The Dark Secrets of Barth and Williams College: A Comedy in Two Semesters

By Glen Weissenberger

• Language: English
• Publisher: Atmosphere Press
• Release date: Aug 1, 2020
• ISBN: 9781649219466

Glen Weissenberger

The always-entertaining Glen Weissenberger may be a new novelist, but he’s hardly new to writing: the Harvard-educated law professor and former law school dean has published hundreds of books on courtroom evidence, and as an expert in tales "stranger than fiction," now brings his four decades of experience to his cleverly crafted, thrillingly romantic novels of suspense.  Glen’s passions range widely: he is an accomplished magician working on a nonfiction, popular culture book that is a fun and scholarly review of how magic is depicted in Hollywood films; an enthusiastic chef with a top-notch smoke-detector installed; a vintage car aficionado; a fighter for social legal advances; a world traveler; and a fan of a well-aged scotch. He would love to hear from his readers @weissenbergerjd, on Facebook at "Glen Weissenberger - The Weissenberger Artistic Alliance," and on LinkedIn! Also please contact him directly at The Weissenberger Artistic Alliance, "A Creative Cultural Consortium for Charitable and Developing Artist Support" ([e-mail]).   The Alliance, supported by sales of his novels, funds Glens charities and provides educational stipends (workshops, weekend retreats, and the like) to emerging multi-media "Citizen Artists" (Yo-Yo Ma's term), thos artist dedicated to using their gifts to advance social justice.  Glen lives with his family, including his beloved, work-interrupting parrot Louie, in Chicago.

Book preview

First Semester,

1968-69 Academic Year,

Barth and Williams College,

Lowenberg, Ohio

1

William Winthrop, president of Barth and Williams College, leaned back in his massive chair and puffed on a Montecristo cigar. As he spoke, plumes of blue smoke emanated from his mouth and engulfed his head. You know, Ted, I’m your friend…

Professor Theodore Roosevelt Thompson, the head and only member of the Future Studies Department, twisted slightly in his chair. It crossed his mind, No good conversation ever starts with I’m your friend.

Then let’s go have a drink, replied Thompson. That’s what friends do. My class is over at four. I’ll meet you at Cavanagh’s at five. Are you available?

Winthrop searched for his calendar on his document-laden, mahogany desk. Finding it under a small stack of manila files, he replied, Why yes, Ted. I can meet you. Five-thirty, then.

***

The afternoon sun shone brightly through the stained-glass windows of Austin Hall where thirty-eight sophomores sat on half-century-old wooden chairs. Creaky but still sturdy, the seats scraped loudly across the floor when pulled up to the tiered tables of the classroom. Sons and daughters of some of the wealthiest Lutheran families in the United States occupied the chairs. While the students might appear dull-witted, they had simply acquired the laziness of the leisure class while still in high school. Their well-heeled parents paid absurdly high tuition to secure their admission to Barth and Williams, the smallest Lutheran college in the United States.

A three-inch cobalt circle in the pattern of one of the windows acted as a lens capturing the sunlight. A radiant beam of indigo light squarely hit the eyes of Professor Theodore Roosevelt Thompson. The momentary iridescence of his irises gave Thompson the visage of a mythological god. For most members of the class, his eyes were not all that made him godlike. He had become a legend at Barth and Williams, and deservedly so, even though he had not yet reached the age of forty. Thompson’s students often commented on his exquisitely handsome fine-featured face, the sharpness of his mind and dress, his uncommon charm, and his unrehearsed wit. But he was most admired for his ability to inspire ways of thinking never previously imagined, even by those who hadn’t thought much about anything of any consequence at any previous point in their lives. His courses were consistently oversubscribed, and the registrar regularly created waiting lists for a coveted place in his class.

After he finished his lecture, Thompson took account of the thirty-eight white faces before him. As is my custom, I have left the last five minutes of class for questions. Thompson walked from behind the massive podium and stood with his hands in the pockets of his impeccably tailored gray flannel trousers secured by a cordovan belt that matched his well-shined Brooks Brothers loafers.

As usual, Alan McCormick didn’t bother to raise his hand before he spoke up. Professor Thompson, is it true you’re unpatriotic? McCormick came from an extremely wealthy, upstate New York family with a tradition of preserving its assets through the marriage between well-removed relatives. Alan, the product of two insufficiently distant cousins, had been expelled from some of the finest boarding schools on the East Coast.

Reacting to McCormick’s churlish audacity, several students uncomfortably twisted in their chairs, just enough to create a hushed creaky chorus. 

Why Mister McCormick, what would make you think such a thing? Thompson inquired with a forced frown. Thompson knew he could verbally ravage the likes of McCormick, but it was not his style.

My mother read some article you wrote in a magazine, replied McCormick. She told me you were critical of the Apollo program, you know, NASA’s plan to have men actually land on the moon and then walk around and raise a flag.

Mister McCormick, I’m absolutely certain your mother is a lovely person. Thompson fastened the center, fourteen-karat-gold, engraved button of his cashmere blue blazer and smoothed his repp-striped tie with his right hand. She’s also probably very smart. But I’m not going to tell you whether she’s right or wrong. There’s really only one way for you to decide whether that article reflects any lack of patriotism. You’ll have to read the article for yourself. And when you have read the article, I really would like you to share your opinion with me. I sincerely want to know what you think.

Arthur Smithingham, Thompson’s research assistant, furtively glanced at McCormick. A contorted expression of disapproval materialized on his face.

After surreptitiously nodding to Arthur, Thompson leaned back against the front of the podium and continued, Mister McCormick, you undoubtedly know my philosophy. Learning should never be difficult. I have a copy of that article in my office, and if you stop by, I’ll be glad to give it to you. And if you don’t have time to read it, that’s fine. You have to decide for yourself what your priorities are.

Suddenly, twelve hands were waving in the air.

Miss Turtledown. Do you have a question?

Agnes Turtledown, clearly one of the brightest students in the class, always sat next to Arthur Smithingham, whose own seat selection reflected a definite randomness. His apparent efforts to elude Agnes proved to be largely unsuccessful. Agnes spent most of her time in class passing notes to Arthur and repeatedly batting her eyelashes at Thompson. But when called upon, despite her apparent detachment, she always responded with an insightful answer reflecting a mature understanding of the reading materials.

Well, sir, I actually have two questions. Agnes paused, obviously designed to ensure she had the attention of the entire class. First, do you know when NASA plans to land on the moon. I mean with live astronauts—

And they plan to bring them back too, Thompson interrupted playfully.

Agnes smiled, not at all offended. And my second question is, if it would not be too great an imposition, could you make copies of that article for other people in the class?

The manned moon landing is scheduled to occur in about a year and a half. And, yes, I will bring copies of the article to our next class. How many of you would like a copy of the article?

Every hand shot up—of course. Every hand except that of Lawrence Langston who was known for speaking with a transparently feigned British accent.

Mr. Langston, you don’t want a copy of the article? asked Thompson.

Well, good sir, replied Langston, I’ve already read it. I must say, it was a smashingly good read.

***

Cavanaugh’s Grill occupied the northwest corner of the only intersection of Lowenberg, Ohio with a traffic light. During the summer months, when few students occupied the town, only the center yellow light blinked off and on. Barth and Williams students represented a significant source of revenue for Cavanaugh’s, and consequently, Bob Cavanaugh never asked to see a patron’s driver’s license. As far as he was concerned, anyone who walked into his establishment was of drinking age. The local sheriff knew the town’s only tavern would fail if he cracked down on Cavanaugh’s practices. He also knew that such a possibility might have a multitude of untold consequences for a town the size of Lowenberg.

Cavanaugh, more precisely Lieutenant Colonel Robert A. Cavanaugh, served in the Second World War as a B-17 fighter pilot. He earned the admiration of the entire town for the sinking of several Japanese transport ships in the Battle of the Bismarck Sea. His flight headgear, including his goggles, adorned a taxidermic moose head hung over the tavern door. The moose, known as ‘Murray,’ would be frequently saluted by alcohol-fueled students on their exit from the establishment. Thompson felt a kinship with Cavanaugh. They both loved living in Lowenberg, and neither wanted anything more grandiose than this lovely little hamlet could offer.

Thompson arrived at Cavanaugh’s a few minutes early, waved to the Colonel, and selected a booth where he and President Winthrop could speak privately. The waitress promptly brought him a double Johnny Walker Black on the rocks.

Glad to see you, Ted! declared Gladys. When you come in, it’s the high point of my day. Any new interviews?

While he never exhibited self-importance, Thompson enjoyed a certain celebrity in Lowenberg. Frequently interviewed on Columbus radio talk shows, he even appeared on The Phil Donahue Show, televised from Dayton, Ohio, to promote his book, The Future is Coming: Like It or Not. In all of his media appearances, Thompson emphasized that in identifying future phenomena, he wasn’t employing supernatural powers or clairvoyance. Rather, as he thoughtfully explained, the academic discipline of future studies relies upon current and historical data as a basis for discerning prospective trends and events. No hocus-pocus or crystal balls. I’m not a soothsayer, he would proclaim.

Thompson smiled at Gladys, exuding his usual charm. Interviews? NBC recorded one recently, but I don’t know when it will air. Look at you! You must’ve had your hair done today. You’re looking especially lovely. Guess what? I’m expecting none other than President William J. Winthrop. I bet he hasn’t been in here for a long while.

I haven’t seen him in months. Nobody has. You’d think he would make it his business to walk around town like you do and shake a few hands. Snooty. I think he’s just snooty. And yes, Gertrude over at College Coiffures tried some new highlights. She said they’d give me a contemporary look.

I think the highlights make you look younger. Just beautiful. Now, don’t be too hard on Winthrop. He just has a lot to do, said Thompson sipping his scotch. He has to keep too many people happy. And he’s always traveling trying to get our tightfisted alumni to donate to the college’s foundation. What fun would that be?

Not much, I suppose. Gladys placed a napkin on the table across from Thompson. You know what he drinks?

Jack Daniel’s. Rocks.

Winthrop arrived shortly after his Jack Daniel’s took its place at the table, and he promptly took a healthy sip without saying a word.

Thompson began the conversation. So, tell me Bill, what part of our friendship do you want to discuss?

Ted, my friend, you know I’ve unswervingly supported your work. I always point to you as a major leaguer when I speak to alumni about the excellent faculty at Barth and Williams. Yes, a first-string, major leaguer, that’s what I call you.

I’ve never questioned that. But let’s get to the part where you tell me I’m testing our friendship.

Testing our friendship? That would be a gross mischaracterization. At least an exaggeration. Well, a tiny bit of an overstatement, said Winthrop. But I’m starting to hear some rumbling from alumni about some of your magazine articles. Apparently, they think that future studies just isn’t very Lutheran. Somehow, they see it as blasphemous claptrap. I just thought you should know about it.

Thompson twirled the ice cubes in his glass with his index finger and gazed intently into his drink before he looked up at Winthrop. I thought the nature of being a professor—you know, living the intellectual life—involved creating controversy now and then.

Sure, replied Winthrop. I suppose that’s true for large universities and colleges. But Ted, we’re a small Lutheran college. In fact, the smallest. We have a valued reputation as being uncompromisingly insular. Parents send their kids here to be protected from unsettling ideas. I know that shouldn’t change the principles of academic freedom, but it’s the crap I deal with as president of this place.

So, you want me to make your job easier? Thompson took a substantial sip of his scotch.

Winthrop tilted his head like a parrot and focused on Thompson with one eye. "Have you ever considered you really should take a post at a large university? You created the department here at Barth and Williams. You’ve made the discipline accessible to people who are not scholars in the field. The name you use, what is it?—future studies—is now even more prevalent than the obsolete futures studies. Clever of you to drop the ‘s’ from ‘futures.’ Makes more sense. You know, Ted, Ohio State would love to have you. You lecture there so often; they’d offer you an appointment if you just hinted you were interested. Winthrop pounded down half of his Jack Daniel’s and with unusual animation raised his hand in a twirl. You’ve written dozens of academic and popular articles. Harper’s, and even Atlantic Monthly. And what is it now, seven books? You’re the only member of the faculty who has a national reputation. You’re wasted here. You could do far better than this place. And yes, to tell the truth, if you left, it would make both of our lives easier."

Thompson took an even larger gulp of his scotch. Bill, we’ve had this discussion before. I don’t want to leave. Other than my time as a graduate assistant at Harvard, I’ve spent my entire career here. I have exactly what I want in Lowenberg, and I don’t need anything more. You know I love this town. I love walking to work. I love to go home for lunch. I know the names of every person who owns a store or shop. But most of all, I love teaching undergraduate students. At a university, I would be teaching doctoral level courses. And I’d have to deal with weaselly graduate students. Those toads really aren’t interested in learning, just in establishing their credentials to move on. You see, Bill, for me, the most satisfying experience I can imagine is awakening intellectual curiosity in our students. The kids coming here aren’t dumb—just uninspired. At any other place, I would just be passing on knowledge. Here, I can actually impart the joy of learning.

President Winthrop reached into the pocket of his Harris Tweed sport jacket and removed a sheet of white watermarked paper. Here. Read this. It’s from Carson, the chairman of the board of trustees. You should know what I’m dealing with.

Thompson unfolded the one-page letter. He read it slowly and carefully, then looked up at Winthrop. Well, at least we can give him credit for being direct. He wants to eliminate my courses from the curriculum. I can’t believe he calls them ‘tommyrot.’ Please set up a meeting. I need to talk to him.

2

Thompson awoke in his Queen Anne bed with Mickey lying next to him.

Mickey gently placed her fingertips on Thompson’s lower lip.

He took her hand and kissed her palm. Mickey, what time did you get in last night?

I guess about 2:30. I left Columbus around midnight. You were sleeping soundly, and I didn’t want to wake you. She interlaced her fingers behind his neck and pulled his head into her breasts, an overture Thompson well understood.

He obliged until they both were sated.

***

After breakfast, Thompson cleared the table and placed the dishes on the counter. He returned to his chair at the breakfast room table to enjoy his second cup of percolated Maxwell House coffee. Before he could get the coffee to his lips, Mickey gracefully situated herself on Thompson’s lap, then unbuttoned the front of a blue oxford cloth shirt she had appropriated from Thompson’s laundry basket. She wrapped her arms around his broad back, then playfully sucked his lower lip into her mouth.

Releasing his lip very slowly, Mickey murmured, Want to go back to bed?

Mickey, you have no idea how much I would like that—

Yes, I know. You have thirty adoring students waiting for you in half an hour in Austin Hall. Her lips formed a facetious pout. I guess those students are just more important.

That’s terribly unfair. Thompson’s right palm touched her firm belly, then moved to her lower back and up her spine. He spread his fingers into her thick, sable hair. Gently, he closed his fingers into a fist and delicately pulled her head back so he could look directly in her dark brown eyes. You go off to Ohio State for two days to teach your students, and I’m supposed to feel guilty about leaving for an hour or two.

You’ll come home for lunch? Her words were spoken with a soft, mutually understood sigh.

Of course.

***

By Lowenberg standards, Thompson’s home qualified as a mansion, one of the few in town. Its original occupant, the first physician of Lowenberg, Ludwig Gustendorf, served the Union Army admirably during the Civil War with extraordinary amputation techniques and skillful bullet extraction surgical procedures. As to treating the common illnesses of civilians, Gustendorf proved lacking in both general medical training and a genial bedside manner. His remedy for almost any presented malady included high doses of whiskey and honey—and the possibility of surgery. His practice ended abruptly when he attempted an unsuccessful, and ultimately fatal, self-amputation of his gangrenous left big toe. The house subsequently became a country inn, to be succeeded by its profitable use during Prohibition as a bawdyhouse which welcomed visitors from as far away as Pittsburgh. Many inhabitants of Lowenberg considered the brothel to be the highest and best use of the property.

Arthur Smithingham, Thompson’s research assistant, knocked on the front door of the storied mansion. Handsome in a youthful, gangly sort of way, Arthur routinely dressed in army surplus khaki pants and frayed, navy surplus officers’ shirts. He owned one blue blazer which he was not wearing today. He rarely wore socks, even in the winter. Thompson selected Arthur as his student assistant because he had a straight-A grade point average and because he seemed to be more centered than his classmates. Because of his maturity, Arthur seemed to have few friends among his classmates, and Thompson felt sorry for him.

Dressed in Thompson’s blue oxford cloth shirt and her own tight-fitting jeans, Mickey opened the door. Yes?

I would like to speak to Miss Mickey, please, said Arthur avoiding direct eye contact. In fact, his eyes strangely rolled around looking for any target but Mickey.

I’m Mickey. She stepped onto the porch.

Arthur self-consciously surveyed the large covered porch adorning the front of Thompson’s house as if it were more interesting than Mickey. Of course, it wasn’t. While quite capacious, it was only a porch. Mickey, on the other hand, was worthy of lingering looks from any man’s eyes.

Of average height for a woman from the Korean Peninsula, Mickey stood on her toes in the hope of making eye contact with Arthur. Arthur was a tall young man, well built, with a commanding posture which hid a certain shyness. Mickey’s tiptoe stance only partially compensated for their difference in height. She moved a few steps closer to Arthur who found that looking directly into her face became inescapable.

Is there some problem? Mickey swung her arms just slightly, trying to keep her tiptoe balance.

Well, Miss Mickey…

Just ‘Mickey’ will be fine.

Arthur bought a few seconds by wiping his lips with his right hand. Ah, I just didn’t really expect…

That I would be Asian? Maybe my name threw you off. It’s actually Mi-kyung.

You’re Asian? I really didn’t notice. Didn’t notice at all. Arthur shifted his weight between his left and right foot, then back again. He unconsciously started to swing his arms in synchronicity with Mickey’s.

Then what? Mickey cocked her head and raised her eyebrows.

You want me to be honest, right? Arthur was now looking directly into her eyes, six inches below his.

Of course. The reassuring smile on Mickey’s face would encourage a truthful response from almost any man, especially one as forthright as Arthur.

I’ve just never seen a woman quite as beautiful as you are. At least, not this close up. The words escaped his mouth before he could engage any filter he had ever acquired.

Mickey laughed, paused, then laughed again.

Relieved, Arthur gladly joined in with sounds more resembling snorting than laughing.

Mickey smiled and raised her eyebrows with a slight tilt of her head. Have you ever met a Korean woman?

No, I’ve never met any Asian women. Korea is in Asia, right? The heat of crimson rose up from his neck and enflamed his face.

Yes, I’m from Asia. Incheon, South Korea to be exact. What’s your name, young man?

I’m Arthur Smithingham, Professor Thompson’s research assistant.

Yes, Ted told me about you. Mickey paused thoughtfully. Arthur, as to the beauty matter, all women are beautiful, and Korean women are no exception. At least that’s what I’ve been told by people who ought to know.

Thompson had frequently shared studies with Mickey purportedly demonstrating that Korean women were among the tallest in the world. He also claimed there was research substantiating the subjective view that Korean women were considered among the most beautiful. Mickey could never tell whether these studies were authentic or a form of playful flattery. Knowing Thompson, either possibility had plausibility.

Miss Mickey, I mean Mickey, I would really like to start this conversation over again, but I guess that’s impossible. I don’t suppose there’s anything wrong with the fact that if ever I see you again, you’ll know I think you’re beautiful. Arthur’s eyes began to re-assay the porch. I’m just not sure I should be thinking these things.

Don’t worry about it. No woman I know resents being told she’s beautiful. But I’m sure you didn’t come here just to make flattering statements about me.

Arthur struggled to regain his composure, straightening his posture. Well, no. Actually, Professor Thompson sent me.

He didn’t send you to do his job, did he?

Why? Was he supposed to clean the gutters or something? Actually, no one who knew him could envision Thompson engaging in any such menial task.

More like snaking a pipe, Mickey spontaneously laughed.

Arthur joined in the laughter. He couldn’t help himself. Mickey’s statement just sounded ridiculously comical. But when he realized that he had no idea why he was laughing, he brought his body to a rigid attention. Actually, Professor Thompson wanted me to deliver a message.

Yes?

He said to tell you that he could not come home for lunch. He’s been called into an emergency meeting with President Winthrop.

Please tell him I am very disappointed. Mickey reassumed her tiptoe stance. Also, that I’ll have to take matters into my own hands. Can you remember those precise words? My own hands.

3

Thompson quickly scanned the faces of the three men seated in front of him, looking in vain for even a trace of congeniality. I understand you want to eliminate my courses in future studies? You can’t be serious.

President Winthrop, along with two members of the board of trustees’ Academic Oversight Committee, sat across from Thompson at the massive conference table in Langdell Hall. Langdell served as the usual board meeting site except when meetings were held in the Caribbean, the Hawaiian Islands, Key West or some other equally extravagant location. The walls of the cathedral-like structure were lined with the bronze busts of every former president of Barth and Williams. That is, except the bust of Nash Sandquist, fondly known as Raincoat Sandquist or sometimes, Nash the Flash. Sandquist was hardly the only president of Barth and Williams who on occasion found himself exposed to the wrong side of the law. He was, however, the only one who did it repeatedly and in public And the only one who never bothered to cover up what he was doing.

This is not an interrogation, mind you. You can relax. It’s more of a friendly inquisition, said Alan Carson, chairman of the committee. We just want to ask you several probing questions, then see if you can really answer them.

I’m certainly relieved this won’t be an interrogation, replied Thompson, directing a glaring glance at Winthrop.

Rather than offering Thompson a supportive nod, Winthrop appeared to be dozing off with his chin falling repeatedly to his chest.

Here’s the problem: we can’t make any sense of what you teach, continued Carson with his non-interrogation. Meticulously dressed in a three-piece navy striped suit, he thrust his fingertips into his lower vest pockets and cradled his abundant belly in the palms of his hands. Futurism seems to be a lot of hocus-pocus—guessing and speculating, at best. It appears to have less scientific substantiation than, well, the prediction of the outcome of a sporting event—one that’s not rigged, of course. As members of the board of trustees, we are guardians of the truth and keepers of the consecrated flame of Martin Luther’s legacy. We are charged with a sacred, if not ecclesiastical, duty of ensuring the students at Barth and Williams are not being fed a load of drivel that might, in some windy way, blow out Luther’s flaming consecration. Stated in words I think we all can understand, we are the noble guardians protecting our students from bullshit.

Drivel? I understand ‘bullshit,’ but ‘drivel?’ said Thompson with a contrived quizzical look on his face. What do you mean by drivel?

You know—drivel, replied Carson. Something that has a lot of drivel in it. Something very drivelly.

I’m sorry, said Thompson shaking his head. I’m not so sure I understand. But I’ll be glad to explain the discipline of future studies.

President Winthrop suddenly opened his eyes and interjected, Here at Barth and Williams every course must be approved by the faculty curriculum committee. No academic offering is ever approved if there is any question as to its academic rigor. Professor Thompson’s courses have been closely scrutinized by a committee representing the entire faculty. After his statement, Winthrop’s chin returned to his chest, and he closed his eyes.

What the hell does the faculty know? They don’t govern this place. A bunch of raffish dilettantes, blustered Carson. They’re lucky to have employment at this revered institution.

Actually, the professors at Barth and Williams enjoyed a healthy respect from academicians at other institutions of higher learning. For the most part, their teaching and scholarship excelled. The faculty also enjoyed comparatively high salaries, compensation for tolerating the empty headed, ill-mannered students and the capricious superintendence of the trustees.

For Winthrop, the mummery of the trustee’s meetings had become quite soporific. Barely conscious, he turned to Thompson with a nod and a raised left eyebrow. Professor Thompson, the floor is yours. Please tell us about futurism.

Thank you, President Winthrop. Thompson paused and thoughtfully looked at each member of the committee. After a few moments, he continued, "Future studies is now a universally recognized academic discipline taught at the finest schools. It’s sometimes called futures studies, but I prefer future studies because it does not primarily involve certain commodities called, ‘futures.’ The discipline examines the future in the same way history examines the past. It borrows its methodology from several other fields in developing a systematic understanding of the likelihood of future events and trends."

You can’t be serious, declared Clarence Doyle, seated next to Carson. Wearing golf knickers imported from Scotland and a tartan cap, he appeared to have just arrived from the links of the Old Course at Saint Andrews. Only God Almighty knows the future. We are a college run by devout Lutherans, and we can’t have some mortal professor replacing the role of God. I say we vote right now to eliminate the courses and put an end to this heresy.

I would never presume that I, or any of my teaching, should displace God. Thompson folded his hands on the table and paused once again. Mister Doyle, I understand that you’re a man of some wealth. And if I’m not mistaken, you’ve acquired quite a fortune by investing in the stock market. Am I correct?

Doyle could not