Excerpt from Chapter 5
The detached garage at the end of his driveway was taking on the fanciful dimensions of a gingerbread house as it sunk into a horizon of snow. He bustled out the side door in his navy blue Michelin man coat and stooped to pitch open the garage door. By the time it smacked the end of its tracks, he was already inside his wood shop snatching things from his workbench, smuggling them into oversized pockets. He paused at a shelf lined with sample-sized cans of wood stain, grabbed one, put it back, grabbed another one, and tottered over the cobblestone driveway to his ‘80s-era Saab, a lackluster silver. After folding in and clapping the door shut, he reached for the keys which never left the ignition. A thin layer of ice obscured the rear window as he backed out into a cloud of exhaust. It was as though he didn’t want to see what was behind him.
At precisely 8 AM Isaac clenched the handle of his briefcase, took a deep breath, and entered the conference room. The Committee on Faculty greeted him as he took a seat at the head of the table, opposite Barbara. He tried not to scowl or smile, but a neutral expression proved to be the hardest to fake.
While everyone murmured and wrestled off coats, Isaac ducked under the table to stow his briefcase. He popped back up with the can of wood stain and displayed it on the conference table as if he were about to perform a magic trick. From his pocket he fished out a bit of sandpaper. “I hope you don’t mind if I work on this while we discuss?” he said, waving the little rectangle like a flag.
Of course, this behavior did not befit a college professor. One might even call it infantile. But so was waking him up at six in the morning to surprise him with this committee meeting.
“You see, there’s a water stain here,” Isaac said, pointing at it. “And since I’m on the Maintenance Committee, I thought I’d go ahead and take care of it. You know, two birds with one stone. It won’t take long.”
He sanded.
Barbara ignored him.
The others watched her for a cue.
The only sound in the room was the scratch-scratch of sandpaper.
While he sanded, he thought about his dear colleagues, more specifically the way they’d behaved during one of his first run-ins with Barbara. It was during some committee meeting or other like this when she’d criticized him, saying, “I find it biased that you’ve failed to include women philosophers in your survey of Western thought. We have a duty to even the score of history, especially in male-dominated areas of study like philosophy.” He never forgot those words. The thing was, Winston had a tradition of trusting professors to make their own curriculum decisions, of honoring their scholarship. This was sacred territory. However, the other faculty members sitting around the table that day didn’t seem to realize that if his professional freedom could be undermined, so could theirs. They just sat there like livestock, not even so much as a nod or mumble. He challenged Barbara to name those female philosophers whose works had been unjustly excluded. She failed to deliver, of course. But then he realized he may have come off as a bit childish, so in a softer tone he asked how she would feel if he, who was not an expert in art history, made his own ideological ‘corrections’ to the curriculum (art history being her profession before becoming Dean of Faculty). Just when he was about to suggest other ways of dealing with the problem, Barbara flat-out called him a male chauvinist. The shock in the room was palpable. Barbara had managed to stun even herself. He’d won that round, but it had felt like a thin victory.
And here he was again, all geared up for battle. Waiting for her to make her move.
He’d finished sanding and had even wiped away the dust by the time Barbara began the meeting. “First of all,” she said, “I’d like to get that confidentiality paperwork from you.”
“Sorry,” he said, too busy stirring the can of wood stain with his little paintbrush to look up, “don’t have it.”
“Never mind. Here’s a copy. You can just sign it right now.” She passed it around the table. “All it says is that you promise to keep these proceedings confidential. I’ve marked the signature line with an X.”
He balanced his paintbrush on top of the little can of stain, signed scribbles, passed the form back, picked up his brush again, and then attacked the water mark like a child with a new coloring book.
Barbara shuffled the paper into her folder.
The mark on the table disappeared almost instantly. Isaac looked up with surprise.
Mary, the physics professor, gave him an amused, conciliatory grin. Always kind.
Barbara continued, “I just want to lay out the basic outline of what’s going to happen. An informal complaint automatically turns into a formal complaint in sexual harassment cases. The goal is to focus on protection for the victim or victims against retaliation, and with winter break in a few days and Dr. Fischelson’s sabbatical—”
“Sexual harassment?” Isaac pinched the paintbrush between his fingers, nearly flipping it across the table like an unwieldy chopstick. “You’ve got to be kidding!”
On the drive up to campus, he’d told himself he’d play it cool, but he’d never been good at that. He should’ve known better than to try to beat Barbara at her own game…
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Previously on “A Footnote to Plato”…
On the third day hence, to fertile Phthia thou shalt go!
In Chapter 2, The Final Fischelson, we go back in time a few months to enter the mind of a distracted Alexandra during her visit to Dr. Fischelson’s office as she hatches various plans to ensure her first and final semester at Winston will be memorable.
Meanwhile, Dr. Fischelson tries to avoid a recurring dream in which Agatha, the former college president, hands him a mysterious paper bag and delivers the same prophesy Socrates received while awaiting execution.
In Chapter 3, The Apology, Dr. Fischelson wonders whether his lack of engagement with the Winston community is the real impetus behind the investigation. He decides to invite the Maintenance Committee to his introductory Plato class—which ends in an embarrassing showdown.
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A Footnote to Plato: Chapters 4 & 5