Testimony

by Paula Martinac

  From the window, all she saw was the blinding flash of high beams. When the headlights dimmed, she recognized the black and white Bel Air and threw open the front door.

  “What are you doing here?” she called out, expecting to see Ruby, but it was Fenton who emerged from the driver’s side. They’d made plans for him to visit, but not till the following week.

  “I’m early, I know. I couldn’t call you. My car’s sick, and the mechanic didn’t think it could make the trip. Ruby let me borrow hers, but I had to come this week.” He plunked down his suitcase on the stoop but held onto a grocery bag. “Oh, you thought I was Ruby! You’re disappointed.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” In the moonlight, unidentified creatures navigated the spaces between the trees. “Get in here.”

  “I love it when you boss me around.”

  Inside, Fenton set the groceries on the kitchen counter and stripped off his coat. He scanned the rest of the room, rotating his glance from the fireplace to the sofa to the record player and back. “Aren’t you the Girl Scout, making a fire. This place is something! Ruby said cottage, and I think I expected Fire Island, but in the mountains.”

  “I’m pretty sure she said cabin, which is different,” Gen said, feeling defensive. “And it’s a lot better now than when I first got here.”

  “I’m sure the mice think so, too.”

  The statement nicked her, even though the cabin wasn’t her own. There wasn’t a mouse dropping in sight after her diligent dusting and scrubbing, which left a crisp scent of pine behind. She had planned to tackle the two bedrooms the next day and suddenly worried about the dust bunnies that would come dancing out when it was time to turn in.

  “I was just grateful to get away,” was all she said. When Ruby had pressed the keys into her hand, Gen had teared up at the generosity. Ruby seemed to intuit that she needed to be somewhere where she wouldn’t pass the college gate every day or run into Irene Carr on the street or at the grocery store.

  “Oh, of course,” Fenton said. “And you’ll be happy to know I come armed with medicine. Gimlets!”

  He withdrew bottles of vodka and lime juice from the grocery bag and set about finding glasses.

  “I brought livelier records, too. I didn’t trust their taste, and I was right. Go open up my suitcase. I adore Arturo, but I’m afraid this funeral dirge will have us slitting our wrists in no time.”

  Gen snapped open his mahogany-colored Samsonite and found a library of 45s in their sleeves—almost more records than clothes. She lifted the needle from the Toscanini and pressed a stack of singles onto the automatic turntable.

  “Now that’s more like it,” Fenton said. “‘Come on, baby, let’s do the twist!’” He swiveled his hips while putting the finishing touches on their drinks. Gen joined in, gyrating to the music, laughing out loud, and not caring how awkward she looked.

  After they’d twisted away some of their cares, Fenton turned down the music and they settled on the couch with their tart cocktails. Gen welcomed the way the gimlet stung her throat, almost as if it was burning away the bad things that had happened.

  “Thank you, Fen. I didn’t realize how much I needed this.”

  “Gimlets cure what ails you,” he said, taking an appreciative sip.

  She pressed her hand over his. “That’s for sure. But what I really needed was to act silly.”

  He squeezed her hand in return. “And everybody knows Gen Rider is just so good at acting silly.”

  Gen let the sarcastic comment slide by without protest, knowing he’d meant it as a joke. She might be staid most of the time, but she had her share of silly moments. They’d danced the twist before, and her impersonation of Henry Thoms sounding like Foghorn Leghorn always sent Fenton into peals of laughter.

  But when he used her full name and emphasized that she was so good, she’d heard Carolyn’s voice instead. “Gen Rider is so good she’s too good”—a remark that was meant as a barb and had cut Gen to the quick.

  As the records dropped one by one onto the turntable, they ran out of lighthearted things to say and long silences ensued. The elephant in the room was her suspension, but she wanted to skirt around that. When the Everly Brothers started crooning, “Things have really changed since I kissed you, uh-huh. My life’s not the same now that I kissed you, oh yeah,” Fenton got up and switched it off.

  “Sorry. Not sure how that one got into the pile.”

  “It’s okay,” she replied. “I’m not that fragile.”

  “You know, you never really told me what happened. Or who with.” He took a long drag on his cigarette and eyed her through the smoke rings. “Do you want to?”

  At his invitation, the story cascaded out of Gen—from Thanks-giving at Juliet’s on through the next day and the lingering kiss in the window.

  “Well, hon, I’m glad it was Juliet. You’d be cute together. And she’s over twenty-one.”

  Gen started. “What does that mean?”

  “Nothing.” Fenton flapped a hand to sweep away the remark.

  “Fenton. What have you heard?”

  He shrugged, his feigned innocence making her body tense.

  “Just something vague . . . about a b-bike at your house.”

  Gen took a long, even breath. “That was Juliet’s.”

  Relief washed over his face. “Well, of course, it was! She looks just like one of the students riding it.”

  She pressed him further. “Has someone suggested I was inappropriate with a student?”

  “No, oh no! I heard something about a bike, that’s all, and I . . . I wondered.” His eyes flicked to the record player, which had gone quiet. “Guess I should put on another stack. Want a refill while I’m up?”

  She clapped a hand on his arm to stop him, and he recoiled. “Watch it, hon, that hurts. Let up with the witch’s claw, okay?”

  Gen released her grip. “I’m trying hard to understand you, Fen. You actually wondered if I was preying on a student?”

  Fenton’s laugh burst out fluttery and forced. “Preying? No, of course not! It’s just . . . well, the male teachers suss out the willing ones. I always wonder about you gay girls. Aren’t you even the teeniest bit tempted, ever?”

  The toasty room, so cozy just moments before, now threatened to smother her. Gen rose from the couch, although she had nowhere to escape to in this small space except the bedroom. Retreating, slamming a door like she wanted to, might bring some relief, and she toyed with the idea.

  “I thought you knew me better. You listened to me when I was worried about Margaret and that gushy kitten card. I’ve never once crossed a line with a girl!”

  Fenton’s eyes popped open wide. “Oh, hon, I’m sorry! This gimlet’s gone right to my head. Please sit down. I’ve got an idea.” He sprang to his suitcase. From a paper bag tucked under a change of clothes he withdrew a present in crisp green foil, elaborately tied with red ribbon. He waggled it in front of her. “Early Christmas? I know it looks like a book, but I promise it’s not Girls’ Dormitory.”

  Another joke. Gen recognized his style, the way he scrabbled to backtrack when he stepped on her feelings. And her style was to cave and let the careless comments slip by.

  This time, though, his words had smarted like a precise paper cut she didn’t notice until it hurt like hell. Gen’s eyes traveled from the present in his hands to his hopeful face and back again.

  She hesitated. She could give in and pretend he hadn’t said the awkward thing about students. But worse than his actual suggestion was how it sent her thoughts tripping over themselves, made her second-guess herself. Could she swear she’d never crossed even the thinnest line with a girl—say, with a look or a touch?

  “I think I’m exhausted,” she said finally.

  He lowered the package to his side. “I drove all this way and you’re already calling it a night?”

  Gen peeked at her wristwatch. “It’s officially morning. You can stay up, but I’ve had it.”

  ✥ ✥ ✥
<
br />   The wall clock read eight o’clock when Gen threw on her robe, inventoried the kitchen provisions she’d brought from home, and settled on scrambled eggs and toast for breakfast. Her stomach growled as she cracked eggs into a bowl, but she held off cooking them when she heard the sound of the shower.

  Fenton wandered in dressed in a favorite maroon turtleneck and tweed jacket, like he was going on a date.

  “You look handsome,” she said.

  He blushed a pink that complemented his clothing.

  “Coffee?”

  “Please.” His joking mood from the previous night appeared to be packed away in his suitcase. At the table, he lit a Pall Mall, then nodded toward it. “You don’t mind, do you, hon?”

  She shook her head. He was indulging more than usual; he’d always been more of the type who stole an occasional smoke from his desk drawer.

  They jockeyed for space for their plates, orange juice glasses, and mugs. “Sorry there’s no bacon,” she said, “but we can go to town and get some for tomorrow.”

  He left his plate untouched but took a long drink of black coffee. “Thanks, hon, but I have to take off again soon.”

  She put down her fork. “You said you were staying a few days.”

  “That was before. I can’t keep Ruby’s car long,” he explained without looking at her.

  “I’m sure Ruby won’t begrudge us one more night.”

  “Well, the truth is I’m worried about what the Texaco guy will do to my car while I’m gone. I might come back to a whole new—what’s it called?—transmission.”

  Gen balled up her paper napkin. The night before, she’d wanted to get away from him and his insinuation, but by the light of day she was glad for the comfort of another body in the cabin.

  “You’re mad at me,” she said.

  Fenton snorted. “Last night you were so mad at me you couldn’t stand to be in the same room.”

  “I never said that.”

  “Actions speak louder, baby.” He wiped his mouth even though he hadn’t eaten a bite. “Look, Gen, we got off to a bad start. I wanted to help, not make it worse. Maybe I’m not the company you need.”

  She nodded. She didn’t know what or who she needed, but Fenton didn’t seem to be it.

  “Let’s exchange presents at least,” she suggested.

  Fenton had indeed bought her a book—a hard-cover copy of Kennedy’s Profiles in Courage. She thanked him profusely, unable to admit she already owned the paperback.

  “Mine’s not so original.” Gen watched him rip at the silver and blue-striped paper. She had slapped a premade foil bow on it because she could never tie them to her satisfaction.

  He admired the skinny knit tie that matched the color of his turtleneck.

  “Just what you need, right? Another tie.”

  “No, it’s perfect. My favorite color.”

  The exchange passed for something like making up. When he drove off in the Bel Air, waving out the window, she already missed him.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  From the file of Dr. Virginia Rider

  Dr. Lowndes Ramsey

  Provost, Baines College for Women

  Old Main

  Dear Dr. Ramsey:

  I am writing this letter in support of Dr. Virginia Rider. I have known Dr. Rider since 1944, when she arrived at Baines as a candidate for an open position as instructor in American history. She was a doctoral candidate at Ohio State University, and I was a member of the search committee that brought the three strongest candidates to campus. Dr. Rider came with the highest praise from Dr. Muriel Whitbread of OSU, a distinguished scholar.

  Dr. Rider stood out among the candidates for her dissertation on the writings of Albion W. Tourgée, a founder of Bennett College and lead counsel for the plaintiff in Plessy v. Ferguson. She has published several book reviews in refereed journals. In the time I have known her, Dr. Rider has also been a frequent attendee at the Southern Historical Association and presented two papers there. Her research interests never fail to elicit discussion of the highest intellectual order among the faculty.

  In 1954, following consecutive contracts as an instructor, Dr. Rider applied for and was granted a tenure-track position in history. During her time as an assistant professor, Dr. Rider twice won the college-wide Lydia Baines Morrow Teaching Excellence Award, in 1956 and again in 1958. This, as you well know, is a highly competitive award that is difficult to achieve even once, let alone twice. I myself have observed Dr. Rider’s teaching, and she demands academic rigor from her students while remaining kind and patient with them. In my informal meetings with Baines history majors, several have proclaimed Dr. Rider to be among their favorite professors.

  In spring 1960, Dr. Rider was promoted to Associate Professor with glowing recommendations from faculty at institutions such as Ohio State University, the College of William and Mary, and Smith College. I understand she is now doing research that explores the life and writings of Miss Mary White Ovington, cofounder of the NAACP, and I fully anticipate that she will in due time be promoted to Full Professor.

  I have nothing but respect for Dr. Rider. She is an asset to the department and the college, and I would miss her collegiality and intellectual passion should she leave Baines for any reason. I encourage you to reinstate her as soon as possible, so that her students and colleagues may once again benefit from her many gifts as a teacher and scholar.

  Yours sincerely,

  Geoffrey R. Huston, Ph.D.

  Chairman and Professor, History

  ✥ ✥ ✥

  Testimony of Geoffrey R. Huston, Chairman, History Department, Baines College for Women, to the Provost’s Committee on Values and Moral Standards

  Interview conducted by Arthur Burnside, Esq., Chief Counsel, Baines College for Women

  Arthur Burnside: And how do you know Mrs. Blakeney?

  Geoffrey Huston: We attend the same church. We’ve been at some of the same social gatherings. That sort of thing. I have taught her daughters. Excellent students. Lee-Anne is a history major.

  AB: And Mrs. Blakeney paid a visit to your office on November 30?

  GH: It was just after Thanksgiving. I didn’t write down the date.

  AB: And could you tell us what Mrs. Blakeney was like?

  GH: I’m not sure I understand.

  AB: How was Mrs. Blakeney acting?

  GH: If you mean what was her affect or how did she seem to me, I would say that she seemed agitated.

  AB: What had happened to her to agitate her?

  GH: Nothing had happened to her that I know of. A friend of Mrs. Blakeney’s, a woman who is a neighbor of one of our faculty members, thought she saw something disturbing and told Mrs. Blakeney about it.

  AB: Go on.

  GH: I don’t feel comfortable going on, Dean. In all honesty, it was hearsay and gossip, like some women are wont to do. It came to me thirdhand.

  AB: I understand. My wife herself is prone to gossip, but sometimes her gossip is remarkably accurate. So this hearsay. It was about Dr. Rider. [pause] Could you speak up?

  GH: I didn’t say anything because I didn’t hear a question. But now that I’m speaking, I’d like the record to show that Dr. Rider received the Lydia Baines Morrow Teaching Excellence Award twice. I have observed her teaching myself and—

  AB: Yes, that’s all in your letter of support. But I’d like to get to the heart of this hearsay, as you call it. Now I know this is unpleasant, but we need to piece things together, and your testimony is vital. I greatly appreciate you agreeing to give it before you leave for your sabbatical. So let me rephrase that in case I have not been clear. What about Dr. Rider had so agitated Mrs. Blakeney? [pause] Dr. Huston?

  GH: She heard that she had embraced another woman. Or someone who appeared to be a woman.

  AB: Is that the word she used, embraced?

  GH: With all due respect, you have a statement from Mrs. Blake-ney and one from the neighbor, I’ve forgotten her name, which outlines what she thinks s
he saw. Why do you need me to restate everything?

  AB: A fair question. The committee would like to establish if Mrs. Blakeney changed any of her story between the time she spoke to you and the time she submitted her statement. Maybe she embellished, added details she didn’t tell you. You can understand how important that might be—to Dr. Rider, of course.

  GH: All she told me was that Dr. Rider’s neighbor thought she saw her and another woman [unintelligible].

  AB: Could you speak up?

  GH: Kiss, I said. Kiss. But I’d like to stress again that Mrs. Blake-ney herself saw nothing.

  AB: Yes, I understand. And what else?

  GH: That was all she said. Oh, and that she would feel compelled to report it to the provost if I didn’t. She said she approached me first because she felt comfortable with me, and the matter was so delicate.

  AB: She said delicate?

  GH: She may have. I didn’t take notes.

  CTR: So, am I to understand that Mrs. Blakeney didn’t speak to you about other matters?

  GH: As I said, that was all there was to it.

  AB: And then what happened? The sequence of events.

  GH: I asked Dr. Rider to my office, where I related the situation. I asked her to explain in advance of my meeting with the provost.

  AB: And she refused.

  GH: I gave her the day to consider it. The following morning, she said it was a matter of privacy, as it states in the letter she submitted.