Gen extended the bag toward Thoms. She reckoned teasing was the best way to deal with her nemesis, the highest-ranking history faculty member after the chairman. “Perhaps these kisses were meant for you, Henry. I’ve gotten your mail by mistake before. Help yourself.”
Thoms smiled and reached into the bag. “Perhaps just one.” He unwrapped the foil and plopped the sweet into his mouth.
She was about to leave but Thoms engaged her again. “Heard you’re assigning that Woodward book this term, Virginia. The Jim Crow one.” He never used her nickname, insisting that her given name was so much more fitting and elegant.
Gen winced at his perfunctory reference to a distinguished text. “I am indeed,” she replied, though she wondered how he knew. She hadn’t discussed her syllabus with anyone in the department, so news about her required reading must have reached Thoms from a student—another unsettling thought. “It’s definitive on the decades after Reconstruction.”
Thoms shrugged. “The jury’s still out on that,” he said, wiping traces of the soft chocolate from his mouth with his handkerchief. “I’ve a mind to write a review of his new one. Southern history as a burden, indeed.”
She pursed her lips, holding her thoughts in. Did he also know that she planned to write a review? Thoms enjoyed provoking her, but she refused to take the bait. “Another kiss for the road, Henry?”
He waved off the offer. “Wouldn’t want Mrs. Thoms to smell it on my breath.”
“Well, you give her my very best.”
Gen escaped with her mail and the bag of kisses before Thoms could get in another combative word. She intended to save the candy for Halloween, but instead she ate the chocolate drops one by one throughout the weekend.
Chapter Three
Fenton
In summer and early fall, Fenton’s flat reminded him of a treehouse. The rooms huddled on the top floor of a stately old home, and leafy willow oak branches brushed the windows, shielding him from the rest of the world. He’d become accustomed to thinking of his space as a haven from prying eyes.
Until Mark Patton was arrested and the Springboro mayor announced a crackdown on “vice.” The police had raided Mark’s apartment and office and carted off whatever they fancied they needed to prove their case against him. Mark’s landlord had changed the locks, leaving him sleeping on a friend’s couch after he made bail. He called to ask Fenton if he could stay a night or two with him. “Till I can get something more permanent.” What worried Fenton was that the “permanent” place might be state prison.
“It’s awfully cramped up here, old chap, as you know.” His compact apartment was a combination living room-bedroom with a double hot plate for meals and a bathroom the size of a closet. During their four-month affair, he and Mark had spent most of their evenings at Mark’s roomier one-bedroom. “And my couch is so hideously uncomfortable; well, you can barely call it a couch at all.”
A sigh traveled from Mark’s end of the line. “You don’t need to make up excuses, Fen. I’ve heard them all, and I get it. The thing is, I’m not allowed to leave town and nobody wants to associate with me. I implicated the friends who posted bail for me just by getting in touch with them. I’d be better off back in the town jail.”
“Don’t say that. No one’s better off in that hole.” Guilt hit Fenton like a punch in the gut, and he considered relenting. If he snuck Mark up the back stairs late at night, maybe. Or would Gen take him in for a night? She had a spare room with a comfy sofa bed, but Mark and Gen knew each other only casually, and it was a lot to ask.
After an awkward pause in which Fenton didn’t offer anything, Mark’s tone switched to resigned. “I do need to tell you something. And not on the phone.”
Mark suggested they meet in the town library, and Fenton hesitated. Two years earlier, toying with the possibility of changing what he called his “habits,” he’d had a handful of chaste dates with the children’s librarian, a World War II widow about Gen’s age. He abruptly stopped calling her when he realized the folly of it and had avoided the library ever since. But the children’s room sat at the back of the library, and he reasoned he could hurry to another floor without the woman spotting him.
Fenton proposed a spot in the stacks on the third floor, past the dustiest genealogical materials that no one but the town historian ever consulted. In another time, he and Mark would have hugged each other upon meeting up. Now Fenton kept his arms at his sides, as did Mark, like strangers who just happened to arrive in the deserted stacks at the same moment.
Mark’s face looked gray, and circles ringed his eyes. He swiped his hand across his face. “I know I look like shit.”
“You’ve been through a lot.”
Mark came to the point in a whisper. “Listen, Fen, the police took a lot of stuff from my apartment. Some things that might affect guys like you. I thought you should know.”
Fenton’s mind raced through the possibilities. Mark had amassed a stunning collection of beefcake photo magazines with names like Physique Pictorial and Tomorrow’s Man. He had spent a small fortune on the literature, buying it on trips to New York and Greece, and he shared it liberally with friends.
Did Mark ever take photos of him? Not that he recalled. They never wrote each other notes or letters. No need, as they worked in the same building and could steal moments between classes to arrange assignations.
“I don’t see how your collection could affect me—”
A shuffling noise made Mark’s eyes dart over Fenton’s head. Fenton automatically grabbed the nearest tome from a shelf and opened it. The words blurred in front of him. From the corner of his eye, he saw the ancient town historian making his way to his usual carrel without even registering their presence.
Mark grabbed Fenton’s arm and pulled him further into the stacks, his voice a hush. “The magazines won’t damn anyone but me. I’m talking about my diaries.”
Fenton’s hands went cold. He had forgotten Mark catalogued his love affairs like museum artifacts.
“I used code names. You’re Georgia, for your home state.” Mark reddened. “But—well, I may have written about the time we had the quickie in the men’s dressing room at the theater.”
Fenton’s stomach lurched. He remembered the incident well. He had stayed behind after all the students left a performance of The Importance of Being Earnest. The young actors and actresses were never careful about props, and Fenton liked to keep everything neat. Mark had attended the show and followed him backstage. They fumbled their way to the dressing room, where Mark suggested he wear the top hat that was lying out, casually discarded by the student who played one of the leads.
“God, Mark! You may have? Did you or didn’t you?”
“I’m sorry, Fen. I did.”
“Why would you do that?”
Mark’s mood shifted from contrition to annoyance. “Well, why do you think? It was thrilling. One of my more memorable encounters on campus.”
For Fenton, the dressing room incident was a one-off, and he wondered how many “encounters” Mark had enjoyed in academic buildings. Fenton cleared his throat to cover his frustration that Mark had put the small homosexual community at Baines at such high risk.
“Well, I trust you didn’t write about our encounter at any length.”
Mark’s shrug didn’t reassure. “How was I to know my diaries would land in the Springboro Police Department someday?”
“You’re a homosexual, for God’s sake,” Fenton hissed. “Your private life is up for grabs.”
Fenton’s thoughts drifted to his own personal possessions. He didn’t keep diaries, but he had a stash of books under the bed, as well as an envelope stuffed with sentimental letters from a man who had started as a friend and mentor but metamorphosed into more.
“Are you sure the police can just take your things like that? Is it even legal?”
“That’s the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question. I wish I knew the answer. Hopefully, I’ll find a lawyer who does.”
/> Fenton watched Mark’s hand reach over and come to rest on his jacket sleeve. He’d been a tender lover, although they never fell in love. He knew Mark hadn’t meant him harm, but he could be harmed just the same.
“I wouldn’t worry. I did give you a woman’s name after all.”
“It’s a little late not to worry.”
Mark’s recklessness was the main reason Fenton had ended their affair after a few months. Neither expected or wanted an exclusive relationship, but when Mark had sex with other men, he stayed in town instead of traveling to Richmond or beyond, like Fenton did. No matter how discreet Fenton was, he could be dragged into Mark’s pursuit of thrills.
“What were you thinking?” Fenton continued. “At Big Beau of all places!” A white man having sex with a Negro exacerbated the situation, but he stopped short of pointing out the obvious.
Mark blew out a long breath and skirted the question. “Anyhoo,” Mark said, “I should let you go. I just wanted you to be on your toes, given our history.”
“Right,” Fenton said.
“You’ll probably be fine. Hey, I’m not sure cops can even read.” Mark’s attempted levity fell flat.
Fenton hastened back to his office with a tightness in his chest. He tried to rub it away with his fist but couldn’t. When he passed a couple of students, they greeted him with wide eyes, as if he were beating his breast.
Maybe the police wouldn’t catch on at first; maybe the woman’s name would throw them off. But they might eventually figure out that no one would have access to the locked men’s dressing room but the theater director.
✥ ✥ ✥
On stage, Fenton took his accustomed seat at the head of the long folding table with his script in hand. Now that Charley’s Aunt was cast he’d assembled the players for a table read. His productions were always a mix of talent from Baines and the men’s college, Davis and Lee, which didn’t have its own drama department.
Reading the first pages went as choppily as he expected. He squirmed at their appalling British accents but didn’t correct them. The Shakespeare man in the English Department would volunteer as vocal coach, as he had in past productions.
As Act One progressed, the cast grew more accustomed to their roles and the read fell into an easier rhythm—until Andrew, one of the male leads, stumbled over the part where his character talked about wearing a woman’s costume for a stage role.
“What are you playing?” the student in the role of Jack cued him.
“A lady—an old lady—and I’m going to try on the things before—” Andrew stopped mid-line, his eyes popping.
Fenton tapped his pencil. “What is it, Andrew?”
“I don’t have to wear lady’s clothes onstage, do I?”
He’d worked with Andrew in other comedies, including The Importance of Being Earnest. The young man had got the role of Babbs because he exhibited a strong sense of comic timing and an ability to handle pratfalls with ease.
“Of course you do. It’s a major plot point that Babbs impersonates Charley’s aunt. How could you miss that?”
Andrew blinked rapidly. “I’m sorry, sir. I guess I haven’t read the whole play yet.”
Students around the table chuckled. Fenton hissed for them to be quiet, then turned what he hoped was a calm face toward the young actor. “Andrew, old chap, you won’t actually look like a lady. You’ll look silly. It’s high farce, not Romeo and Juliet. Here, read the stage directions. ‘He still walks, talks and moves like a man, and never attempts to act the woman.’”
“Yes, sir. I just don’t know how I—” Andrew’s voice grew fainter and fainter.
“Cross-dressing on stage enjoys a long tradition, Andrew. And as you know, because we have more male roles than female in this production, we have a girl playing Barrett.” Fenton nodded toward Margaret Sutter, the history major who had surprised Gen and him backstage the first week of classes. She sat directly to his right—a chair students often hesitated to take. “Margaret seems to have no objection to dressing in men’s clothes to be our Barrett.”
The girl’s face colored bright crimson, and her eyes fell to the table. When he heard a few more titters down the row, Fenton regretted singling her out.
“So, Andrew, can we move on now?”
Andrew whispered something to the boy to his left. His friend, cast as Charley, offered an explanation. “A girl dressing up is different, sir. Andy’s worried about playing a … a fruit.”
Fenton’s hands tightened on his armrests. “I won’t tolerate such language, Jim. And how you’ve reached that conclusion about Babbs is beyond me. He’s in love with Ela Delahay. Have you never seen the movie with Jack Benny?”
Blank faces stared back at him, and Fenton felt his age. The movie had been released back in the early ’40’s, when he was in high school and these students were in diapers.
“The part is played for laughs,” Fenton continued. “You’ll do splendidly, Andrew, and get several curtain calls, I’m sure.”
Andrew looked unconvinced. “But Mr. Page, I mean, the mayor and the police are hunting down fr— homosexuals.”
“Babbs is not a h-homosexual!” Fenton tripped over the word, his childhood stutter getting the best of him. He wasn’t sure he’d ever said it aloud like that, in front of so many people.
Slow down, he told himself.
“So you’re too young to have seen the movie version. How about Some Like It Hot? You’ve seen that?” Heads bobbed in recognition, even Andrew’s and Jim’s. “Well, I defy you to tell me that wasn’t a funny movie. If stars like Jack Lemmon and Tony Curtis can wear women’s clothing in the service of plot, I’m guessing a student actor can, too.”
A hush engulfed the stage.
“If anyone wants to drop out, I can’t stop you. But if you do—well, those of you with theatrical ambitions? In New York or Hollywood, you won’t have the luxury of turning down parts.” He glared directly at Andrew, whom he knew intended to try his luck at acting after college.
Fenton stood up, buttoning his jacket as if ready to leave and then unbuttoning it. When he dabbed away his sweat with his hanky, his fingers grazed his neck, which was alarmingly hot to the touch. A faint hum echoed in his ears. He needed to sit down again but froze in place.
Margaret’s clear voice pierced the noise in his brain. “Sir, why don’t we take five?” A few students at the table coughed, but she persisted. “I’m sorry, isn’t that what directors say?”
The sensible suggestion made it possible to think, and the hum receded. Margaret would have been a good stage manager, better than the girl he’d chosen.
“Yes. Yes, it is, Margaret, thank you. Actually, we’ll take ten. That means ten minutes. Walk around, stretch, get a cookie from the tray. Decide if you want to remain in the play. If you aren’t sure you’ll return after the break, please leave your script at your place for your understudy.”
Fenton escaped to his office under the stage. From his top desk drawer, he fished out his Pall Malls and lighter. He pictured the half-full pint of Jim Beam in the bottom drawer, but he left that in place. As he puffed, the smoke circled him like a hug.
When he returned to the stage, he took silent inventory of the actors and actresses. To his amazement, they were all in place, scripts open.
“All right, then,” he said, with the warmest smile he could summon, “let’s pick up where we left off.”
Chapter Four
Ruby
Every academic year since V-J Day, Ruby had noted the increasing number of male faculty replacing women who either retired or left to start families. She founded her women’s faculty group in response to the disturbing trend. The women who remained at Baines found it harder and harder to secure tenure and promotion. When someone did, like Gen, it was cause for celebration.
They met once a month in Ruby’s living room, a light-drenched space created by tearing down a wall that had separated two smaller, stuffier rooms. Twenty years back, she and Darrell had rescued the
Queen Anne house from hard times and, room by room, restored it to glory. Across the street, the Blakeneys’ house matched theirs in every exterior detail but its crisp yellow color, like spring forsythias; Ruby preferred their plain white. A nineteenth-century logging baron had built the twin houses for his daughters, and more than sixty years later, everyone in town still referred to them as “The Two Sisters.” Not that Ruby felt very sisterly toward Amanda Blakeney.
On the buffet Darrell had arranged a plate of tollhouse cookies, a coffee urn, and cups. He’d put out a bottle of champagne to toast Gen’s promotion. As usual, Gen was the first to arrive. Years back, she had overcome her embarrassment at being early. She never came empty-handed. The Mason jar in her hands overflowed with dahlias, their blooms as big as saucers.
“I copied from Fenton,” she explained. “He brought some to dinner a couple of weeks ago, and I thought they were a wonder. He said they were the last of the season, but I found some today at the florist’s.”
Ruby winked. “Thank God for men like Fenton.”
The rest of the group straggled in. Juliet May, assistant professor of French, plopped down next to Gen on the sofa. She was a bright, career-minded woman, the kind Ruby liked to mentor. As Gen had before her, Juliet was taking all the right steps in her Baines career, including presiding as resident adviser over Cavendish House—prime real estate on campus. Along with two other antebellum residences dating from the earliest days of Baines, Cavendish sat up on a hill, judging the other dorms.
When everyone was settled with their refreshments, Ruby called them to order and centered discussion on Juliet’s tenure application in Modern Languages. Juliet passed out mimeographed copies of her CV, so the women who had been through the tenure process could offer critique and advice.
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