With the book in her lap, Juliet scanned the front and back covers. “At home?”
“I want to think it’s harmless, but it spooked me.”
“Yeah, definitely creepy.” Juliet handed it off under the table like radioactive material. “A sleazy dime store novel isn’t something you give a crush. Any idea who knows where you live?”
Gen shrugged. “Anyone could look me up in the phone book. There’s one student whose family lives next door, but she rooms at school and I never see her in the neighborhood.”
“How about grudges?”
“Some girls don’t like what I teach. They’re so sure what they learned about Negroes in grammar school was the God’s honest truth.” When Juliet’s face clouded with confusion, she explained, “My work’s inspired by the movement for Negro rights. Right now, I’m studying the history of the NAACP.”
“Ah.” Her tone gave away neither approval nor disapproval. “But I don’t see why that would lead to this particular book.”
The statement felt like a fishing expedition, and Gen hoped she hadn’t misjudged Juliet as a confidante. She quickly stuffed the book back in her bag.
“Have you told anyone?” Juliet asked.
“You.”
Juliet bowed with a shy smile. “I’m honored you trusted me.”
A prolonged silence followed in which Gen nibbled at the scone that now tasted like buttered cardboard, and Juliet took repeated sips of her Earl Grey.
“Well,” Juliet said finally to break the spell, “aren’t we the happy professors? Sometimes I really wonder what I was thinking to choose this life.”
Gen started at the statement. She didn’t recall choosing teaching, only that she had determined in childhood not to get married—even though at the time, she wasn’t aware of her interest in other women. There were so few career options for girls. She quailed at the sight of blood, so nursing was out, and teaching became the default. In the summers when grammar school let out, Gen practiced her instructional skills by coercing her younger sister, Dottie, and other neighborhood children into reading and spelling exercises in their backyard. Dottie just wanted to swim and play, and she finally complained to their mother. Mama promptly ended the lessons and pronounced her older daughter “too pushy for your own good.”
Gen and Juliet settled the bill and parted company with a promise of getting together again before too much time passed.
“Why haven’t we been friends?” Juliet said.
“We can fix that now.”
In the years with Carolyn, she’d put such store in a tight circle, one that didn’t have room for new members. Now she felt lighter with one more person to confide in.
Chapter Six
Fenton
The cast for Charley’s Aunt hadn’t bailed on him, but Fenton lost his stage manager to vague “other commitments” just one week into rehearsals. He latched onto an idea he’d resorted to once in the past—co-stage managers, so there was always a spare. He summoned Margaret Sutter and Susanna Carr, who each had a minor part in the production, to ask if they’d be interested in doubling up.
“I have so much going on, Mr. Page,” Margaret said. “You know, learning my lines, but also all my classes.”
“How much work is it?” Susanna asked.
Fenton almost told the truth about the list of tasks, but he quickly pivoted to a sunnier version of the job. “Oh, it can be a lot of fun,” he said. “You attend all the rehearsals, but the beauty of co-managers is you can split the dates and not have to show up as often. You prompt the cast if they drop their lines, and you record my blocking of scenes and help actors who forget. You boss people around. I did it in college and had a blast.”
Margaret side-eyed Susanna, as if waiting for the other girl to volunteer first, but Susanna was feigning interest in the framed Broadway Playbills that lined Fenton’s walls. Neither budged for several long moments.
And then his intercom buzzed.
Fenton punched the button. The secretary of the Art, Theater, and Music Departments said, “Call for you, Mr. Page.”
“Could you take a message, Joan? I’m with students right now.” He tossed the girls a smile.
“It’s the police chief,” Joan said without the customary chirp in her voice. “I told him you were busy, but he said it was important he talk to you right away.”
Both students’ eyes widened, and Fenton picked up the receiver. “One second, Joan. Girls, would you mind—?” He motioned toward the door, and Margaret and Susanna obliged.
“Fenton Page.”
“Mr. Page, Chief Maynard with the Springboro Police. I’m wondering if you could stop into the department, say, today at three?”
Fenton’s throat constricted, but he managed a polite refusal. “I’m afraid I’m teaching at three today, and then I have rehearsals for the school play that will last into the evening. Could you tell me what this is about?”
Fenton knew already. He had read the lead story in the morning paper three times: “RAIDS SPARK WIDER INVESTIGATION IN VICE ROUNDUP.” His heart had picked up speed thinking the police might have already cracked Mark’s diary code or that his former lover might have named names to lessen his own punishment.
The chief’s voice was modulated and professional as he explained that they were casting a wide net in the vice investigation. There was no cause for alarm, he said. He used the term “person of interest” that Fenton had noted in the news story.
“I don’t know what that means, person of interest,” Fenton admitted.
“It means someone who might be able to provide us with more information that could help with our investigation.”
“Investigation” reverberated in Fenton’s ears. “Did someone suggest me?”
Maynard leisurely exhaled and dodged the question. “It’ll take maybe thirty minutes.”
Fenton paused as if checking a date book. “I can spare thirty minutes tomorrow at eleven-thirty.”
“All right then, Mr. Page. We’ll see you then.”
“Chief,” Fenton said before he hung up, “do I need a lawyer?”
“No, that’s not necessary. You have a good day now.”
The receiver missed the cradle and Fenton had to try again.
Through the frosted glass panel of his office door, Fenton spied one shadowy outline. Only Susanna Carr remained, waiting for him, her eyes still big and round.
“Margaret left?” He glanced around, disappointed. “Did she say she’d be back?”
“She might have said she had class. You know, we’re not friends.”
His heart was still pounding in his ears from the exchange with Chief Maynard. “You don’t have to be friends with everyone you work with, Miss Carr.”
Fenton rarely used last names, and the girl looked stricken. She stammered, “I wanted to tell you I’ll do it by myself, the . . . the stage manager thing. I’d rather not have to do it with her. I can give up the Ela role. I don’t care.”
He had meandered into some student feud, probably about a boy. He wanted to scream at her, Some of us have real problems!
There was no time for petty intrigue or regret. Fenton accepted Susanna’s offer to take over the job with effusive thanks and said he’d replace her in the cast with a student who had just missed making the final cut.
✥ ✥ ✥
The room where the police officer led him smelled of coffee and cigarettes and made Fenton long for both, but the young man offered him nothing.
“Have a seat right here.” The officer was clean-cut enough to be a Davis and Lee boy, but his “right here” came out more like “rat cheer.” He motioned toward a table outfitted with a massive tape recorder. Two wooden chairs faced a metal one with dents in it, like it had been thrown a few times.
“Thank you, officer; you are most kind. All the good things I’ve heard about our local police force appear to be true.” The officer scrunched his brow and left him on his own.
The longer he sat in the room, the t
ighter and more cramped it grew, like what he imagined a cell would be. Fenton would have no legal counsel with him today, but not because he hadn’t tried. Darrell, Ruby’s husband, was the only lawyer he knew, but he was a retired tax attorney.
“I’ll have to dig around for some names,” Darrell had said, as if attorneys who defended someone like Fenton burrowed underground. “Give me a day or two.”
He had thought of calling the police station and trying to delay the interview, but Gen said she worried that would look bad, like the avoidance tactic it was. “Wear your navy three-piece,” she’d advised. “Think about anything but Mark.”
Fenton rarely wore the suit because the vest gripped him like a straitjacket, and now he tugged at it uncomfortably. He’d resisted wearing a lighter blue pocket handkerchief to match his tie and socks for fear that would make him look too debonair—too much of a fairy.
A lanky, silver-haired man bearing the name tag “A. MAYNARD” and carrying a file folder entered the room, followed by a shorter, less formidable officer. Fenton had pictured the police chief with a barrel chest, a jowly face and country drawl, but this man didn’t fit the bill.
“Mr. Page, thank you for coming down to see us on such short notice.” Maynard’s voice exuded charm, as if Fenton had dropped in for a friendly visit. “I am Chief Maynard and this is Sergeant Hills.”
Fenton recognized the name “Hills” from somewhere, maybe the Gazette. Or maybe Mark had mentioned him. He blinked quickly to dismiss Mark’s face.
“Be warm and polite,” Gen had counseled. “Whatever you do, don’t let them see your peevish side.” By that, he knew his friend meant the part of him that jumped to sarcasm when he was annoyed or angered.
When the men sat, Fenton reminded himself of his actor’s training. “How can I help you, gentlemen?”
From habit, he started to cross his leg at the knee but noticed Hills observing his every movement. A voice played in his head—Men don’t sit like that. His father would issue the admonishment right before he slapped him across the face so hard it left finger marks. Fenton planted both feet on the floor.
“We’re hoping you might shed some light on an investigation we’re starting up,” Maynard said, opening his folder. With the file’s contents upside down, Fenton couldn’t make out any of the type, even if he squinted.
“Do you mind if we tape our conversation?” Maynard asked.
Fenton’s eyes followed Hills’s stubby index finger as it hit the record button on the reel-to-reel. He had to look away from the machine’s turning, turning, turning, which threatened to mesmerize him.
For the record, Hills introduced himself and Maynard, gave the date and time, and then instructed Fenton to state his name, address, and occupation. When Fenton hesitated at first, Hills said, “Just a formality.”
Maynard continued, “Now Mr. Page, you know about the arrests we had to make on Labor Day?”
Fenton nodded.
“For the tape, please, Mr. Page.”
“Yes, I read about that in the paper.”
“A colleague of yours at Baines, Mr. Mark Patton, was involved.”
“I have many colleagues at Baines,” Fenton said, but he immediately worried that sounded too confrontational. Plus, he couldn’t outright deny knowing Mark. The lie could easily come back to harm him so he hurried to retract. “But of course, yes, I know Mr. Patton. Knew, I should say. He was let go a few weeks back.”
“You’re friends,” Maynard said, glancing up from the file in front of him.
“We crossed paths, as you do when you work in the same building with someone. But he’s not among my close friends.”
Maynard held his eyes, his face expressionless, and Hills jumped into the fray. “Patton told us y’all liked to hang out at his place. Is that what ‘crossed paths’ means?”
Fenton opened his mouth but closed it while he considered his answer.
“I don’t recall being in Mr. Patton’s apartment,” he said slowly so the P’s wouldn’t trip him up. He’d drilled himself to correct his boyhood speech impediment, but it resurfaced whenever he was nervous or a shade less than truthful.
“Really?” Maynard pressed him. “Not ever?”
Fenton’s lips formed a tight line, as if he were trying his best to dredge up a distant memory. “Wait a minute. Is his place over on Willow?”
“It is,” Maynard said after consulting the file.
“You know, I think I may have been there once.” Was that too little to admit to? “Twice at the very most. So many faculty members throw cocktail parties, and it’s considered bad manners not to attend. I forgot Mark had several over the course of a few years.”
“So you only went to parties there.”
“Yes.”
Maynard flipped some pages. “And do you recall what went on at these parties?”
The question threw Fenton for a moment, but he recovered without too much delay. “Honestly, no. Like I said, there’ve been a lot of parties, and they’re a bit of a blur. I’m sure there was drinking. I’ve never met a faculty member who didn’t like to imbibe.” As intended, the light reply brought a smile to the chief’s face.
“Anything else?” Hills chimed in.
Fenton was stymied. Could the interview be over so soon? “Anything else . . . about Mr. Patton?”
“About the parties you say you attended.”
The addition of “you say” stood out, and Fenton cleared his throat—a trick he’d picked up when he needed to slow down and control his stutter.
“There was probably music, but that’s just a guess.”
“Any games?” Hills went on.
“I don’t know what you mean. Like . . . charades?”
“Like looking at photographs, say. Magazines.”
Fenton drew in a breath as he realized where this line of questioning was headed—Mark’s impressive beefcake photos and physique magazine collection.
He could play dumb, ask what kind of photos and magazines, but that was too dangerous. Denial looked like the best route. “I don’t remember activities like that,” he said. “I don’t know how well you know academics, gentlemen, but in my experience they tend to just drink and pontificate and then drink some more.”
Hills snickered at that one, but Maynard acted as if he hadn’t heard.
“Now at these parties, were there any women?”
Fenton blinked, possibly a few too many times. “I’m sure there were. I usually attend parties with . . . a female colleague. You know, a close friend.”
Maynard made a note. Fenton took pride in catching himself before he blurted out Gen’s name. He wondered if that had happened with Mark—an innocent interjection that gave away names.
During an extended pause, Maynard consulted more pages of the file. Fenton slipped his watch from his vest and glanced at the time.
“Handsome watch,” Maynard said, startling him again. Fenton hadn’t been aware he was looking at him.
“My granddaddy’s,” he replied, tucking it back into his pocket.
“You in a hurry, Mr. Page?” Hills asked.
“I have a meeting in forty minutes. The other thing we academics like to do is meet. And then have a meeting about the meeting.” He enunciated each word slowly so the M’s didn’t catch up with him—tricky little bastards, just like the P’s. “I’m sorry my testimony hasn’t been terribly helpful.”
“Oh, no, it has, and I thank you for your time,” Maynard said, slapping his folder closed and gesturing to Hills to switch off the recorder. “We may have some follow-up questions. Another day. Especially with regard to Mr. Patton’s diary.”
Fenton feigned indignity. “Well, I’d hardly know anything about a man’s diary, would I? That’s the height of p-private m-material!” He quivered at his own stammering, which he’d harnessed so well until that final lie.
“It is, isn’t it?” Maynard said with a smile Fenton couldn’t read.
Chapter Seven
Gen
“We’ll start today with something that might feel off-topic,” Gen announced to her Civil War class. “I like to draw connections between the past and present. Anyone heard the statement, ‘Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it’?”
Margaret’s hand was the only one that shot up. After glancing around, she lowered it quickly.
Gen wrote the names Nixon and Kennedy on the blackboard, then stepped aside. “So tell me, who watched the presidential debate last night?”
The rocky transition threw the girls off-balance. To Gen’s surprise, only a handful of the twenty-four students raised their hands.
“You don’t have any interest in the upcoming election?”
With a hint of pride, Lee-Anne Blakeney said, “Paxton House doesn’t have a TV, professor.”
The mention of the dorm Gen would have lived in if she’d accepted the housemother position all those years ago made her wince. She might still be trapped there, living with girls like Lee-Anne.
“Well, such an elegant dorm must have a radio,” Gen said. “And I reckon most of you have transistors. I’ve seen you listening to them on campus, twisting your way across the quad.”
The girls laughed. “The Twist” was the latest dance craze, so popular that even Gen and Fenton had tried it out in her backyard.
“You could have listened to the debate, at least. Really, girls, you need to show some interest in your future as well as in the past.” Disappointment coursed through her. Gen ran down her notes as she realized she needed to salvage the first part of her class plan. “For those of you who did tune in, who can guess why I’m bringing up this current event when we’re learning about a war that took place a hundred years ago?”
Susanna Carr, whose family lived next door to Gen, offered, “Because of Kennedy’s opening statement?”
“Good, Susanna. What did he say?”
Susanna was stumped trying to recall the actual words, and Margaret chimed in. “He talked about Lincoln and the election of 1860. Something about Negroes still not being free?”
Testimony Page 5
