Testimony

by Paula Martinac

  AB: How did you understand her refusal?

  GH: I wouldn’t call it a refusal. And I don’t see how my understanding of what she said is pertinent.

  AB: Well, it’s simply that you know Dr. Rider better than we do. Was she defiant, perhaps? Nervous? Did she not understand the gravity?

  GH: As she says in the letter to the provost, she has a private life and what she does in it is no concern of mine or yours. Or her neighbor’s, for that matter. That’s how I understand it.

  AB: Your letter in support of Dr. Rider is glowing. If you knew for certain that she had kissed another woman, or possibly even one of our students—

  GH: I’ve heard no mention of that!

  AB: Perhaps even had relations with her?

  GH: I haven’t heard that either. Really, this has gone too far.

  AB: Just one more question, please. If you did hear mention of it, or if more evidence of moral turpitude presented itself, would you change your letter in any way?

  GH: I cannot indulge in this, sir. If you have evidence like that, you’ll have to present it, and only then would I consider your question.

  ✥ ✥ ✥

  From the file of Dr. Virginia Rider

  Dr. Lowndes Ramsey

  Provost, Baines College for Women

  Old Main

  Dear Provost Ramsey:

  I was asked for a statement about the goings-on I witnessed on Friday, Nov. 25, from my kitchen window. I will try to be as detailed as possible.

  What happened was Mr. Carr and I had my sister and her entire family, as well as our own, for Thanksgiving dinner, and I was quite worn out after. My husband had gone into the office to catch up, so I decided to pour an aperitif while I waited for him.

  I was in the kitchen adding ice to my drink. My kitchen window faces the back of Miss Rider’s house. I usually keep the curtains drawn after dark because you can see right in, but I forgot. Her shade wasn’t down, so I couldn’t help but see them in the window frame, standing close together. I’d seen Miss Rider with other women at her home before, and with Mr. Page from the theater. They’ve been seen out and about in town and at a barbecue in her backyard, and I thought little of it.

  What was different this time was that Miss Rider and a woman were standing so close it felt strange to me. I could see they were talking. And that’s when it happened. First they hugged, and then they kissed right on the mouth, not on the cheek like friends do. I dropped one of my mother’s antique glasses and it broke into a million shards that took me forever to clean up. I was still finding them days later.

  I was shocked and frankly disgusted. My husband and I have noticed a few times that Mr. Page has spent the night at Miss Rider’s house, which is morally questionable in itself, but this crosses the line into perversion.

  I closed the curtain right away. My husband came home, and we had dinner. I didn’t tell him because I was afraid he’d call the police. It is my understanding that kind of thing is illegal everywhere in this country.

  When I looked out the window before I went up to bed, there was a blue bicycle propped against a tree in the backyard, like something one of our students would ride, and that made me curious. I’ve never seen Miss Rider on a bicycle, so I don’t think it was hers. The bicycle was still there in the early morning, but soon I heard tires squeaking and saw a female speeding off from Miss Rider’s. Whoever it was had spent the night. You can draw your own conclusions.

  I asked my daughter, Susanna, if she knew anyone at school who rode a blue bicycle. She said no names came to mind but that she would ask her friends.

  The next day I continued to be so disturbed by the incident that I told my frequent bridge partner, Mrs. Amanda Blakeney, who then reported it to Dr. Huston.

  Sincerely yours,

  Irene (Mrs. Thomas) Carr

  Baines College Class of 1936

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Ruby

  Ruby had served with the Faculty Committee on Tenure and Privilege for two and a half years, and her three-year stint would conclude at the end of the semester. She assumed that in a few years someone would nominate her again because of her status as the only female full professor on campus.

  “We should just make it for life next time,” Roscoe Babcock, the chairman, had teased when she embarked on this, her third term.

  “You’ll have to talk to my husband about that,” she had joked in return. The jovial spirit of the committee, particularly in its latest configuration with Frances Palmer as a second female member, held a strong appeal for her.

  Besides that, Ruby viewed the work as among the most significant she’d done at Baines. She appreciated the chance to advocate for young faculty members, especially women, and play her part in advancing their careers. This semester, she would advocate hard for Juliet May, who might face opposition due to stepping down as housemother.

  The mood in the committee as the first semester of 1961 dawned was as dismal as the winter sky. Roscoe had convened an ad hoc session, with no tenure portfolios in sight. At Ruby’s seat at the table, as at all the others, rested a manila folder reading Dr. Virginia Rider on the tab.

  Roscoe called the meeting to order. He didn’t usually bring a gavel, but today he withdrew a gold-accented wooden one from a green velvet-lined box and gave it a sharp rap to get their attention. No one made a quip, although at another time someone might have, even Roscoe himself.

  Ruby cast her eyes around the table at the other committee members and tried to evaluate where they stood on Gen’s suspension. She was grateful that Roscoe had supported Gen’s tenure, even though he didn’t approve of her research. She didn’t think the distaste he felt about her research on activists like Albion Tourgée and the rights of Negroes would prevent him from seeing the injustice in her situation now.

  Opposite Ruby sat Frances, who at the women’s meeting had confirmed her support for Gen. Frances shot a weak smile at Ruby across the table, all the while turning a pen over and over in her broad hands.

  The professors from Philosophy and Math always held their cards close to the vest, but they were decent men who looked like they were listening whenever Ruby spoke. Today, the Math professor didn’t acknowledge Ruby when she walked in, a rarity on this congenial committee. His blank expression worried her as she caught the end of Roscoe’s opening comments: “—this unusual and somewhat unsavory task. Shall we begin?”

  Ruby watched the history department secretary jotting down every word Roscoe said, and she raised her hand.

  “Roscoe, I’d like to ask that we retract the word unsavory from the record,” she said, feeling all eyes fasten on her.

  “And why is that, Ruby?”

  “It could seem a bit prejudicial, don’t you think? I mean, people at this table may still be forming their opinions on this matter.” Frances dipped her head in agreement, and the Philosophy professor stroked his beard.

  “Well, I’ve already gone and said it,” Roscoe complained. “I wasn’t trying to prejudice anyone.”

  Ruby hurried to backtrack. “Oh, of course not, Roscoe. I’m just asking to take it out of the record. It might look to the Faculty Senate like we’d already decided before we started discussing.”

  Roscoe muttered something under his breath and agreed to a quick voice vote. Four said “aye,” but the Math professor abstained.

  “Strike out the word unsavory, Linda Sue,” Roscoe said to the secretary.

  “We should probably also strike that we discussed it,” Frances added, and Ruby smiled at her colleague’s quick thinking.

  The chairman sighed but took a second vote on striking the discussion.

  Roscoe then moved on to the thin folders in front of them, leading them through the documents inside. On top was a letter from Geoffrey Huston, extolling Gen’s teaching and service in effusive language, his sentiments weighing more than the sheer onionskin paper on which they were typed. Behind that was a transcript of Huston’s testimony to the newly convened Committee on Valu
es and Standards, in which he stood firm and didn’t succumb to conjecture.

  Next came a handwritten statement from Mrs. Irene Carr, who outlined in detail what she had seen—or thought she had seen—through her kitchen window. Mrs. Carr composed her account in a clenched script, each word jostling the others like passengers in a congested train. It filled three full sheets of heavy stationery engraved with Mrs. Thomas L. Carr in swirling gold letters at the top.

  Several additional sheets offered tangible proof of Gen’s exemplary record at Baines: letters in support of her tenure, her tenure letter from the president, and notices of her two teaching awards. Ruby had lobbied hard for those final pieces to make their way into the folder. Roscoe had at first deemed them unnecessary because, as he put it, “Good God, everyone knows Gen’s about perfect.”

  Roscoe allotted fifteen minutes for them to read the documents to themselves before he called out for comments or questions. He stared down the table at each of them in turn.

  “I think this is not even worth our time.” Frances closed her folder with a slap. “What we have here is one dubious statement from a neighbor pitted against overwhelming evidence that Gen Rider, a tenured professor, has been nothing but a paragon at this institution for fifteen years.”

  “I agree wholeheartedly,” Ruby said. “Plus, the woman admits she was drinking at the time!”

  “Adding ice to a drink,” Roscoe corrected. “It’s not clear she drank any of it before she dropped it.”

  “You know, I did wonder if the neighbor had an axe to grind,” the Philosophy professor chimed in.

  Roscoe called on the Math professor, who flipped back through the documents, a stubby finger stopping on Mrs. Carr’s letter. “Here’s what concerns me,” he said. “I’m willing to allow that maybe Mrs. Carr didn’t see what she thought she saw. But then there’s the bit about the bike. Whoever rode it spent the night. To me, that suggests a student.”

  Sweat trickled under Ruby’s blouse collar. She had read Mrs. Carr’s letter and silently cursed her for speculating on who owned the bike.

  “It was Thanksgiving weekend,” Ruby noted. “What student would be up at dawn the Friday after a holiday? I have three sons, and I can tell you for sure, not a single one!”

  Roscoe chuckled. “I got to agree with you on that, Ruby.”

  “Plus,” Frances added, “there’s still the question on the table of whether Mrs. Carr had some other motive.”

  Roscoe leaned back in his chair and withdrew his pipe and tobacco from his jacket pocket. Ruby groaned audibly at the prospect of sitting through the rest of this meeting under a literal cloud of smoke, so he placed the paraphernalia on the table in front of him like a promised reward.

  “You know,” Roscoe said, “four or five years back I had a neighbor across the street, a renter, who liked to keep his trash cans out at the curb for days after the trash had been collected. Lids off, too. Darnedest thing. There was no good reason for the fella to do that; he wasn’t old or crippled. I decided to bring it to his attention, nice and polite, just observing how it gave a bad first impression of the street and wasn’t quite fair to the property owners, or to me specifically, having to face it every time I sat on my porch. The fella apologized and started pulling up his cans. Good result, right?”

  The Math professor nodded, but confusion clouded his face.

  “Well, about a week later, I found a stinking mound of dog dirt pushed up against the bottom of our porch steps. You know, like someone had collected the dirt from several enormous mastiffs and put it there, just out of sight, so if I went out early to, say, get the paper, I could step in it. Which, of course, I did.”

  “The trash fella’s vendetta?” asked the Math professor.

  Roscoe went on in a leisurely manner. “I will never know. I could have started a little war and done something petty in return, but my wife talked me into taking the high road. The fella moved pretty soon after that, and we got a nice young couple in there who are very responsible. Both teach at the high school. What I’m trying to say is, I’m sure we all have stories about things neighbors do that aggravate us. Ruby told me just the other day that her neighbor reprimands her for not keeping her shades drawn up at the same length. For God’s sake! You never know who might take a tiny offense and turn it against you, even if they act polite as pie to your face.”

  Ruby cast her eyes into her lap to keep from smiling too broadly.

  “So, are we ready to take a vote?” Roscoe said after a brief pause. “I, for one, would like to put this to bed so we can get back to the important work of discussing tenure and promotion.”

  There were willing nods around the table, and Roscoe called for a voice vote on whether to reinstate Gen Rider, effective immediately. To Ruby’s surprise, even the Math professor voted “aye.” At Frances’s suggestion, they voted again, amending their decision to reinstatement with back pay, but that time the Math professor abstained.

  When Roscoe gaveled the meeting to an end, Ruby popped out of her chair as if on a spring. “Thank you for maintaining such a clear head, Roscoe,” she said, her hand on his sleeve. “You’ve done this school a great service.”

  Roscoe didn’t acknowledge her thanks. “Doesn’t mean I approve, you know,” he said. “Gen should—” He held her eyes for a brief moment, then shook his head, picked up his smoking gear, and left without finishing the thought.

  From the file of Dr. Virginia Rider

  Dr. Lowndes Ramsey

  Provost, Baines College

  Old Main

  Dear Provost Ramsey:

  The Committee on Tenure and Privilege met on January 5 to consider the allegations of “unprofessional conduct” against Dr. Virginia Rider.

  After careful and prolonged discussion, we found no clear evidence of such conduct. It was the committee’s unanimous decision that Dr. Rider should be reinstated immediately and take up her teaching schedule as planned for the spring semester.

  The committee also voted to reinstate Dr. Rider with back pay for the three weeks she has been on uncompensated leave.

  I enclose the minutes from our meeting.

  Sincerely yours,

  Roscoe Babcock IV, Ph.D.

  Associate Professor of History

  From the file of Dr. Virginia Rider

  Dr. Lowndes Ramsey

  Provost, Baines College

  Old Main

  Dear Dr. Ramsey:

  I would like to meet with you soon in private to make an addendum to my previous statement. Over the course of the Baines winter break, I heard disturbing reports from several sources about Professor Virginia Rider’s conduct on the Baines campus. One of the reports was from my own daughter, Lee-Anne, who is willing to testify if you so request it. (As you can see if you look at her record, my daughter has maintained a 3.85 GPA for her three semesters at Baines.)

  Why I must amend my statement will become apparent when we speak. It is too sensitive a matter to tell you in a letter, but it is very urgent. I am hoping you can see me this week. A group of parents is concerned about our daughters’ return to Baines for the spring semester if Professor Rider is still part of the faculty.

  I will telephone your office to follow up on this request.

  Sincerely yours,

  Mrs. Robert (Amanda) Blakeney

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Gen

  Every Friday afternoon Gen called Ruby collect from the Lewisburg diner. Even when they talked about nothing more exciting than a dusting of snow on the mountain roads, Gen liked the reassurance of her friend’s voice and the delighted way she said “Gen!” each time.

  This week, the Faculty Committee on Tenure and Privilege had met to discuss Gen’s fate. Gen had tried not to agonize in advance. Ruby and Frances were staunch supporters, and Roscoe, she knew, had voted for her tenure despite a distaste for her research.

  “All that Negro business,” he said once. “If I didn’t know you, Gen, I’d think you went and changed colors on us!�
�� He had stopped short of using the phrase “race traitor.”

  She might have enough support on the committee to survive, but still Gen slept fitfully.

  Although their scheduled call wasn’t until five, Gen set out from the cabin just before four, carefully navigating the sharp curves, on the lookout for patches of ice. In three weeks, she had learned to maneuver her way down and back up even in bad weather, whenever she needed groceries or wanted the company of strangers at the diner.

  The afternoon waitress, Trix, recognized her and greeted her as “Doc.” Gen had fabricated a story about being on research leave. It wasn’t a total lie. She was getting some writing done, finding that her work on Mary White Ovington helped her forget, even temporarily, her troubles back at Baines.

  “Jim Cumming’s still on the phone,” Trix told her. “Medical emergency.” She nodded toward the phone booth near the restrooms where Gen made her weekly call.

  “I hope his family is all right.”

  “Sick horse,” Trix said, setting her up with a full mug and a bowl of banana pudding. Gen didn’t really want the dessert, but the sight of the creamy confection made her mouth water. She took an appreciative spoonful before opening the notebooks she’d brought along.

  The pages brimmed with her research on Ovington’s early writings on race. Gen had made the notes during a trip to the activist’s archive in Detroit the year before. Since coming to Ruby’s cabin, she had been making her way systematically through the notebooks, circling and starring important quotes and ideas. Now she tried to focus on her markings, but her eyes kept wandering to her watch and then to the Coca-Cola clock on the wall, wondering which bore the correct time. According to the watch, she had just two minutes left, but the clock read 4:51.