to free speech for the president of the Faculty Union). He had invented a new language, in the Bulgarian Cyrillic alphabet, sufficiently ponderous to convey the magnitude of the principles involved, and since he had no time to translate the 637 pages he had completed into English, he had assumed that there was little point in taking along a draft to show her. Considering what she had done to the report he had brought to their last meeting, during the demonstration in May, it was a prudent decision.

  As he climbed the steps of Graves Hall, memories of that previous meeting crowded in on him. Every frail muscle in his body tightened, causing the oversized hip pads he was wearing to ride up uncomfortably. A further reminder, he reflected ruefully, of the pain, physical as well as psychological, that she had inflicted upon him on that earlier occasion.

  Under the circumstances—given their past history—he found the greeting she now gave him quite disorienting. She took his hand warmly and commented, with what sounded like genuine disappointment, how sorry she was that their paths had not crossed over the summer. She was looking forward, she said, to working with him in the months ahead on the many challenges facing the university. “As always, your advice will be indispensable.”

  It was only then that he noticed the figure standing in the corner of the room. Although he had never actually met the Dean Responsible for Relations with the Mafia, he recognized him immediately by his dark pinstripe suit and brass knuckles. H. Avery Duck knew little of the gossip that circulated endlessly around the campus (which was odd considering that he was head of the Faculty Union). However, even he had heard of the privileged relationship that the Dean Responsible for Relations with the Mafia enjoyed with Felicia Butterworth, how she respected and at times deferred to his judgment. So it only added to his confusion when the dean came over and clapped him exuberantly on the shoulder pads. Then Felicia Butterworth took him by the arm and led him to the soft cushioned chair she normally reserved for the university’s corporate sponsors.

  Perhaps he would like a little snack before they began? she suggested. And as if on cue, the Dean Responsible for Relations with the Mafia went over to a cabinet and grabbed one bag of Rold Gold pretzels and another of Nacho Cheese Doritos. H. Avery Duck shrank inside his pads, remembering the unfortunate role Doritos had played in the climax to his meeting with Felicia Butterworth in May. But when he saw that the dean was smiling broadly, his anxiety began to ease. And after removing his mouth guard, he helped himself to a pretzel.

  “Now to business,” said Felicia Butterworth, pulling her chair directly opposite his. “It’s time that I revealed to you the true reason I suspended Yale Templeton.” And she proceeded to recount the following tale:

  “Late one night in March, three Mounties appeared, unannounced, at my home. They informed me, under pledge of secrecy, that a band of terrorists had managed to slip across the border and establish a base at some unidentified location in the North. Terrorists in the service of a foreign nation with designs on Canada. But about that I can say no more. The Mounties had been given the task of recruiting a man on the faculty to infiltrate and destroy the terrorist cell. He was well known to the RCMP as someone trustworthy, resourceful, quick-witted, and courageous. He was, in addition, the leading authority on American military strategy and covert operations. The man they wanted, in other words, was Yale Templeton.

  “And as it turned out, Yale Templeton was more than ready to volunteer his talents and expertise to his adopted country. But there was a problem. Time was of the essence. It was the middle of the school term. How was I to free him from his classroom obligations without arousing suspicion? I conferred with the Dean Responsible for Relations with the Mafia and we decided the best course was to suspend Templeton. True, it would mean violating provisions in the collective agreement. But no other option seemed available.

  “That only led to another question, however: What reason could I offer for the suspension? The dean is connected with certain individuals who, in return for unspecified favours, would be willing to fabricate evidence that Professor Templeton had committed an offence against the ethical standards of the university.” (“Say, something involving a saddle, a cattle prod, butterscotch pudding, and one of the defensive linemen on the football team,” the dean elaborated.) “But, no. Templeton objected, concerned about the effect a scandal involving supposed lewd behaviour would have on his mother, who was famously puritanical. And in any case, he is known around campus as a man of incorruptible morals. It seemed improbable anyone would credit charges that he had engaged in an act of impropriety, sexual or otherwise.

  “And so the dean proposed an alternative: have Templeton make some comment in class that would raise questions about his sanity. It was an ingenious suggestion.”

  “But give credit where credit is due,” said the dean. “It was Professor Templeton who dreamed up the story about Lincoln and Canada.”

  “Quite so,” replied Felicia Butterworth. “The man has an extraordinarily vivid imagination.”

  She continued with her tale: “Templeton set the plan in motion by telling his Civil War class that, contrary to what they had heard, Lincoln had not been assassinated. Instead he had faked his own death and disappeared into the backwoods of Ontario so that he could live as a transvestite.” (“As you said,” the dean interjected, “the man has an extraordinarily vivid imagination.”) “His ludicrous remarks provided the excuse I needed to suspend him. Free now to get on with his assignment, he vanished into the northern wilderness. During the following weeks he faced countless dangers, and on more than one occasion only narrowly evaded death. In the end, however, his bravery, ingenuity, and sheer determination saw him through. Today the terrorists, or at least those who survived their encounter with him, are locked away. I very much hope that one day, when security concerns no longer dictate his silence, he will overcome his modesty and publish an account of his experiences.” (To which the dean added, “Amen to that.”)

  “I feared that the glamour of undercover work might lure him away to CSIS, but his sole wish, he told me, was to return to the quiet of scholarly reflection. Although I realized that it was not yet safe to let the world know about his heroic efforts, I resolved to show my personal appreciation by naming him the first Abraham Lincoln Distinguished Professor of the American Civil War (to which the dean responded with a hearty applause).

  “Of course, to suspend a professor in the middle of one term, then elevate him to a prestigious chair the next was bound to raise questions. But it is paramount that his clandestine activities remain a secret. Lives could well be at stake.

  “So you see, Avery,” Felicia Butterworth concluded, “for security reasons I have no choice but to keep this information from becoming public. Which is why I have called on you. You are, without a doubt, the most high-minded figure on campus. Your word, far more than mine, carries the weight of moral authority. What I hope you will agree to do—what I am begging you to do—is take on responsibility for representing me before the public, for expl
aining that the suspension of Yale Templeton was not an abridgment of his right to free speech but, in fact, a principled act whose higher purpose will become apparent in the fullness of time.”

  “Do what you do so well,” said the dean. “Produce a lengthy monograph. Outline the underlying ethical issues in endless detail. Build your case methodically, brick by monotonous brick. Invent a new language worthy of the abstruse nature of your reasoning. Invent two or three if that will help.”

  “The point is,” continued Felicia Butterworth, “you will become the public face of the administration. It will be your task to brief the press about the high principles involved. True, the reporters will quickly lose interest, as newspaper people invariably do when confronted by arguments addressed to an adult audience. However, you will be left with the satisfaction of knowing that you have made a contribution of profound importance to the university, and to your country.”

  H. Avery Duck had sat in silence throughout, his eyes wide open. He was dripping in sweat, partly out of anxiety, partly out of excitement, partly because it was summer and he was wrapped in a cocoon of hockey equipment. Now he spoke for the first time. “But I’m the president of the Faculty Union,” he said. It was not meant as a protest. Rather his words expressed his sense of bewilderment.

  “Yes, of course,” Felicia Butterworth responded. “Our thinking was that you would take temporary leave from the union. I would give you a new position: Adviser to the President and CEO.”

  “Adviser to the President and CEO with Special Responsibility for Matters of Principle,” amplified the dean, with Felicia Butterworth giving him a nod of approval.

  H. Avery Duck was a tangle of emotions. Over the course of little more than an hour his feelings had gone from dread to confusion and now to joy. Imagine. Adviser to Felicia Butterworth with special responsibility for matters of principle. He ran over the title in his mind several times. It was obvious to him what he would do, what he must do. As president of the Faculty Union he had come to recognize and appreciate the value of secrecy. Indeed, it was the anarchic behaviour of faculty members at the meeting he had convened in April to discuss the Templeton suspension and of both faculty members and students at the subsequent demonstration in front of Graves Hall that had led to his incarceration in the Don Jail. Free speech, indeed!

  Yes, he said. He would do what she asked. He would temporarily put aside his union responsibilities to aid her in this time of crisis. And then, lifted by feelings of joy, he recommended that they seal their agreement by adopting an old Ojibwa custom. In response to which, the Dean Responsible for Relations with the Mafia (to the enormous relief of Felicia Butterworth) rushed forward enthusiastically and embraced him. And so it was that H. Avery Duck went home in brass knuckles and a Banana Republic pinstripe suit, while the dean left in a rumpled tweed jacket over a set of sweat-soaked hockey pads.

  LI

  The corridors in the White House are dimly lit, with doorways hidden in shadows. That, at least, was the explanation given by the President as to how it was that a person or persons unknown had been able to overpower him. Why, when he was found by the Executive Assistant to the Assistant Undersecretary of Transportation, he was hanging naked from the chandelier in the East Room remains a mystery.

  The Director of the CIA was away from Washington at the time, and the Assistant to the President for National Security Affairs was performing in Peter Pan at the Kennedy Center, so it was left to the Director of the FBI to organize an investigation. There was no need, however, the President assured him.

  “I know what she was after,” he confided.

  “She?” said the Director of the FBI.

  “Did I say ‘she’? replied the President. “I meant some person or persons unknown. I know what she, he, or they were after.”

  “Mr. President?”

  “The secret White House files on Canada.”

  “The secret files on Canada? Why would anyone want the secret files on Canada?”

  “A very good question. I suspect it has to do with that professor in Toronto, the one who broke the Lincoln story.”

  “You mean Yale Templeton?”

  “Yes. Yale Templeton. Somehow he’s behind it all. Good thing I sent Raymond up there to deal with him.”

  “But I’m Raymond.”

  “You’re Raymond?”

  “Yes, Mr. President.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Pretty sure.”

  “Then who did I send to Toronto?”

  “Clyde.”

  “Clyde! But he’s a homicidal maniac!”

  “Yes, Mr. President.”

  “Oh, well that’s all right, then.”

  LII

  The meeting Felicia Butterworth had with Yale Templeton was very different from her meeting with H. Avery Duck, being brief and to the point. Nor was the Dean Responsible for Relations with the Mafia present. She informed him—she informed Yale Templeton—that his suspension had now been lifted and he would be allowed to return to teaching in September. And she added, without offering congratulations (or even a Dorito), that she had decided to appoint him the first Abraham Lincoln Distinguished Professor of the American Civil War. In return he was to turn over the evidence he had uncovered indicating that Lincoln had faked his assassination and moved to Canada.

  As so often in his life, Yale Templeton found himself at a loss. Titles had never meant much to him. That might seem odd, given that his mother had been obsessed with her imagined aristocratic lineage. But perhaps that was the explanation. Over the years she had traced her ancestry back to so many ancient titled houses—the de Mandevilles, the de Veres, the Lancasters, the Percys, to name just four—that it had all washed over him. Especially after his first day at the Robinson-Fallis Academy for Boys, when he announced proudly that he was descended, on his mother’s side, from Thomas Radcliffe, third earl of Sussex, who had put down a rebellion during the reign of Elizabeth I, only to be soundly thrashed by six other students who promptly made the same claim. No, he had learned early on to discount the value of titles.

  And as for the evidence Felicia Butterworth had demanded—well, here again he was baffled. He was sure he had told her about the legal briefs back in the spring. But suppressing a sigh, he started in once more, taking pains to spare no details. He began by reconstructing his trips north in pursuit of the Great White Moose. He then proceeded to describe his encounter with Slinger the Trapper, to recite what Slinger had told him about Lincoln Abrahams, to explain that Lincoln Abrahams was really Abraham Lincoln, to further explain how and why Abraham Lincoln had come to Canada, and to explain further still how he (Abraham Lincoln) had cryptically recorded the Canadian chapter of his life in the briefs he had written while serving as a lawyer in Northern Ontario. Yale Templeton also noted that he had made arrangements to go into the woods himself with Slinger to recover the briefs, but that, “for personal reasons,” he had changed his mind and returned to Toronto.

  “And so you see, I don’t actually have the evidence,” he concluded. “It’s in a cave, somewhere in the Chapleau Crown Game Preserve.”

  Felicia Butterworth appeared to look right through him.

  “Just make sure you have the document or documents on my desk by the end of the week,” she ordered through clenched teeth, her face split by a tight smile. “Oh, and under no circumstances make any statements about any of this to the press.” Then before he could say another word, she grabbed him by the collar of his jacket, yanked him out of his chair, hustled him across the floor of her office, and shoved him into the hall.

  As the door slammed behind him, Yale Templeton took a deep breath and struggled to compose himself. It was all so mystifying. He had never really understood why Felicia Butterworth had suspended him in the first place, and he had no clue what had prompted her to reinstate him now. As for his appointment to a named chair … well, how to make sense of that?

  When he arrived back at his apartment, Bobbi Jo Jackson was exactly where
he had left her two hours earlier, sitting in the middle of the living room floor going methodically through the boxes of papers she had only days before brought back from Washington. “What did President Butterworth want?” she asked without looking up.

  “Apparently I am no longer under suspension. I can go back to teaching when the new term starts.”

  “Well, that’s good news, eh?” (She was pleased with the progress she was making on her Canadian accent.)

  “I suppose so,” he replied. Actually he had been looking forward to having the fall to work on the footnotes for his article on snake bites, with perhaps a few weeks in the northern woods to search for the Great White Moose. “And I am to have a new title. Abraham Lincoln Distinguished Professor of the American Civil War.”

  “Distinguished Professor! Awesome!” she exclaimed, and looked up at him admiringly.

  “I suppose so,” he repeated. The truth was, he had been remembering the beating he received his first day at Robinson-Fallis and was worried about what his colleagues would do when they learned Felicia Butterworth had decided to honour him with a chair.

  “There is a problem,” he went on. “She said I have to turn over the evidence I found about Lincoln. About his faking his own death and moving to Canada.”

  “But it’s in those legal briefs, isn’t it? The ones up north someplace?”

  He nodded. “I explained that. But to tell you the truth, I don’t think she was listening.”

  “Well, that’s weird, eh.”

  “Weird, indeed.”

  “So what are you going to do?”

  “I have no idea,” he said, shaking his head. “None whatsoever.”

  She started to think. Reasoning was so much easier for her now than when they had first met. Funny that falling in love with someone of a most pedantic mind had proved the key to unlocking her own intellectual faculties.