Political Science 101

Chapter Thirty-Five

THE FACE of Dr. George McFarlane appeared more worn and weary than Mitch had ever seen it. It had been weeks since Mitch had been in Dr. McFarlane's office, and as McFarlane sat down behind his desk — large in presence and stature — Mitch noticed the usually-bulbous face of this man, who was well into his late-fifties, seemed to be thinning. However, his face did not appear to be thinning in a manner that seemed fit or healthy, but rather, an unhealthy thinning which could only be caused by stress, tension, and anxiety.

McFarlane looked tired, cadaverous, seemingly carrying an engrained expression resembling an amalgam of worry, disappointment, and surrender. Mitch considered the obligatory Are you okay? inquiry, but decided against it since social convention did not necessitate two acquaintances in this context divulging details of personal wellbeing. Both men preferred to keep their conversations brief and business.

"Thank you for coming, Dr. Bradley," McFarlane said humbly, with a hint of fatigue in his voice. Mitch smiled uncomfortably, knowing that when the president of the university summons a professor to his office, attendance was not optional; thus, it needed no sentiment of expression or gratitude.

"What can I do for you?" Mitch asked in a getting-down-to-business tone-of-voice.

McFarlane let out a deep sign, the depths from which one could only speculate. "You'll have to excuse my hesitation," McFarlane began, "but this conversation is not entirely of university business. But all the same, we need to talk." His tragic expression did not change as he stared across the desk at Mitch. The brief silence seemed to have an uncomfortable hum to it. Behind Mitch in Dr. McFarlane's outer office, a closet door opened and closed. Mitch readjusted his positioning in the otherwise comfortable chair he'd been offered. He was not certain whether he should be nervous or intrigued. Right now, it was 50/50.

"Have I done something wrong?" Mitch quickly asked, remembering his warning from McFarlane to stay away from the political campaign of Ray Doyle.

"Not at all," McFarlane replied. "I suppose," he paused, humbly, "I'm asking you for a little help."

"My help?" Mitch said in an inflection which was toned much higher than he intended. McFarlane didn't seem to notice.

"Yes," McFarlane nearly whispered. He opened his desk drawer and removed a single piece of notebook paper, folded in a trifold, with writing on one side. "Let me ask you something, Mitch." He paused. "May I call you Mitch?"

"Of course," he replied, hoping he would not have to call him George.

"Mitch, there are a lot of things I know about you. I hired you when it seemed like no one else would. And I know, in doing so, I was taking a risk. I knew you came with a lot of baggage — personal baggage — but I also knew you had a brilliant mind, which is why we were happy to publish your book, even if it did ruffle a few feathers." McFarlane paused again. "And in getting to know you over the years you've been at this university, there are two facts about you I have established: You know more about political theory than anyone I have ever encountered, and—" McFarlane stopped, mid-sentence and took a breath full of context, leaning forward in his chair as it made a labored squeak, "and you value personal friendship on a level which most people have never experienced.

Mitch nodded his head, hoping to veil his confusion with the entirety of the situation. While Mitch did not disagree with either of these two assessments, he wondered how McFarlane knew so much about his, especially regarding the way Mitch revered true friendship and loyalty.

McFarlane gave Mitch a look which appeared to expect a response, but Mitch had none so he simply nodded, unsure of how social convention dictated his actions at the moment. Unsure of what to say, Mitch remained silent. This was the most personal and down-to-earth demeanor Mitch had ever experienced from Dr. George McFarlane, president of the university which feeds, houses, and sustains him.

"The thing is," McFarlane continued, "I know you've been friends with Ray Doyle since you were both kids and I too have a friend like that, and he just recently passed away." McFarlane looked down again at the trifold letter in his hand.

Initially, Mitch thought he might need to offer some sort of consolation to his superior at this moment, but McFarlane never looked up; this gave Mitch the impression that McFarlane wasn't simply providing this information for sympathy's sake. But regardless, it was an awkward moment, and Mitch loathed awkward moments. "I'm sorry to hear that, Dr. McFarlane," Mitch finally said, filling the loud and awkward void of silence.

"Thanks," McFarlane replied, still staring down at the letter on his desk. "Before he died," McFarlane continued, his voice wavering, "he wrote me a letter. It is quite vague and almost cryptic, and I'm not sure what to make of it or what it really means." McFarlane paused again, visibly confused by his own thoughts. "It's obvious that there are things he wants me to know, and maybe he's trying to protect me by not being obvious or specific with his point. I just — I don't know." He shook his head, feeling at a loss for words, leaning back as his chair made another labored series of squeaks.

Mitch, while not wanting to appear so, was growing a little impatient, not to mention confused as to why he was sitting in this office, hearing this information. He shook his head again, turning to look out the window for a moment as the day's high winds whipped a tree outside the window from side to side; not violently, but turbulently.

McFarlane finally looked up to Mitch for a response.

"Dr. McFarlane," Mitch began, wanting to get to the point, "I don't mean this to sound callous, but how am I involved in this?"

"It's okay," McFarlane said, nodding his bulbous head as if in agreement with something. He reached down into the top-center drawer of his desk and removed a sealed envelope, placing it on his desk and pushing it across the table with a slow and dramatic slide, almost as though he was a spy, passing along privileged information to another spy. "Read this," McFarlane said in a voice more serious than Mitch had ever heard him speak.

"What is it?" Mitch asked, now genuinely curious.

"It's a copy of the letter my friend wrote me," McFarlane said with solid and unwavering eye-contact with Mitch.

"Okay," Mitch said, "I can do that." Mitch paused. "But why?"

McFarlane stood and extended his hand, using social cues to signify the end of the conversation while not answering Mitch's question. Mitch stood as well as McFarlane extended his arm toward Mitch; Mitch accommodated and the two shook hands. "Share this with no one," McFarlane said with complete seriousness.

"Understood," Mitch said. And yet, Mitch understood almost nothing. He still didn't understand why he had that meeting, he didn't understand why he was asked to read the letter, and he didn't understand why he specifically was asked to read the letter. All he could hope was for the contents of the letter to shed some light on this extremely bizarre conversation in which he'd just partaken.

And with the release of one another's hand, Mitch turned and exited the room, hearing McFarlane plop heavily into his desk chair with the chair squeaking accordingly.

What the hell is in this letter, Mitch's inner monologue asked himself as he walked down the hall and away from the office of Dr. George McFarlane, president of Merriam University.