Table of Contents
Titlepage
Dedication
From the File of Dr. Virginia Rider
Part I - Fall 1960
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Part II - Winter 1960-1961
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
About Bywater Books
For queer teachers and students, past and present.
From the file of Dr. Virginia Rider
Excerpt from the Testimony of Miss Lee-Anne Blakeney, sophomore, Baines College for Women, to the Committee on Values and Moral Standards
Interview conducted by Arthur Burnside, Esq., Chief Counsel, Baines College for Women
Arthur Burnside: Were there any other instances that you recall Dr. Rider making you feel uncomfortable?
Lee-Anne Blakeney: Sometimes she touches your arm when she’s talking to you, or maybe she puts a hand on your back. Other girls have mentioned it, too.
AB: When she does, is it different than, say, what a mother or aunt might do?
LB: A little, maybe.
AB: More like what a man might do?
LB: I guess.
AB: Tell me, did you notice this about the professor before the accusations against her came out? Could you speak up instead of shrugging?
LB: I may have, I’m not sure. But I did notice she was different. All the girls have. There’s just never a man in her life, and she’s pretty, you know?
Part I
Fall 1960
Chapter One
Gen
At just after nine o’clock, humidity licked the early September air. On the first floor of Waylon Hall, Gen Rider unlocked her office, a narrow space sealed like a tomb since classes ended in May. The air inside smothered her, and she recoiled.
Flies dive-bombed the screen as she lifted the heavy sash of the window that faced the verdant quad. The blue blades of her desk fan made a comforting swish but offered no relief, scattering dust motes and pushing around thick, stale air.
Gen undid the top two buttons of her linen blouse, which she’d ironed so meticulously the night before but that already showed every wrinkle and trickle of sweat. Her nylons itched, her brassiere pinched, and from the corners of her eyes she could see her dark pageboy frizzing. By 10 a.m., when her class on Civil War and Reconstruction commenced, her third-floor classroom in the old brick building would be an oven.
The noise of a car motor distracted her from trying to review her lecture notes, and she raised her venetian blind a few inches for a better view. The flashing red light belonged to one of the town’s police cruisers, not campus security.
A strapping officer Gen had seen in town and a slender one who looked like he could have been the other’s son slid out of the front seats and slammed their doors. Where they were headed wasn’t immediately obvious. Their heads swiveled between Waylon and Timmons, home to the college art and theater departments. Squinting in the sun to read the building names, the older man motioned toward Timmons, and the two mounted the steps to the front door, leaving Gen’s line of vision.
Fenton, she thought, and a bubble of fear caught in her throat.
She had spoken to him just a few days earlier, when she phoned to see if he was back from his Manhattan sojourn. He had spent most of his summer break subletting a tiny flat in Greenwich Village and “drinking up the culture,” as he put it, and he was still ebullient. In a breathless rush, he had catalogued the names of the Broadway plays he’d attended, most of which she’d never heard of. When he came to the end of his list, her friend apologized for babbling and asked how her trip to the beach had gone. Gen couldn’t form the words to tell him about the breakup with Carolyn, the lonely summer stuck in town, so she said, “Lots of news. I’ll stop by the theater and tell you all about it.”
Fenton had surely had other experiences in New York as well. He considered himself an adventurer, and he’d been looking forward to all the city had to offer to “fellas like me.” Although he never talked specifics, Gen knew that during the school year Fenton drove to bars in different parts of the state. There was an outdoor area in Richmond called “The Block,” where a man could meet up with other men for sexual encounters, but Fenton claimed he preferred the bars. Gen worried his adventures might someday catch him up, but her friend assured her he was always careful and had never come close to arrest.
“I don’t use my real name,” he said. “Everybody knows me as Fred.”
Now Gen’s eyes fixed on the squad car as she gulped in heavy air. She glanced from the window to her notes and back again, over and over, expecting to see Fenton escorted from the building in handcuffs.
But just before it was time to leave for class, the policemen emerged from Timmons by themselves. They each carried a cardboard box to their car and drove away without turning on their flasher.
Gen’s heart slowed to a normal beat.
In her first class, she faced a roomful of wilting girls who fanned themselves dramatically with sheets of notebook paper. Most of the students at Baines College for Women hailed from well-to-do families and likely had artificially cooled homes they’d left reluctantly. It was also possible that reviewing the course content had heated them up.
“This is not the Civil War you know from Gone with the Wind,” Gen had said as preface. “We won’t talk about the Lost Cause of the Confederacy except to try to puncture that myth.”
The class wasn’t new to the history department’s catalog, but Gen had completely revamped it since she had taught it two semesters earlier. She had held off introducing the revised version as well as a brand-new “History of the South” that closely examined Jim Crow until she secured tenure. Her mentor, Ruby Woods, a full professor in English, had advised the caution.
“I know you think it’s your mission to teach our girls about the South’s shortcomings,” Ruby had said, “but why don’t you hold off? A white woman researching Negro history already draws attention, so your teaching needs to be beyond reproach.”
Gen outlined the semester’s schedule for the girls and gave an overview of the reading material, some of it written by Negro scholars like W.E.B. Du Bois. The titles The Souls of Black Folk and From Slavery to Freedom made a few students shift uncomfortably in their seats, and a girl in a full skirt with daisy appliqués raised her hand tentatively.
Gen recognized her as Lee-Anne
Blakeney, a history major who let everyone know her mother, an alumna, was a prominent donor to the college. Although she had been one of Gen’s brightest students in a survey class, Lee-Anne tended to undercut her own intellectual abilities with a lot of Southern belle-style eyelash fluttering.
“Was it really so much about slavery, professor? In seventh grade we learned that was a myth, that the war was more about states’ rights.” Lee-Anne fingered a lock of her strawberry blond hair.
Gen knew about the school textbooks authorized by the Virginia General Assembly, which also put forth lies about the “bonds of affection” between slaves and masters.
“Well, Miss Blakeney, give me the semester and we’ll see if we can’t dis—supplement what you learned as children.”
She’d almost said “dislodge what you learned” but thought better of it. At the word “children,” Margaret Sutter, another history major who always sat in front, chuckled quietly, and Lee-Anne shot an annoyed glance in her direction.
“What I think you’ll come to see,” Gen continued, “is that you can’t understand the war without a thorough discussion of slavery.”
Lee-Anne let her wavy hair fall over her eyes as she earnestly scribbled into her notebook.
Before she dismissed them, Gen ended with a note about her expectations. “This is an intellectually rigorous class, girls. Those of you who’ve studied with me before know I demand full commitment. You’ll be expected to participate.” The warning was aimed at students inclined to drop a class that seemed too demanding or too focused on issues they didn’t want to bother about, like the plight of Negroes.
Back in her office, Gen left her door open in hopes of a cross breeze. There wasn’t time in her schedule to check on Fenton, so she hunched over her notes for her next class, making last-minute adjustments. A familiar voice cut through her thoughts.
“Hello, you.”
“You’re back!”
Ruby Woods and her husband, Darrell, made it a practice to escape to their cabin in the West Virginia mountains for the summer. Now Gen’s friend and mentor stood in the open doorway, burdened with a load of mail and books. The English Department was situated upstairs on the second floor, and during the school year Ruby made a habit of dropping by Gen’s office a few times a week to check in.
“You have a good couple of months?”
“Not particularly. I meant to finish my chapter on Ovington’s meeting with Du Bois, but—”
Gen stopped short. Ruby had voiced concerns about her research on the founding of the NAACP more than once, worrying that Gen’s department would view it as too radical to recommend she get tenure. But Gen had squeaked by anyway, securing tenure in the spring, and she wasn’t sure if Ruby would continue to raise warning flags.
She didn’t. After a pause, she said, “Writer’s block?”
Gen shrugged. “Something like that.”
“Did you at least have some fun?” Ruby cocked her head. “I don’t see that tan you usually come back with.”
“No fun either, sad to say.” Gen shuffled some papers so she wouldn’t have to look directly at Ruby.
“Too bad. After your tenure triumph, you deserved a few months to recoup. You know what they say about all work and no play.”
Gen shifted the conversation deftly back to Ruby. “You’re one to talk. I bet you left Darrell on his own to fish while you finished one article and started another.”
Ruby’s sly smile suggested Gen had hit the mark. “Well, how about these two workhorses have a quick lunch after our twelve o’clocks and catch each other up?”
Gen hesitated. Catching up with Ruby brought complications. Her mentor had watched out for her, advised on her academic career, surrounded her with support. Still, for all Ruby knew, Gen was just a determined career woman who eschewed romantic relationships, and Carolyn was a similarly unmarried colleague whom Gen traveled with. Ruby never remarked on Gen’s frequent trips to Richmond, where Carolyn lived. “Research at the State Library,” Gen claimed, to explain them away. Ruby had no idea that the other tale Gen had spun, about a fiancé who died on Utah Beach, had been concocted to shut down speculation about her private life.
If Ruby started asking too many questions about why her summer had fizzled, Gen might cry outright and divulge things she didn’t mean to. All summer long, there’d been no one to spill her grief to. Most of her friends had been part of Carolyn’s circle. No matter how many fun evenings they’d shared with Gen over the years, the women had retreated to the shadows of her now-former life. The pain of it all still bubbled inside Gen like stew on a slow simmer.
So, as much as she craved company and conversation, Gen begged off from Ruby’s invitation, saying she was swamped. “How about early next week?” she suggested, knowing that the raincheck might slip from Ruby’s busy mind. “I’ll call you.”
Ruby gave Gen a skeptical sideways look. “That sounds fine. We’d probably just spend it talking about Mark, anyway.”
“Mark?”
Ruby’s face turned grave. “Patton. You didn’t hear? It was the lead story in the morning paper.”
“I skipped breakfast.” The Springboro Gazette was folded in her briefcase, to be perused at lunch.
Gen knew the college art gallery director casually, through Fenton. Mark had been at Baines a few years. She’d fallen into a conversation about modern art with him at a cocktail party at Fenton’s apartment—the place was so small they were squeezed in next to each other—but that was probably last fall. She suspected he and Fenton had had a “thing,” her friend’s word for love affairs, by the easy way they joked and touched each other’s arms.
“He was arrested in the park.” Ruby coughed discreetly. “With . . . another man. A Negro.”
“Oh! Poor Mark.”
“He’s been fired, of course.”
“A police car was at Timmons this morning,” Gen said. “Do you think that’s related?”
Ruby had been hovering in the doorway, but now she stepped into the office and closed the door behind her, resting her books on the corner of Gen’s desk. She took a dramatic breath. “It’s likely. Apparently, they raided his apartment and confiscated . . . personal material. They must have come to look in his office, too. There’s some sort of police investigation being launched.”
Gen’s stomach burned as if someone had struck a match in it.
“It’s all so sordid. Mark always seemed like a lovely man. A confirmed bachelor, for sure, but his private life should be his own, shouldn’t it? I would have never suspected something like this. I hope—”
Ruby let her sentence drop off, but Gen guessed she was hoping something about their mutual friend, Fenton. The administration tolerated its effete theater director because he knew how to style wigs and apply theatrical makeup, and was a student favorite. His productions drew audiences from Roanoke and Staunton, raising revenue for the college. But all that would mean nothing if he was caught in a public scandal.
Ruby picked up her books. “Well, I’m sorry to start the day on such a sour note. I hope the rest of it is cheerier for us both.”
✥ ✥ ✥
After her second class, Gen called Fenton in the theater, but he was skittish and said he couldn’t talk. First-day pandemonium, he claimed. He was the lone drama teacher at the college, who also cast and directed all the school plays, managing students from both Baines and its brother college, Davis and Lee. Gen waited until she was packed up to head home, then dropped in at the theater to gauge for herself how her friend was holding up under the weight of the news about Mark.
She tagged along behind him through the theater wings as he took inventory of props that might suit for the fall production of Charley’s Aunt. He’d lost some weight since she’d last seen him. Slender to begin with, now his jacket hung off him loosely, like a teenager who had borrowed his father’s clothes.
“Hon, you don’t want to be seen with me right now.” He glanced around, as if spies might be hiding in the scene
ry and props. “It’s not safe.”
The fear she had felt when Ruby told her about Mark resurfaced as a catch in her throat. “Are you and Mark . . . involved?”
Fenton continued to inspect the props, making notes on his check list, but she saw a flicker of pain in his hazel eyes. “No names, please.” After a pause, he continued, “It’s been over for a while.”
She waited, but he didn’t elaborate.
“Well, what say you come for barbecue on Saturday? We’ll try to forget what’s happening and have a gay old time.”
He winced at the word gay but allowed, “I did miss barbecue up north. Count me in.”
“You could bring me flowers,” she suggested. “Everybody will think we finally fell in love.”
“What they’ll think is you finally lost your mind. Given up all hope of finding a normal man.”
She lowered her voice. “Little do they know I only like abnormal men like you.”
He put down a china vase he’d been assessing and turned toward her with a pinched look. “Gen, you realize how serious this is.”
“I know.”
“They caught five men. They won’t stop there.” Fenton forced his trembling hand into his jacket pocket. “I had a nightmare about Mark last night. I told him so many times how risky his behavior was, parks and tearooms and such, but did he listen? And it turns out he was doing it with a Negro behind Big Beau, for God’s sake!”
She flinched at the dismissive mention of Mark’s Negro lover. She never took Fenton for a bigot, but he was so upset, this wasn’t the time to press the issue. The town’s venerable shrine to the Confederate dead featured the names of local soldiers engraved along its base, plus the battles they served in. It took its nickname from the bronze statue mounted on the pedestal of an officer on a prancing horse—almost as majestic as Robert E. Lee on Monument Avenue in Richmond. Before Gen was born, the Daughters of the Confederacy had raised the funds to honor Colonel Wylie Beauregard Thoms of the 10th Virginia Cavalry, who lost his life in the Battle of the Wilderness. Many of his descendants still lived in the Springboro area, including the History Department’s Henry Thoms.
Testimony Page 1
