A Footnote to Plato: A Novel

by Tina Lee Forsee

Genres: Historical Fiction; campus novel; senior philosophy professor; Plato

Synopsis

A Footnote to Plato takes place in 2012 at a tiny liberal arts college in Vermont.

 

Philosophy professor Dr. Isaac Fischelson finds himself embroiled in a student drama that leads to a false accusation of sexual harassment and an investigation intended to force him out. He faces a disgraceful end to his long career unless he retires immediately. But Dr. Fischelson refuses to be, as his students like to say, an epic failure.

 

Zeb is a promising math student who has resorted to dealing coke to pay for college. He lives on a failed hippie commune with his toxic mother, who seems intent on bankrupting her son, both materially and spiritually. Zeb tries his best to escape her world, but what he really needs is a bit of luck.

The two meet in the Maintenance Committee and soon form a Socrates-Plato bond. When Zeb offers to help the professor put together an online lecture series, Dr. Fischelson decides to take him and a small group of students to Greece to film it. It's an opportunity of a lifetime for Zeb and Dr. Fischelson's last chance to save his reputation--and maybe leave behind a legacy.

 

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Release date: June 22, 2023

Publisher: Resource Publications, an imprint of Wipf and Stock Publishers

Print pages: 334

Sample

Chapter 1

The Complaint

Dr. Isaac Fischelson once stood on the brink of a bright future, and had he not decided nearly four decades ago to teach at a tiny, experimental liberal arts school in the middle of nowhere, he might’ve made a name for himself. It wasn’t that he lacked ambition. He wouldn’t have a Ph.D. in Philosophy from the University of Chicago if that were the case. Rather, Winston College had offered him freedom in the classroom, and back in the seventies, freedom meant everything. At twenty-five, fresh out of grad school, there was plenty of time to become a renowned Plato scholar, plenty of time to accomplish all he wanted in life. Why not begin his career in Vermont.

Back then, few outside New England had even heard of Winston College, and that was still the case in 2012, despite its conspicuous rankings in higher education reviews under the categories: Most Politically Active Students, Least Religious Students, Least Racially Diverse Student Body, Most Gender Diverse Student Body, Dodge Ball Targets, Best Professors, Lowest Student to Teacher Ratio. It was a pared-down institution with exactly one classroom building, one dining hall, one professor per subject, and rarely more than three hundred students enrolled in a given year. Anyone who saw the campus might think it had been deliberately hidden from the world. The heart of it consisted of a few converted farmhouses which sat deep in the woods along an unmarked road that crisscrossed like a Socratic inquiry up the mountainside, eventually concluding at the classroom building, the highest point on college grounds. Here was where Dr. Fischelson spent much of his time, teaching as he pleased.

Now a senior faculty member, his was one of the few offices large enough to double as his classroom, and he enjoyed a view, arguably the best, for it overlooked the dining hall, where a good deal of campus life took place. Just outside the furthest dormer window from his desk stood a cherry tree similar to the one growing in his front yard in town. He’d planted both trees himself a number of years ago. Over time the one outside his office had grown away from the building, listing at a strange angle as it reached for the morning sun, but it was nevertheless healthy and grand. A real centerpiece, especially when it put on its spectacular display of blossoms each spring.

But on this early evening in December, such a sight existed only as a dim idea buried beneath a winter wonderland engulfing the campus. Had Isaac been sitting at his desk, he would’ve seen from his window just about the entire student body clomping down the hill to form a line in the dining hall for supper, as well as faculty members migrating toward the Subaru-filled parking lot. Perhaps he would’ve noticed his own student, Joshua, looking like Paddington Bear in his red toboggan and dark blue peacoat, leaning pensively over the partial wall at the dining hall entrance, a roll-your-own cigarette languishing at his fingertips, a look on his face which seemed to say: Expect the worst, and anything less will come as a pleasant surprise.

However, Isaac was not in his room, nor was he at home preparing his dinner—chunk of meat, baked potato, green thing—as he normally would be at this time. Instead he was confined to the conference room of the administration building, where he found himself all alone and very much in the dark.

About an hour before, Barbara Fowler, the Dean of Faculty, had phoned his office to inform him that the Committee on Faculty needed to see him right away, but she claimed to have no time to explain what the meeting was about. Normally he would’ve pressed for answers, but when she called he happened to be in a tutorial with a student—Joshua, in fact—so he’d let it go.

An impromptu meeting would not normally be something to worry about, but Barbara’s unwillingness to explain . . . it smelled like an ambush. To make matters worse, on his way to the meeting he had stopped to gather his mail, and in his campus mailbox was a copy of the Winston College Bylaws. He had no clue who sent it, or why.

Inside the conference room, the old heater pumped stale air onto the windows, clouding Isaac’s view. He was clearing a circle from the fogged glass with his coat sleeve and had just caught a glimpse of Joshua at the dining hall entrance when he heard the front door to the administration building open with a hollow ka-chink. Snow boots thudded down the hall, stopping with a wet squeak just outside the door. Only after taking his seat did he think to remove his coat, but the marshmallowy thing wouldn’t unzip from his seated position. Rather than stand up again, he settled back in his chair and made an effort to appear casual. He pictured Barbara’s sinewy figure just on the other side of the door, pausing in the empty hallway to smooth her pixie cut.

It seemed like forever before the door clicked open and the overhead light flickered on. “Isaac, we apologize for the short notice,” Barbara stated, her sharp bird-like features materializing all too starkly before him, “but considering you don’t use the internet, we’re lucky we were able to get a hold of you before you left your office.”

By refusing to get a personal computer or a cell phone—with service so spotty, what was the point?—Isaac had come to be seen as a Luddite professor. No doubt she thought this a tiresome affect. Maybe it was. In any case, he regretted letting his beard get untidy; it made him look like some cussed old mountain man who’d just wandered into civilization. “Well,” he said with a tight smile, “it couldn’t have been too hard to get a hold of me, because here I am.”

Taking the chair opposite him at the other end of the table, she dismissed this with a stern nod. From then on they sat quietly, trying not to not look at each other.

While she rifled through paperwork, he pulled off his cap and scratched at the edge of his balding head. For the first time in his life he felt the desire to read student papers, but he’d already finished grading his final exams. Only one class left to teach, the Apology, an introduction to Plato. This was just to cover for the classics fellow who’d left early to spend Christmas with his family back in England.

Finally, the Committee on Faculty flocked into the conference room. At first they seemed in good spirits, perhaps excited about winter break, but as they took their seats their voices descended into chatty whispers. The wall clock said 4:29 PM. One minute to go before the start of the meeting.

Isaac counted around the table four faculty members and two students. That seemed to be everyone on the committee, so what were they waiting for? Barbara kept her nose in her paperwork, barely acknowledging anyone. Although he received a few small nods from his colleagues, they avoided prolonged eye contact. He didn’t know what to make of their behavior, but things were looking serious. He hadn’t heard anything about his proposal for the sabbatical he was scheduled to take next semester. He’d been wondering whether this meeting would be about that.

The students on the committee—freshmen by the looks of them—took up the sliver of space between the conference table and the wall of windows. One played with his phone under the table while the other slumped forward holding her cheeks in her palms. Her bored expression reminded Isaac of those teenaged employees at the grocery store, the ones who make you feel you’ve committed a crime by stepping into their checkout line. This never sat well with him, having students so intimately involved in faculty affairs. But that was Winston for you.

The wall clock said 4:36 PM.

Finally, at 4:37—seven minutes late—Barbara looked up from her papers, and the whispering stopped. She began the meeting by informing him—she was calling him “Dr. Fischelson” now—that he hadn’t joined a committee this semester. But the participation rule had never been strictly enforced. He hadn’t been on a committee for years, so why bring this up now? “Is everyone obligated to join?” He was playing ignorant to see how she’d react. This couldn’t be the real reason he’d been called in.

“Of course,” Barbara said. “You know that.” When she scowled, her bird beak nose seemed to take up even more room on her skinny face.

Isaac had seen that look before. Many times before. One time she called him a male chauvinist in front of everyone during a faculty meeting, and there was that time she slammed the door in his face, but no one had been around to see it.

“You’ve been here long enough,” Barbara went on, “so don’t pretend you don’t know the rules.”

No, getting involved in campus politics just wasn’t worth it. He’d decided on that long ago. As Socrates said while standing trial for his life: The true champion of justice, if he wishes to survive even for a short time, must necessarily confine himself to private life and leave politics alone. So Isaac did his best to mind his own business, keep to himself. Of course, sometimes his best wasn’t good enough. Other times he had no choice.

“We shouldn’t have to remind you to participate in our community,” Barbara said.

Despite the sweat forming on his chest and the heat creeping up his neck, he hesitated to take off his coat, as if doing so would be a sign of defeat. He was aware of his colleagues watching him to see how he’d react to Barbara. Whether there’d be drama.

“Fine,” he said, at last. “I’ll join a committee.”

The history professor leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers over his Santa belly. He’d been here a long time, even a little longer than Isaac.

Mary, the physics professor, offered suggestions. “There’s the Lyceum Committee. The Spiritual Committee, I believe that one’s open.” Her long, brown hair was streaked with silver, a natural style preferred by liberal women, particularly in Vermont. She managed to avoid controversy, really avoid it, and Isaac admired her for that. “How about Town Moderator?”

Barbara cast her eyes up at the ceiling as if she were trying to imagine whether a male chauvinist could be an effective Town Moderator.

Just then Isaac heard a familiar voice. It seemed to be coming from the dining hall. As far as he could tell, the young lady was complaining about something that had to do with Lunch Leftovers. He heard Joshua say in his distinctive, mid-range voice—a voice reminiscent of the therapist Isaac saw after his divorce—that if you miss lunch, and you miss Lunch Leftovers, then you deserve to starve and dinner’s in half an hour anyway and why was everyone suddenly coming to him with their first-world problems?

“You call this a first-world problem!”

Ignoring this disturbance, Mary continued down her list. “There’s Community Court . . .”

Isaac shook his head. He wanted the least amount of obligation, the least interaction. Nothing she mentioned fit the bill. The others looked at each other and frowned. The chubby-cheeked girl was slowly sinking in her chair. The guy sitting next to her was still surreptitiously messing with his phone under the table, though he was being less obvious about it now.

Finally, with only a little sarcasm in his tone, Isaac asked whether he might have a look at this list himself.

Mary glanced at Barbara before sliding it mindfully across the table.

Isaac’s eyes struggled to make the words come into focus. He fumbled for the reading glasses in his coat pocket. “What’s the Maintenance Committee?” he asked. “Why haven’t I heard of it?”

“Oh, you don’t want that one,” Barbara said.

Oh, but he did want it.

“The Maintenance Committee? You wouldn’t rather be somewhere where you could, uh, be of more use?” Mary spoke slowly and kindly like that woman on National Public Radio, the one with the granny voice. “In fact, it looks like we’ll soon have an opening here, in the Committee on Faculty,” she said. “You could join us!”

Touched by her enthusiasm, he responded with a warm smile and explained that he liked working with his hands. She glanced at his hands. He did too. “Besides,” he said distractedly, just then noticing a stain on the table, “I think I’m pretty good at maintaining things.” The stain formed a half circle, the same diameter as the dining hall cups.

The Shakers had shown the world that beautiful furniture could be crafted without precious trappings, pretentious inlays, or flimsy veneers. These useful objects only required a little mindfulness and care, but a dining hall cup had been left to sweat on this antique, and nobody had bothered to fix it. That would have to change.

“This may come as a surprise,” Isaac went on, “but I actually have a good deal of experience working with my hands. I do woodwork, I’ve knocked down walls, painted buildings. Why not just sign me up for the Maintenance Committee and call the matter settled?”

That familiar voice infiltrated the room once more, and there could be no doubt that everyone heard it. The drama unfolding out there was becoming a tiresome distraction.

“Well,” Barbara said, raising her volume over the stream of expletives, “you won’t be painting any buildings. That would surely be a liability for the college. At most you’ll be in charge of hiring contractors and writing up all the repairs that need to take place on campus.”

“So be it,” Isaac said, taking up his briefcase, pretending to leave so they’d hurry up and get to the point.

“This is not why we called you in,” Barbara said. “Not the only reason. There’s an issue with, well, first off, there’s your students’ evaluations. We want to discuss complaints that have been brought up concerning you.”

“I know Uri’s mad about the logic exam, but he didn’t get a terrible grade—”

“Dr. Fischelson! We are not at liberty to disclose names.” Barbara glanced at the two students. “These issues concern . . . it’s about your behavior.”

“I don’t understand.” Isaac heard his reply come out in a pathetic, sing-songy rhythm, a lingering product of the decades-old divorce. “What exactly is the complaint against me?”

A chair squeaked.

“The critiques are entirely anonymous, to protect against retaliation.” Barbara looked down at the papers she’d been wrestling with earlier as if she might be about to read him the actual complaint. “But Dr. Fischelson, what would you say is your relationship toward female students? Do you think that you might be biased in regards to women?”

“Biased? What? Has someone—I’m sure there’s a misunderstanding. Who—”

“Just answer the question.” After straightening the papers, she placed a shiny black fountain pen on top of the neat stack. “Are you aware of inappropriately standing too close to women?”

“Of course not.” Nothing made sense. What did it mean, stand too close? To women. Wait. Did this imply . . . some sort of sexual impropriety? No. No. No. “Is this real?” he asked, unable to articulate a better question. “Can someone explain what’s going on?”

The chubby-cheeked girl nervously twirled the fringe of her white scarf, and the guy beside her lifted his hips out of his chair, presumably to slip his phone into his pocket. Clearly they hadn’t expected the meeting to be this exciting.

Barbara spoke in a grandiose style as if this were some huge corporate business meeting. “When there’s a critique or complaint of this nature and scope we of course have to look into the matter, especially if it points to a systematic or widespread culture perpetuated within the philosophy department.”

“But . . . I . . . am . . . the philosophy department,” Isaac said without sarcasm.

“Yes, we’re aware of that, Dr. Fischelson, which is why this is so important.”

“What is so important?”

“Eliminating a hostile environment, or a perceived hostile environment, and in every way possible ensuring the atmosphere on campus is safe and conducive to learning for everyone equally—”

“But what exactly have I done?”

“That’s the very question we’re asking you.”

“I don’t know!”

Mary tried to say something, but Barbara went on talking, “Dr. Fischelson, it’s time to start thinking about the way your attitude and behavior could affect others, especially in your position of power.”

What Barbara didn’t know was that he’d spent three post-divorce decades scrutinizing his attitude and behavior. He’d been to therapy. He took this stuff seriously. He monitored himself to the point that he sometimes wondered whether he fit the clinical definition of a split personality. He was truly bewildered. Powerless. All he could do was mutter, “I thought I did.”

Though still twirling the ends of her scarf, the cherubic girl was now looking straight at him with her big blue eyes.

The others turned away, pretended not to hear. Each waited for someone else to say something first. He couldn’t blame them. He would’ve done the same.

He didn’t even know what to do with his face. He pressed his lips together and stared at the stain on the table. These things always seemed to come from nowhere, he never saw them coming.

Though he wouldn’t call anyone here a friend, he felt he should’ve received some warning, if only out of collegiality. Maybe someone here had put the bylaws in his mailbox, maybe that was the warning? But what sort of warning was that? As the president of the college, Rory could’ve warned him directly, in plain language. Agatha would’ve warned him. Things had changed for the worse since she left.

No one spoke of the undignified way Agatha—‘The Good’ president who’d rescued Winston from going under—had been forced into early retirement. Some didn’t know about it, others preferred not to remember. It wouldn’t be surprising if she continued to receive a Winston College Christmas card every year, even after she died in the late nineties.

Of course, forgetting—even willful forgetting—was only natural. People moved on, students came and went. Every four years or so Winston began anew, its history mostly forgotten. But Isaac would be the last to forget Agatha’s story. Not only because she’d begun haunting him in his dreams lately, but because he deserved it. What happened to her was his fault.

He kept his gaze on the table. This ‘standing too close’ complaint couldn’t be the real issue here. But then, what was the real issue? He must’ve done something wrong. Why couldn’t he remember it? Of course he would never do anything sexual with a student, but something else, something small, something easy to miss. What though? But there had to be something.

Outside, a dark blue haze covered the world and everything in it like a special effect camera filter. Daylight disappeared rapidly now. Isaac had learned to end his classes before 4:30. It got depressing coming out into premature darkness, day after day. Daylight—that was the time to quit. Quit while the sun’s still shining.

Barbara scanned the room judiciously. “What we’re trying to explain to you today is that your professionalism and behavior are being called into question in regards to women, so . . . Dr. Fischelson?”

Alexandra? Isaac thought.

Yes, Alexandra. She was the one shouting at Joshua. No wonder the voice sounded familiar.

“You still with us?” Barbara said.

Isaac nodded.

“The point here,” Barbara went on, “you see, is that we have to take this matter seriously and look into it. It’s everyone’s responsibility to check the temperature of the climate on campus . . .”

While Barbara continued with her speech, he thought about that time back in October when Alexandra had come to his office to ask for help in his logic course. They’d discussed a few things, but none of it was sinking in with her. By then it was far too late to be playing catch up, and that wasn’t her only problem. Still, he’d done his best to make the most of the situation. He’d assured her that, in the end, his logic class was far less important than her well-being, and he’d given her information to get help from the school counselor. He’d been completely professional, or at least he thought so.

Or maybe Alexandra had nothing to do with this. Perhaps this charge of standing too close was to be taken at face value? If he had committed the crime of standing too close, he’d certainly had no bad intentions. Perhaps he stood closer to female students because women’s voices were higher in pitch, and he had some problems with hearing. That could explain it.

“And of course all of this,” Barbara was saying, “everything we talk about here, must remain confidential, so we’re asking everyone here to sign confidentiality statements as a safeguard . . .”

Or maybe he’d patted Alexandra on the shoulder in an avuncular way when he’d advised her to see the counselor? If he had, was that improper? He remembered noticing her short shorts and asking her if she was cold. It was October. Not the coldest month of the year, but too chilly to wear shorts outside, especially since the wind had been particularly atrocious that day. No, nothing he said could be construed as a sexual pass. Even so, maybe he should’ve pretended to ignore her clothing, suppressed his comment, to be on the safe side.

No! It was normal to be concerned about another’s well-being! To be so cautious, that just seemed inhuman. Could they ask that of him?

Barbara’s tone indicated her speech might be winding down. “. . . which, it’s actually more than a mere legal requirement, more than due diligence. So this is the document. Here—could you pass it over? After you’ve had time to think this over if you’d sign it that would be best for these proceedings. So. We’ll wrap this up, but first we’d like to ask if you have any questions specific to the process or these proceedings specifically?”

There was no point in asking for clarification of the charges, not here. “What happens next?” he asked.

“I can’t say at this particular time,” Barbara said. “It’s up to the committee to decide. We’ll call you back in.”

“Just so you know,” Isaac said, closing his reading glasses, “I may stand a little bit closer to women because I can’t hear very well and high-pitched voices don’t register for me. I apologize if I made anyone feel uncomfortable. I hope we can chalk this up as a simple misunderstanding. From now on, at the beginning of each semester, I’ll explain that I have a medical issue that prevents me from hearing women. Will that work?”

He hadn’t meant to put it that way, he really hadn’t.

“Um. No. It will not.” Barbara’s jaw moved to the side, then to the other, as if she were trying to grind something away in the back of her mouth.

Isaac’s thoughts kept going back to that meeting in October, back to Alexandra. He yearned for the truth, but came up empty. He’d given his life to this college, to this cause, whatever it was. He used to know. Now he didn’t even know what he didn’t know. Good intentions didn’t seem to matter anymore, and yet he clung to them as a twisted vine clings to air.