“So you never—”
“No! I always play it safe.”
She wasn’t sure how “safe” it could be, frequenting bars in Richmond, but she couldn’t point that out with Fenton so distraught.
“Sometimes I think gay girls have it easier,” he said. “You don’t have to meet up in bathrooms where the person in the next stall might be an undercover cop.”
Gen bristled. “Yeah, women have it so easy, being invisible to each other! Or we might risk everything coming on to a colleague who turns out to be horrified by our very existence. Or some girl we teach could get angry about her grade and—”
“Touché.” Fenton sighed and scratched something off in his notes. “Thank God you’ve got Carolyn. That must be a comfort.”
She blurted out the barest facts of the breakup while they perched on uncomfortable, wrought iron chairs with tags that read, “Earnest/Spr 59”—props from an Oscar Wilde production that had drawn huge crowds.
“I truly don’t know what to say.” Fenton rubbed the palm of her hand in a soothing way. “Except that I never much liked her.”
Gen stiffened. “You barely knew her.”
“That’s right, she never deigned to come to you, always making you travel to her. Selfish and self-centered, if you ask me.”
“It was my choice,” Gen said. “Richmond was safer for us than a town where everybody knows everybody’s business.”
“Still, I saw her maybe twice in what—five years?”
“Six. Which gave you plenty of time to let me know what you really thought, friend.”
“I couldn’t tell you the truth. You were so much in love.”
Gen let go of the anger that had flared in her. Many times, she’d kept her opinions close to the vest with friends, too.
“Love,” she said with a shrug. “That’s something I won’t be rushing back into.”
Their heads swerved at the sound of light footsteps coming from the direction of the stage. Fenton dropped her hand, his eyes widening, and leapt to his feet. Gen was surprised to see one of her students emerge from the shadows, clutching what looked like a script.
“Oh, I’m sorry, Mr. Page! Dr. Rider! Did I get the audition time wrong?”
Fenton fished out his gold pocket watch. “I’d say so. We won’t start until at least four-thirty.”
“Sorry. It’s my first time going out for school play.”
“Well, you’re welcome to take a seat in the orchestra, Miss—”
“Margaret Sutter. I think I’ll just come back later.” Margaret mumbled another apology and slunk out the way she had entered.
Fenton clicked his tongue. Gen wasn’t sure what bothered her fastidious friend more, the girl’s earliness or the fact that she’d come backstage uninvited.
“Margaret’s one of my advisees,” Gen said. “Always comes to office hours. She’s a good egg, but she can get underfoot.”
Fenton’s face registered annoyance. “I don’t like them skulking around. Eavesdropping, even. What were we talking about when she showed up?”
Gen raised her eyebrows. “I believe you were telling me how very much you disliked Carolyn.”
His cheeks colored. “I’m sorry, hon, I shouldn’t have—”
“I’m teasing, Fenton. Feel free to hate Carolyn as much as you want.” She cast a look at her wristwatch as she stood to leave. “Anyway, I don’t think the girl could have heard much. Maybe she saw you holding my hand and will tell everyone we’re a couple.”
He expelled his relief with a burst of laughter. “Ah, yes, but a couple of what?”
✥ ✥ ✥
Gen arrived home after a long day of teaching and didn’t bother to kick her shoes off before fixing a frosty gin and tonic. Talking and engaging for so many hours had both worn her out and energized her. She wouldn’t soon forget how her students’ eyes blinked double-time as they flipped the pages of her syllabi. She guessed some would drop the class before the next meeting, intimidated by the long reading and assignment list. Her ideal would be a tight group of history majors engaged with the material.
When she was finally in her armchair, feet up, G&T in hand, she took the still-unread morning paper from her briefcase and read the story about Mark with its headline designed to titillate: “POLICE ROUND UP LOCAL HOMOSEXUALS.” The subhead implicated the college: “Arrested Men Include Baines Instructor.”
Gen didn’t recognize any of the names except Mark’s. One man was picked up in the public restroom of Town Hall, unwittingly exposing himself to an undercover officer. Cops found two other men in a parked car in an alley behind a bar. But Mark’s arrest near Big Beau with a Negro named James Combs received the most attention as a “desecration of our historic monument,” according to the mayor.
Gen realized she wanted nothing more than to tell Carolyn everything that had happened, both at school and in town. Sharing their days had been a routine, and Gen had the long-distance phone bills to prove it.
Her eyes drifted to the telephone bench. She didn’t mean to, but she found herself calling the operator in Towson, Maryland. “Carolyn Weeden, please. I don’t know the street.” There were three Weedens in the town, but only one with the first initial C.
Gen’s fingers brushed the receiver. She picked it up again, took a long breath, and dialed Carolyn’s number. Before the second ring, she hung up.
She kept thinking about the number as she cracked an egg for dinner and finished her second drink, then picked at her scrambled egg while standing at the counter.
After rinsing her plate, she dialed a second time.
“Hello?” It wasn’t Carolyn’s voice, but it sounded familiar. “Is anyone there?”
Gen dropped the receiver into the cradle with a thunk.
She’d had her suspicions about how quickly Carolyn had gotten the job at Goucher College and why she’d accepted a three-year lecturer contract with no hope of tenure. The call seemed to confirm her worst fears. There was someone else, a woman whose voice Gen thought she recognized but hoped she didn’t. She flopped onto the seat of the telephone bench and wallowed in images from a shared past she had mistaken for happy.
Gen had met Carolyn at the annual conference of the Southern Historical Association in 1954. By then, Gen had toiled as a lowly lecturer at Baines for ten years—hired during the war when male faculty were scarce—and had just been promoted to assistant professor. SHA included many Northern-trained scholars among its members, some of whom were friends from the graduate program at Ohio State, and it seemed like the right fit. The organization’s conference in Columbia, South Carolina, counted among its speakers some of the most progressive historians of the time. They weren’t much older than Gen, but their work left her starstruck.
When Gen arrived, she had found the Hotel Columbia swarming with men. She gravitated quickly to the first woman she found—Carolyn, a lecturer at a women’s college in Richmond.
“I’ve counted five skirts so far,” Carolyn had quipped. “You bring it up to six.” They moved together like conjoined twins, spending much of the weekend laughing over cocktails about the men who asked where their husbands taught.
Carolyn had shared Gen’s passion for socially conscious history, but there was an undercurrent of something else running between them, too. No romance bloomed at the conference, but they exchanged plenty of deep, searching looks. Back in their respective towns, their letters and phone calls crescendoed with suggested passion: “When will I see you again? Has it really just been a few weeks?” and “I don’t think I can wait until next November to see those eyes!” Within days of receiving a note signed “Missing you so much it hurts—C,” Gen had crossed the state and climbed into Carolyn’s bed.
Now the pain of Carolyn’s departure lodged in her chest, festering into resentment. She and Carolyn were supposed to be a team—for life. How could Carolyn betray her? And how would Gen ever find someone new, when meeting Carolyn had been serendipity?
Her self-pity finally tired h
er, and she pulled herself up from the bench and dried her eyes. I am fine on my own, she thought. She didn’t need love right now. Instead, she could concentrate on building her friendships. She picked up the phone a third time, but this time she dialed Ruby to set a date for lunch.
Chapter Two
Gen
A handful of students lingered behind after Gen’s Civil War class, surrounding her desk. She was accustomed to this post-class “ring around the rosie,” as Ruby jokingly dubbed it. Students rarely showed up for her established office hours, choosing instead to pepper her with questions about assignments and readings as she packed up her own notes and books to vacate the classroom for the next professor.
Margaret Sutter hovered to the side of the room until the other girls had left. She said she had a thesis statement for her theme paper and wondered if Gen would take a look at it, even though office hours were over for the week.
“Your first paper’s not due till midterm, Margaret,” Gen said warily. “Wouldn’t you like to wait and see what all your options are?”
The girl bit her top lip. “I like to start my papers as soon as possible,” Margaret explained, “in case I run into problems. I have a lot on my plate this term.”
You’re an A student, Gen thought but didn’t say. She didn’t want to trivialize the girl’s earnest approach to her studies, which Gen recognized from her own college days.
With Margaret in tow, Gen moved into the hallway, where Lee-Anne Blakeney was whispering with Susanna Carr, who was also in the class. Given Lee-Anne’s reservations about studying slavery in such depth, Gen had hoped the girl would drop, but she appeared to be soldiering on. Lee-Anne caught Gen’s eye and chirped, “See you next time, professor!” but her eyes settled on Margaret and not her teacher.
Gen nodded to Lee-Anne while she continued talking to Margaret. “Walk me back to my office?”
Margaret’s face lit at the invitation, and they descended to the first floor in tandem.
What Gen’s office lacked in size, it made up for in coziness. She had installed an Oriental rug from her parents’ house and two lamps so she didn’t have to read by fluorescent light. With the help of the janitor, she’d covered every inch of the walls with framed photos of forest trails, waterfalls, and sandy beaches—all from trips she’d taken with Carolyn, all carefully curated so her lover never appeared in any of them.
From the corner of her eye, Gen noticed Margaret assessing the collection.
“I’ve probably said this before but your photos are beautiful,” Margaret commented as she sat waiting for Gen to organize her books and papers.
“Thanks. I took most of them.”
“Gosh, really? I’d love to know how to take pictures as good as these. You must have a terrific camera. I still have a stupid Brownie I got for my twelfth birthday.”
“I do have a very good camera.” The Leica counted among her prized possessions, an extravagant Christmas present from Carolyn their first full year together.
“How did you learn to use it?”
“A patient friend taught me.” Carolyn sprang to mind again, the unhurried way she’d guided Gen’s hands on the camera body. Gen rolled her shoulders to dispel the memory. “Now, Margaret, tell me about your idea.”
Margaret drew a typed sheet from a folder for Gen. “I get nervous sometimes when I have to talk, tongue-tied almost. So I wrote it down.”
“You do very well speaking in class, though.”
Margaret shrugged. “I have to force myself. Some of the girls here are, well, snobby and judgmental about all sorts of things, like when they think you’re talking too much or too loud.”
Gen had witnessed the behavior in her classes, occasional flashes of annoyance from girls who deemed forcefulness and inquisitiveness too “male.” In high school, Gen and Laurette Sparks had helped each other develop public voices to match any man’s in strength. They practiced in Gen’s bedroom, projecting speeches to the far corners of the room. “Did you say something?” became their private joke when one of them resorted to a wispy voice.
Margaret’s face flushed as she continued, “But you . . . you make it easier to speak up, Dr. Rider.”
Gen always advised her students to rid themselves of their “Aunt Pittypat” voices, the reference to the skittish character from Gone with the Wind always filling the classroom with giggles. Most of them ignored her recommendation, though. “Boys don’t like girls with loud voices,” she’d heard more than once, but a smattering of students, like Margaret, heeded her advice.
“Well, let’s get to this thesis statement, shall we?” Gen said to cover her embarrassment at the compliment.
She bent over Margaret’s typed sheet, her pen following the words. Each semester, she waited for the student who sparkled with new insights, but Margaret’s idea was as unpolished as an old shoe. Gen sat back in her chair and laid her glasses across the sheet of paper.
“The battle of Antietam is certainly a solid choice,” she said. “You’re interested in military maneuvers, I take it?”
Confusion flitted across Margaret’s face. “Isn’t that what the Civil War is? Battles and such?”
“It can be, of course. But there are plenty of other topics that might interest you as we progress through the semester. Social or economic or even cultural topics. No need to tie yourself down so early, even if it’s a busy semester.”
Margaret nodded. “I have so many extracurricular activities, though,” she pointed out. “The history honors society, for one. I’d love to submit something for the national conference. And you saw me at the theater, trying out for the school play? I got a call-back.” She blushed again.
“Well, that’s wonderful, Margaret. I’ll keep my fingers crossed for you.”
“Thanks, but being in a play can be pretty time-consuming. I’m not sure why I did it. I thought maybe I’d make some friends.” Margaret’s hands twisted in her lap, and Gen felt a pang of sympathy. College had been a lonely experience for her, too, commuting from her parents’ house every day and never having much in common with girls who treated it like finishing school.
“Making friends can be hard,” Gen acknowledged. “You just need to find your tribe.”
Margaret sighed. “The problem is, I don’t know who my tribe is.”
This seemed like a longer conversation, one that would force Gen into the role of counselor rather than professor. She aimed to keep a professional distance. “Be friendly, not a friend,” was her motto.
Gen deftly steered the conversation to a more professional track. “Give it time, Margaret. You’re doing the right things to meet people. Now, about your paper. It might be easier going with a topic you’re really engaged with. For example, if you’re interested in photography, I could see you focusing on Matthew Brady’s work or on war photographs in general. It was the first war documented so thoroughly in photos.”
She stood and located a volume on one of her shelves: The Civil War Through the Camera. Another present from Carolyn. Gen opened the cover to make sure the endpaper didn’t bear a private inscription meant for her eyes only, but there was just her floral-printed book plate with the words “This Book Belongs To” and her name in swirling black ink.
“I don’t think our library has this, but you’re welcome to borrow my copy.”
“Oh, my gosh! Thank you, Dr. Rider.”
“It was a gift, so please don’t spill anything on it. I’ll make a note that I lent it to you.”
“I’ll guard it with my life.”
“No need to die for it,” Gen said with a smile.
“This is just so—” Margaret shook her head repeatedly, fumbling for words to capture her emotion. She had told Gen on another occasion that she aspired to be a college professor—“like you, at a girls’ school just like this one”—so maybe she felt she’d been admitted to a private club.
Gen handed the typed sheet back to Margaret without any markings on it, but the girl refused it and made no move to le
ave. Instead, Margaret settled in her chair like she was readying for an extended gab session with a friend. “Oh, you can toss that,” she said. “I can’t believe I came up with such a silly topic when there’s so much else to talk about. Could you tell me more about Matthew Brady, Dr. Rider?”
Gen stood to end the meeting, running a hand down the side of her slim skirt to smooth it. “Now, I can’t do your work for you, Margaret. That’s for you to research. I do hope you enjoy the book.”
Margaret stared at her in surprise for a moment, then gathered up her books and left with an apology for taking too much of her time.
✥ ✥ ✥
A brown paper lunch bag tied with satiny pink ribbon nestled in her department mailbox late that afternoon. No tag, no note. Inside was a small stash of Hershey’s kisses, already starting to soften in the heat.
The secretary told Gen she didn’t know how the bag got there. “So many people in and out,” the young woman said over the clack of her typewriter keys. “Could have been anyone.”
It wasn’t the first time a Baines girl had given Gen candy or another token of affection, but crushes had been more frequent when she was a young instructor closer to her students in age. Now forty-two with strands of gray in her hair and tortoise-shell reading glasses, Gen assumed her students all viewed her as a dour old lady.
And the suggestion behind a gift of “kisses” unnerved her slightly. She was still staring at the bag with a mix of confusion and concern when her colleague Henry Thoms passed directly behind her to fetch his own mail from the box below hers. He was so close she caught a whiff of his Old Spice.
“Secret admirer?” he asked.
Gen noted the hint of sarcasm in his patrician voice, the way “secret” sounded almost dirty. Thoms was not a fan of hers and may very well have voted against her tenure. She would never know for sure as those votes were confidential, but she had once overheard him tut-tutting to the chairman. “All that Negro nonsense. As if there weren’t more worthy subjects for research. Really, it tarnishes the department.” Although she hadn’t heard her name on Thoms’s tongue, no one else in the department qualified as a scholar of “Negro nonsense.”
Testimony Page 2
