Testimony

by Paula Martinac

  The pencil tapping picked up again, then stopped. “Given that, here’s my two cents.” Ursula’s tone dripped annoyance. “Admitting nothing isn’t your best defense. Maybe you’ve watched too much Perry Mason, but—”

  Gen flinched at the rebuff. “I don’t have time for television, Mrs. Werner.”

  “Yes, well, if I understand your logic, you want someone to negotiate a less humiliating exit? You don’t need a civil rights specialist for that. My secretary can give you a few names of attorneys closer to your town, very fine men I can vouch for.”

  Gen’s head spun from the conversation’s circular route. “No, wait, please,” she pleaded as the lawyer prepared to end the call. Ursula’s brusque manner grated on her—Frank had been right about that—but she’d set her heart on a woman to represent her at the hearing. “I’d be more comfortable with a female attorney. And no, I don’t want to leave Baines. I want someone to save my job, so this is about my rights.”

  A pause stretched on for a few seconds that felt like minutes. “It’s not an easy case,” the lawyer said. “It could drag on for months and cost you dearly.”

  The money needed for a lengthy defense brought Gen’s parents to mind. Suspension was sure to erode her savings in no time, and she wondered how to ask her parents for a loan without divulging what it was for. Still, she would cross that bridge later.

  “I always pay my bills,” she replied.

  The lawyer clucked. “I was thinking about the personal cost, Dr. Rider. Especially if the case goes public.”

  “They want to keep it quiet. That’s about the only thing in my favor.”

  “There’s public and then there’s public.” Gen didn’t press her to explain the vexing bit of semantics.

  Ursula said she would reserve her final decision until they could talk in person and review any documents Gen had to support herself.

  “I could drive up tomorrow morning,” Gen offered. “I’ve got nothing else to do.”

  ✥ ✥ ✥

  In the fading afternoon light, the Old Dominion Motor Court outside of Leesville resembled a plantation gone to seed. The white paint flaked from its columned facade, and a handful of lopsided cabins surrounded the main building like slaves’ quarters. Probably once a respectable accommodation for families and travelers heading to the Blue Ridge Parkway, it now screamed of quick assignations.

  Gen rented a room from a clerk whose graying hair was wound in pin curls. She had planned on signing the register “Virginia Smith,” but with a smattering of Smiths already on the ledger, she switched to Virginia Lee.

  The clerk considered the signature. “Related to the general?”

  “Not that I know.”

  The woman lifted a key from the peg board behind her but stopped short of handing it to Gen. “We’re just a stone’s throw from Lexington, you know,” she said, nodding toward a row of brochures on the counter. “You won’t wanna miss the Lee Chapel or the Stonewall Jackson House.”

  To feign interest, Gen stuffed two brochures into her handbag and muttered thanks.

  “Any bags?” the clerk asked—a funny question for a place that surely didn’t employ a bellhop.

  “Just one, in the trunk,” Gen said. “I can handle it.”

  “Well, you’ll wanna pull around then and use the side door. Closer to your room.” The woman finally relinquished the key with a generous smile. A traveler with a suitcase was probably an oddity.

  “Restaurant’s open till nine. There’s a special on fried chicken all day. You have a nice evening, now.”

  In a parking spot near the side entrance, Gen waited with the motor running. She was still ten minutes early, so she turned on the radio, cranking the volume higher when the news reported that a U.S. District judge ruled in favor of two Negro students enrolling at the University of Georgia. The students, the judge said, “would have already been admitted had it not been for their race and color.” They could attend classes that very week. The report brought to mind Mae and Frank’s daughter and her unsuccessful attempt to integrate Baines.

  A quiet tap on the driver’s window jolted Gen out of her thoughts. Juliet waved and mouthed hello through the pane, her cheeks rosy from the cold.

  “Am I late?” she asked when Gen rolled down her window.

  “I was early. I got the key.”

  “Let’s go in.”

  The three little words sent a shiver down Gen’s arms. She’d been hesitant about Juliet’s suggestion to meet at a motel. Although she wanted to see her and a room outside of town felt safe, the stress of the past few weeks, especially the drive to Lexington that day to consult with Ursula, had drained her of emotion.

  Now the sexual feelings she thought were dormant came flooding back. She had no trouble remembering what to do when Juliet drew the curtains and turned on a transistor radio to muffle sounds, when they peeled off their clothes and explored each other’s bodies like it was the first time.

  Later, they lay on the rumpled sheets with fingers entwined. “Your eyes change color,” Gen observed. “I thought they were blue, but now they look green.”

  “They’re sneaky that way.”

  “What else don’t I know about you?” The intimate question popped out of her without thinking about it.

  “Lots, I guess.” Juliet sat up abruptly and squinted toward the clock on the nightstand. “Wow, it’s almost seven.”

  The observation made Gen bristle. “You have somewhere to go?”

  Juliet swung her legs over the side of the bed. “Yeah, to the restaurant. I’m starving.”

  The attached restaurant was nearly empty, save for a few men eating hot sandwiches at the counter and a young couple seated in a far corner. Gen and Juliet slid into opposite sides of a booth like friends or colleagues, but she imagined what it would be like to press herself up against Juliet on the Naugahyde bench.

  After the waitress took their order and poured coffee, Juliet opened up the conversation they’d avoided so far. “So what did the lawyer—shit, I forget her name. What did she say?”

  Gen’s mind flashed to Ursula. Before they met, Gen had pictured a dowdy matron, hair pulled back in a severe bun, Coke-bottle glasses. Instead, Ursula’s hair was coiffed in a stylish bouffant, and her dove-gray suit would have suited Jackie Kennedy. Her nail polish matched her outfit to a T.

  Ursula was more gracious in person than on the phone, but their thirty-minute meeting had not encouraged Gen. Although they signed a client contract, the lawyer remained skeptical of a win. Gen’s adamant protests that she had never solicited a student didn’t faze Ursula.

  “They’ll find students to go on the record and say that you did,” Ursula had replied. “The truth is beside the point.”

  “She said that?” Juliet asked, her color and voice rising. The waitress delivered their fried chicken.

  “She can try to poke holes in their stories,” Gen replied. She omitted the other direction of the consultation—Ursula’s recommendation that Gen abandon the idea of not admitting to the kiss and let Juliet come forward.

  “I should have gone with you,” Juliet said.

  Gen’s back straightened. “You think I can’t speak for myself?”

  “Of course, you can, darling, but—”

  “Ssh!” Her eyes shot around the space, but if anyone had heard the endearment, they ignored it.

  “I just meant, we could have discussed a joint strategy.”

  “We’ve been over this. There is no joint strategy.” Gen gave her plate a shove, her appetite faded. The chicken breast glistened with grease, and the cole slaw sat in a runny pool of mayonnaise.

  “You don’t seem to get it, Gen. I’m involved, too—up to my eyeballs. I’m the one who put the moves on you. I’m the one who came to your house that day. I don’t remember who started kissing first, but it hardly matters now.” She took a deep breath. “I wasn’t going to tell you this because I didn’t want to lose my nerve, but I made an appointment with Ted Franklin, our chairma
n. I’m going to tell him, Gen.”

  The air in the restaurant had become close and stale, and the sight of the food made Gen’s stomach wobble.

  “I’m prepared to resign on the spot.”

  The waitress approached their table, asking if she could freshen their coffee, and Juliet waved her off. “Just the check, please.”

  Chapter Thirty

  Margaret

  Spring semester was a day old when Margaret received a mimeographed notice in her dorm mailbox:

  Dear Margaret Sutter:

  Over the first week of classes, Dr. Henry Thoms, acting chairman of history, will meet individually with history majors on a most important matter. Your meeting is scheduled for January 11 at 10:15 a.m. Please come to Dr. Thoms’s office in Waylon 115 and be prompt. If you cannot make this appointment, please inform Miss Linda Sue Vance immediately.

  Margaret had avoided taking classes with Dr. Thoms because something about him made her skittish. Dr. Thoms exuded manners so courtly they almost seemed rehearsed, like he was acting the part of a professor in a play. Dr. Rider had once used the adjective polished for him, and Margaret couldn’t suss out if her adviser thought that was good or bad.

  There were also vague, intermittent rumors about him and students that circulated on campus. Lee-Anne Blakeney, who made Margaret’s stomach twist, counted among his favorites. Margaret had also overheard suggestive comments about the size of his office, which could apparently wrap around other professors’ spaces several times.

  “Lee-Anne says he’s got a couch,” Susanna Carr had told another girl, a little breathlessly, as students waited in line at the dining hall.

  “Why’s a professor need a couch?” Polly had asked loudly, and Margaret elbowed her. Susanna scowled at both of them and lowered her voice. Because of the eavesdropping, Margaret had been on her wrong side ever since. Still, Margaret considered Polly’s question valid and reason enough to approach the professor with trepidation.

  When the time for her appointment arrived, Margaret rapped on the door of Waylon 115. Her heart knocked so wildly in her chest, she was afraid it would be audible. Her pulse slowed when the door opened and just past Dr. Thoms’s tall frame she spied Miss Vance, the department secretary and a Baines alumna of a few years back, seated at a round table with a steno pad in front of her.

  “Miss Sutter, please come in,” Dr. Thoms said. “I won’t take but a few minutes of your time.”

  Margaret sank into the chair closest to Miss Vance, while Dr. Thoms arranged his long limbs in the seat across from them.

  “You’ve not been in any of my classes,” he remarked with a lazy smile.

  “No, sir.”

  “And Dr. Rider is your adviser.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Dr. Thoms fiddled with a sheet of paper in front of him. “As her advisee, you know Dr. Rider pretty well, wouldn’t you say?” He gestured toward Miss Vance, who picked up her pen to begin recording the interview.

  Margaret shrugged. “I’ve had two classes with her, that’s all. I’m taking her early nineteenth-century class this term.”

  In fact, on her way to Dr. Thoms’s office that morning, Margaret had passed Dr. Rider’s office, intending to pop her head in and say hi. She thought the sight of her favorite teacher might instill courage.

  But Waylon 120 sat darkened and neglected-looking, like the office of someone who’d retired. Margaret had pressed her nose to the frosted door but couldn’t make out any movement inside. It was unlike Dr. Rider not to be at her desk already.

  Now, Dr. Thoms’s assertion that “Dr. Rider isn’t teaching that class anymore” made Margaret’s knee bounce under the table.

  Margaret’s voice came out as a squeak. “She’s not?”

  “There’s a new professor y’all will like a lot. A fine young fella, single, too. Now, Miss Sutter, I have some specific questions for you, and I want you to consider your answers carefully.”

  Margaret placed a hand on her knee to steady it. Miss Vance asked if she wanted water, but before she could reply, Dr. Thoms’s questions pummeled her like fists.

  Has Dr. Rider ever said anything unseemly to you?

  Have you ever felt discomfort when you met with Dr. Rider alone in her office?

  At these meetings, did the professor ever close the office door?

  Has Dr. Rider ever looked at you inappropriately?

  Has she ever touched you in an unwanted manner, anywhere on your body, or rubbed against you?

  Have you ever been to Dr. Rider’s house?

  After, in her eagerness to escape Waylon Hall, Margaret nearly tripped off the stoop into the quad. She bolted back to her dorm, where in the hall bathroom she threw up the Cheerios and bananas she’d eaten before the meeting.

  ✥ ✥ ✥

  Testimony of Henry Thoms, Acting Chairman, History Dept., Baines College for Women, to the Committee on Values and Moral Standards

  Interview conducted by C. Tyler Rolfe, Dean, Baines College for Women

  C. Tyler Rolfe: Thank you for this thorough report and meticulous notes, Henry.

  Henry Thoms: You can thank our lovely Miss Vance. She’s easy on the eye and takes lightning-fast shorthand, as I’m sure you’re aware.

  CTR: Miss Vance is a jewel, and we’ve both been keeping her mighty busy. Now I don’t want to take too much of your time. You just conducted interviews with the current roster of Baines history majors, and I was hoping you might quickly summarize your findings for us.

  HT: Of course. I was trying to ascertain if any of our majors, who would have more contact with Professor Rider than other students, had anything to report about her behavior. We currently have twenty-one history majors.

  CTR: A very healthy number.

  HT: I’m quite proud of it, as is Dr. Huston. And I spent roughly twenty minutes with each of them, asking specific questions about Professor Rider. I read all Miss Vance’s transcribed notes and came up with a tally of sorts, which is what this top sheet is. I’m sorry to say that nine of them reported having an awkward moment with Professor Rider.

  CTR: What did those awkward moments entail?

  HT: Most often, a time when she put a hand on their backs or shoulders, something to that effect. One of those also said the professor looked at her in an inappropriate way. You will want to talk more to her about that. Lee-Anne Blakeney is the girl’s name. One of my advisees, and a very promising young scholar.

  CTR: We’ll spend extra time with her. What else, Henry?

  HT: Seven additional students said they felt uncomfortable when Virginia—Professor Rider—closed the door of her office to talk to them, but they reported no untoward behavior.

  CTR: Did they elaborate on what their discomfort stemmed from?

  HT: I assumed the closing of the door, which could establish an unnatural intimacy.

  CTR: Yes, but to play devil’s advocate, might their discomfort have stemmed from worrying they were in trouble?

  HT: Of course, that’s an option. Several did mention a certain uneasiness about the content of Professor Rider’s courses. Her focus on Negro history, for example. Her denigration of Southern traditions. The syllabus I’ve seen is troubling, to say the least.

  CTR: Yes, I see. Now what about the remaining students?

  HT: Three of our majors have not taken classes with Professor Rider. One has not yet returned to campus because she’s picked up some sort of bug. Of the twenty girls I made contact with, only one said she never experienced a single uncomfortable moment with the professor. Because she was the only one to make that claim and struck me as a bit guilty-looking, I would tend to discount her statement. My first thought was perhaps she’d been coached.

  CTR: That’s a serious charge, Henry. Who is the girl?

  HT: Margaret Sutter. A sophomore. From what I’ve gleaned from other students, the girl had a special bond with Professor Rider.

  CTR: I don’t see how she could have been coached. Professor Rider was escorted off campus in
December and has not returned. My understanding is she was out of town part of the time. She wouldn’t have direct access to students.

  HT: Not on campus, no.

  CTR: You think she saw Miss Sutter elsewhere?

  HR: I asked the girl if she’d been to Professor Rider’s home, and she denied it. But again, I have my doubts.

  CTR: Based on?

  HT: That same guilty sort of look. Take my word for it, Ty. I can read these girls like a book.

  [gap in tape]

  CTR: Thank you, Henry. Your analysis has been most helpful. Did you have anything else you wanted to add?

  HT: Simply that I have long questioned Professor Rider’s teaching materials. Her research agenda, too, is most uncommon and suggests a disturbing leftist bent. My understanding is she is currently doing research on the founding of the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People, of all things, which as you know may have been infiltrated with Communists. I myself did not consider her tenurable, but my esteemed colleagues in the department disagreed.

  CTR: Thank you for your generous time, Henry.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Fenton

  The crop of students at the Our Town tryouts included the usual suspects—leftovers from the aborted production of Charley’s Aunt plus some who hadn’t made the cut for that play because the cast was too small. With its ample cast of characters, Our Town would accommodate a lot more of them.

  Fenton already knew most of the students by name, either from class or past productions, and he called them one by one to deliver their audition monologues while he scribbled notes from the fourth row. Unless there was a surprise bravura performance by someone he hadn’t noticed in the fall, the main casting for this play would be a snap.