Dead Politician Society

Chapter 16: Matthew

The rain had not let up. Matthew studied the dark sky and wondered how much water a cloud could hold. How long before its supply dried up and a new cloud pushed into its place, full of more water to dump on the city?

His tweed jacket was soaked through. It would take days to hang dry, and would smell musty in the process. He should probably spring for dry cleaning, but that would cost at least twenty-five dollars. He’d try the at-home method first. An umbrella would probably be a better use of the money.

He heard a squeaky male voice behind him. “Dr. Easton! Wait up.”

Matthew sighed. Waited.

Brian approached, panting. He wore old man’s overshoes that made a squishing sound as he ran. “I’m glad I caught you. I was, um, wondering if you could help me out with something.”

Though Matthew cringed to admit it even silently, pudgy, overzealous Brian reminded him of himself as an undergrad. Minus the galoshes.

“What can I do for you?”

Brian extended his oversized plaid umbrella to cover them both as they walked. He chewed his lower lip before saying. “The SPU. I want in. I’ll do anything.”

“SPU.” Matthew gave a slight shake of his head and noticed Clare following close behind. He nodded at her. Couldn’t be rude for no reason. But she was rifling through her knapsack while trying to keep her own umbrella in place. She didn’t appear to notice him. “What does that stand for? Would you like me to write a recommendation letter?”

“Please?” Brian’s eyes grew wide.

Matthew felt bad for the kid. But as much as he valued opinions from across the spectrum in his classroom, there was no way he was letting a communist into the society.

Brian pressed, “It’s the Society for Political Utopia. I know you’re involved.”

“The society for a what? I love it. I wish I wasinvolved.”

“But I thought…all the members are your students…and it was founded the year you started teaching here.”

Matthew glanced behind at Clare. Toying with her cell phone. Texting or Tweeting or whatever her vapid generation did to fill their time.

“I’m flattered if I inspired a club of any kind. But if the members are your classmates, why don’t you ask them if you can join their group?”

“Because they deny it exists.”

“Ah. You mean it’s a secretsociety?”

“They do what we do in your class—make their own utopia—but they do it for real.” Brian’s stare felt like it was trying to pierce inside Matthew’s brain. “Like two years ago when that party girl was running for student council president, and it looked like she was a shoo-in because her dad was a promoter and she promised to bring in all kinds of famous live bands?”

“Sure,” Matthew said. “Happens all the time in politics. I was surprised she didn't win.”

“The SPU stuffed ballot boxes to get their candidate in. The guy who lobbied admin for healthier snack options and asked the cafeterias to use compostable dinnerware. He was in Poli Real World last year, and he dated Jessica Dunne.”

“Why would you think they stuffed ballots?” Though it was kid stuff compared with some of the other things the SPU had done, Matthew was alarmed if this was common knowledge.

“They signed each stuffed ballot with You’re welcome.Their signature message when they commit a utopian act.” Brian leaned in closer. “Most people don’t know it was them. But I have my eyes open. My dad told me to watch everything.”

Matthew sighed. Brian’s father was a failed politician, and as was far too common—even among successful politicians—he thought his son was put on earth to continue his vision.

“They do illegal stuff, too,” Brian said. “Which I agree with. Laws are so arbitrary. If I know something’s right, I’ll do anything to make it happen. I’d be perfect for this group.”

Except you’re a communist. But he wanted to know how much Brian knew. “What kind of illegal things does this group do?”

“Like you don’t know.” Brian snorted. “But fine: remember a few years back when seven terminal cancer patients were euthanized in their beds at Mount Sinai hospital? Your student, Elise Marchand, was a volunteer there. She was found guilty of murder for what were actually mercy killings.”

“Of course I remember. That was tragic. Both for the families of the patients who never got their real goodbyes, and for Elise. She had so much promise.” Matthew glanced at his watch and hoped the kid would get the point.

“It wasn’t tragic for the so-called victims. They wanted to die. The part that didn’t make the news: Elise left an SPU business card at each of the euthanized patients’ bedsides.”

Matthew inhaled hard. How did Brian know this?

Brian’s knapsack strap was slipping down his shoulder. He shrugged it back up, shaking the umbrella a bit and splashing them both with drops of rainwater. “The society has business cards, but they don’t print members’ names on them. Just the group’s initials. SPU.”

Matthew’s stomach churned. He was glad he hadn’t eaten lunch.

“On the back of the cards, Elise wrote You’re welcome. She used her left hand, but analysts matched the handwriting to hers. And anyway, she confessed under questioning.”

Inside his wet jacket pocket, Matthew clenched his right hand into a fist. He reminded himself that the kid was innocent; it was Matthew alone who was guilty. “I remember the confession. Elise said her mandate was complete.”

“Well, by her mandate,” Brian said, “she meant the club’s mandate.”

Matthew shifted his briefcase once more so he could glance inconspicuously back at Clare. Still there, and still ostensibly oblivious. Not that it mattered; he wasn’t telling Brian anything he wouldn’t tell any other outsider.

He furrowed his brow. “I’m worried, Brian. If what you’re saying is true, then I may be an unwitting accomplice to my students' recklessness. Can you tell me who's are involved? I should speak with them.”

“I don’t know who this year’s group is.” Brian heaved a big breath out. “The current group changes each year—I know it’s students from Poli Real World, but that’s all I know. The alumni have their own group, but that’s separate and off-campus. But—are you sure you’re not involved?”

Good. He was starting to believe it.

“My dad says that’s the one thing he’s sure of: that you’re the leader of this pack.”

Or not.

“Why on earth would your father ask you to join a club that condones murder?” Matthew didn’t have to feign confusion this time.

“He thinks the members are the movers and shakers of the incoming political generation. He wants me to network with them for when I go into politics myself. And as a bonus I can start implementing the ideas from his Communist Manifesto.”

“His what?” Matthew knew exactly what Brian’s father was up to. It was one of the reasons he’d selected Brian for the class—to show the other students how ridiculous it would be if the left wingers ran the world. “Are you planning to run for office one day?”

“That’s the plan.” Brian was glum.

“Well, cheer up. It’s not the worst job you could apply for.”

“You really can’t help me?”

“I really can’t.”

The rain soaked Matthew again as Brian and his umbrella fell back into step with Clare. He must be getting paranoid—he could have sworn Clare had been hanging about to eavesdrop. But they were both Commies; they’d probably been walking together before Brian had run ahead to bug Matthew.

Poor kid. Matthew could strangle his father, Carl Haas. What terrible pressure to put on your son. What terrible overshoes to send him off to school in.