Testimony

by Paula Martinac

  What had happened to Dr. Rider’s copy? Lee-Anne didn’t remember how she’d come up with the idea of the pranks or even why, except that she felt a stab of jealousy every time she saw Margaret Sutter accompanying Dr. Rider to her office. The fake gifts seemed funny at the time. Susanna had laughed, too, even though she was nervous when they actually delivered the items.

  Now, Lee-Anne rifled through the pages of Women’s Barracks, stopping here and there to glance at pages she and Susanna had dog-eared and giggled over. Afterward, she sneaked it downstairs and buried it below food scraps in the garbage, where the housekeeper wouldn’t find it.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Ruby

  Ruby called out for Darrell twice when she got home, but his name echoed in the stillness of the foyer. Had he mentioned something about a racquetball game with one of the boys? She made a hurried tour of the second floor to see if he had fallen asleep or worse—he’d had two heart scares that had hastened his retirement—but she realized she was alone in the house.

  She sank onto the edge of their bed. Her body juddered, and she wrapped her arms across her chest to steady herself. Rage filled her body like a fiery cascade, starting in her throat and spilling down to her toes. She let out a low moan that crescendoed until she was screaming, trying to release the fire inside.

  When she couldn’t maintain the intensity of the scream anymore, when her throat ached with the effort, she found she was crying—and for herself, which seemed ridiculous on the face of it. If she tallied her blessings, which she rarely did, she’d been a lucky woman—finding Darrell, building a life together, enjoying a rich career, having sons who were making their way in the world and giving her grandchildren. Friends had weathered blows from children who flunked out of college, couldn’t hold a job, or divorced after a year or two. So why did she feel so sorry for herself?

  Fat tears dripped onto the front of her coat, which she had unbuttoned but not removed. In her protracted fit, she did not hear Darrell’s light steps on the stairs and in the hall, and she jumped when he appeared in the bedroom doorframe.

  “Rube?” He took a place next to her on the bed and slid an arm around her shoulders. Darrell was not a demonstrative man given to hugs or squeezes, and hearty handshakes with his sons were about as expressive as he got. Their intimate life, robust in the first decades of their marriage, had dwindled in their middle age to a peck on the lips before bed. Now as he pulled her in close, Ruby buried her head in his chest and remembered the comfort of physical contact.

  Darrell fished in his pocket for the handkerchief he always kept there and handed it to her. Ruby blew her nose ferociously, like that might expel her pain. When she was done, she related Gen’s settlement with the college in detail.

  Darrell nodded as she spoke. “Well, it’s probably the best she could have hoped for.”

  She waved her hands dramatically. “It isn’t! Her lawyer wanted her to press on and file for defamation, but she’s just throwing in the towel.”

  Darrell squinted at her, clearly puzzled. “Well, it hardly sounds like that. Gen put up quite a fight, didn’t she?”

  “But it’s such a waste! It shouldn’t have been like this. All that education and experience. All the years I spent nurturing her—just to lose her. And Juliet’s gone, too. Is Frances safe? Fenton? Who’s next? I might as well leave, too, retire early. They’d like that. They’ll hire some young fella to replace me in a heartbeat, just watch.”

  The rant left drops of spittle on her lips. Her words sounded pathetic in her own ears, but she didn’t care. She needed to unpack all her years at Baines, all the women who hadn’t gotten tenure or been promoted, all the mediocre men who’d prospered and advanced.

  Her husband leaned back as if to get a better view of her face. “Well, I understand the despair, sweetheart, I do. It’s not a happy situation. And you know I’d like nothing better than for you to retire and me to whisk you off to the cabin.” He paused for a breath, as if preparing to rest his case. “But right now, it’s not about you, is it? Gen’s the one who’s lost so much, and she could use her good friend Ruby.”

  The rational attorney wasn’t the Darrell whose company she craved right now. She wanted him to comfort her as she focused on her own pain.

  “And when you think about it, what you’ve lost is your idea of Gen—not Gen herself.”

  She flinched, ready to demand an explanation for the perplexing statement, but he was already off the bed and leaving the room.

  “I’m going to warm up the leftover stew,” he called over his shoulder. “You come down when you’re ready.”

  ✥ ✥ ✥

  The February day was crisp and bright, the first sign of a spring thaw, although winter in southwestern Virginia would hang on for at least six weeks. Ruby looked forward to the drive at the same time she dreaded it—her last time with Gen before she left Springboro for good.

  Much like Juliet’s, Gen’s resignation letter claimed she was leaving to take care of family matters, which Ruby assumed was a ruse. No one resigned in the middle of a semester. As it turned out, though, Gen told Ruby and Frances she intended to spend a few weeks at her parents’ house in Charlotte while she planned her next steps.

  “But the family part was an inside joke, too,” Gen had admitted. “I wanted to get the last laugh.” Frances smiled knowingly, but the humor was lost on Ruby.

  “‘Family’ is a code word,” Gen explained. “For gay people.”

  Ruby had blushed, although she wasn’t sure why. It was just one more thing she didn’t know about Gen, Juliet, Fenton, and likely others.

  Now, with Ruby behind the wheel, Gen admired the Bel Air’s pristine interior. “You know, I’ve never been in your car.”

  “Sure you have,” Ruby objected.

  “Nope. I would have remembered.” She stroked the smooth upholstery that Darrell kept shiny and spotless.

  “Well, I don’t guess I’ve ever been in yours either,” Ruby said after a pause. “And while we’re confessing things . . . I’ve never been to Barrington.”

  “It’s ten miles away! How is that even possible?”

  “I never go anywhere, too busy with school and such. You know how it is.”

  Gen’s face clouded, and she turned it briefly toward the passenger window.

  “I’m sorry, Gen.”

  “Don’t be. I’m looking forward to whatever it is I’m going to do.” Her smile was faint. “I’ve talked to my grad school adviser. I’ve mentioned her to you before.”

  “Muriel . . . sorry, I’ve forgotten.” Ruby’s mouth tightened at the second faux pas she had to apologize for.

  “Whitbread. She’s working on some possibilities for me. In New York.” She set the news down between them, and Ruby didn’t pick it up. Her throat constricted, trapping what she wanted to say: As far away as that! Please don’t!

  Gen pointed out the window toward a bright red awning. “There, that’s the place. You can park right in front.”

  When they stepped through the door of the quaint tea shop, Ruby felt lighter. “Oh, we’re in an Edith Wharton novel!”

  “I knew you would love it here,” Gen said.

  While they waited for their tea, Gen related how she had found the shop on one of her trips from Richmond and returned every chance she got. Sometimes, she said, she had met Carolyn there. “You remember her? You met that one time. My friend in Richmond?”

  Ruby ran a hand over the crisp white tablecloth. Gen had talked about Carolyn over the years, but Ruby had never questioned their relationship. Now Gen was finally easing open the door, and Ruby wasn’t sure how far into her privacy she wanted to go.

  “We were actually more than friends. That was just the safest word.”

  Heat rushed to Ruby’s cheeks, unwelcome, and she brushed a hand over them as if the action could take it away. “Like ‘family.’ You didn’t—” Ruby stopped for a moment as the waitress delivered their order. “You couldn’t trust me.”


  Gen sniffled. “I didn’t want to lose your respect. Your love.”

  Ruby tried to pour tea into both their cups, but her hand trembled and she set the pot down again. “I wasn’t a good friend to you. I seem to be saying I’m sorry a lot, but I am. Truly.” Her voice splintered. “My dear, no matter where life takes you, you will always have my respect. And my love.”

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Fenton

  Gen’s possessions were packed up in boxes, which now occupied most of the living room. Her furnishings had already been given away or sold.

  The emptiness and disarray filled Fenton with sadness. He watched as his friend searched for two glasses. With all but one chair gone, they sat on the rug and toasted.

  Fenton had a new adventure planned, too, but it wouldn’t be as thrilling or as daunting as Gen’s. He was only moving twelve miles away to Roanoke. It was no New York—hell, with its solitary gay bar, it wasn’t even Richmond. But its size offered him breathing room, something Springboro lacked. And with Gen leaving soon for Charlotte and then probably New York, the sleepy college town held no attraction for him at all. It was just a place to make a living.

  He’d continue scanning employment ads, for sure. But if he didn’t find anything, well, he reasoned it was better to grow old in something that resembled a city. Maybe at Roanoke’s one gay bar he’d find a guy like him, not too young, not married, and on the lookout for love.

  “I so wish that for you,” Gen said, as he related his hopes.

  “Someone to watch over me,” he sang, but his tenor voice shook with emotion.

  “Now don’t go all maudlin on me,” she said. “We’ll see each other again.” After a couple of shots, they were both a little tipsy. He curled up next to her and rested his head on her leg. “And I plan to check on you regularly.”

  He sat up suddenly, almost spilling the remainder of his drink. From his shirt pocket he withdrew a check made out to Gen. Her mouth flopped open as she read the five-hundred-dollar amount once, then a second time.

  “What is this, Fen?”

  “A check. When you said you were going to check on me, I remembered it. Thank God I didn’t drive off with it still in my pocket!”

  “I can see it’s a check, but what’s it for?”

  He shrugged, as if he gave her hundreds of dollars every day.

  “I got a settlement. I’ll be okay. Is this your granddad’s railroad stock?”

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  “I can’t take your inheritance.” When Gen tried to hand it back, he stowed his hands behind his back. She slid it into his breast pocket, but Fenton dug it out immediately.

  “You have hurt me to the quick,” he said. “I try to give you something to remember me by, and—” He let go of the paper, and it fluttered into her lap.

  Gen stared at it, then at him. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “A ‘thanks, old chap’ would do.”

  “I don’t say things like old chap.”

  “Yes, but I’d love to hear it from you just once.”

  She gave in to a smile. “Thanks, old chap.”

  His head down, he murmured something about leaving; he dreaded the actual moment of good-bye. But then Gen popped up from the floor, he assumed to fetch the bourbon bottle for a refill that would keep him for another round. Instead, though, she rifled through a folder lying on top of a closed box and removed a letter-sized envelope, addressed and stamped but not sealed. The front read George Kilwin, Editor, The Roanoke Times.

  “Read it for me?” she asked. “Juliet approved, but these days she seems to think everything I do is gold.”

  He slipped the folded letter from its envelope. His vision blurred from the bourbon, but he managed to focus enough to read the single typed sheet. Cagily written, the missive named no one but hinted that at least one male professor was taking advantage of students at Baines and the administration had purposely ignored the matter. Written down, the story read salaciously, even though he was sure Gen didn’t mean it that way. It took Fenton back to the pulp novels boys bought at the drugstore when he was a kid, where a busty girl in a bra served as the front cover illustration. The fact that the pictures had never tantalized him had been the first hint of his difference.

  Fenton returned the letter to its sheath and handed it back to Gen. “I thought your deal came with a gag order.”

  “They said no Gazette.”

  “Sneaky.” He scratched his chin. “I don’t suppose the paper has a female reporter?”

  “I called, but the female receptionist acted surprised by the question.” Gen sighed as her hands gripped the letter, as if poised to rip it in half. “Hopeless, right?”

  It was indeed a long shot for a Roanoke paper to care about one teacher and a pregnant student in another town. And the story was as old as time. Still, Fenton didn’t want to discourage Gen, so he replied with a vague, “Maybe not, hon. Don’t give up.”

  She set it aside on the carpet, saying she’d reserve the decision for when she was driving out of town. “Who knows? I might just toss it in the mail and let fate decide.”

  “What’s past is prologue,” he recited without hesitation, “what to come, in yours and my discharge.”

  When confusion clouded her face, he added, “The Tempest. I always have a line from Shakespeare handy.”

  When she smiled again, he memorized it.

  ✥ ✥ ✥

  Fenton’s car bulged with boxes, suitcases, and bags. His scanty furniture had already left town in a truck that morning, along with a few choice items from Gen’s house—including her almost-new sofa bed and the phone bench he had helped her pick out and had admired for years.

  “You sure you got everything?” his landlady asked, hands on her hips. She looked like a mother sending her boy off to first grade.

  “If I forgot something, you keep it, Mrs. R.,” he said with a wink. “You get inside now before you catch your death.”

  On the kitchen counter next to the keys, Fenton had left behind a couple of full matchbooks from Maroni’s, a bar in Richmond that catered to guys like him. He imagined Mrs. Rash offering a match to a guest someday, completely unaware of what it signified. “Where did you get this?” the guest, who was savvier than Mrs. R., would ask in disbelief. And then his landlady would find out who had lived above her for years.

  Or maybe she’d toss the matches into a junk drawer filled with twine and scissors and loose batteries and forget they existed. Her son would find them when she died and wonder aghast how his mother had come to have them.

  The reverie went on and on, shooting a ripple of pleasure through Fenton. He gave the passenger door a satisfying slam.

  Epilogue

  May 1961

  Juliet’s letter directed her to take the A train to her apartment building in Greenwich Village, and every time Gen glanced at the instructions the Duke Ellington song played in her mind. She had traveled to cities like Chicago, Detroit, and Washington, DC, but never to New York, and the prospect of riding such an iconic subway line both thrilled and terrified her.

  Once she disembarked in Penn Station and made her way through the vaulted concourse, the vastness of the city hit her like the fast-moving train she’d taken from Richmond. Although it wasn’t in her budget, she tucked away the instructions about the subway and hailed a cab, hoping the driver wouldn’t take her on a scenic route to West Twelfth Street.

  She tried not to seem like too much of a rube, staring out the window open-mouthed at the buildings, the busy crowds, the crabapple trees in full bloom. Luckily for her, the driver turned out to be a polite young man who called her ma’am and volunteered to carry her suitcase to the front stoop of Juliet’s apartment building.

  The label on the buzzer read “Dr. J. May.” Gen ran a finger over it before pressing the button.

  Juliet’s voice crackled through the speaker. “Who is it?”

  “Dr. Rider to see Dr. May.”

  Gen had barely managed to lug
her suitcase through the building’s two massive oak doors when Juliet appeared, flying down the stairs from the second floor. Juliet enveloped her in a hug that pulled her off balance, and her warm breath tickled Gen’s ear.

  “You’re early!” Juliet leaned out of the hug to examine her. “What did the esteemed Dr. Rider think of the New York subway?”

  Gen’s cheeks warmed. “Truth? I splurged on a taxi.”

  Juliet erupted in a hearty laugh. “First thing, we’ll have to put you on a budget.” She grasped Gen’s hand, then held it out with a questioning look at the bare ring finger.

  “Never fear,” Gen said. “Packed away for safety.”

  “God, I’d like to ravish you right here, but I’ll wait.”

  The grand tour of the apartment took less than a minute. Juliet’s rooms at Cavendish House would have swallowed this space with room to spare. The kitchen accommodated only one person at a time, and the toilet was located in the hallway, separate from the sink and tub. Juliet’s bedroom held a double bed, a tall dresser, and a nightstand, and her clothes hung from wooden pegs in the wall. “No closets in these old places,” she explained.

  She led Gen by the hand back into the front room. One window was partially obscured by the woven bars of a fire escape, but the other looked out onto a charming pocket of old New York ablaze with colorful tulips. “How lovely.”

  “A view of Abingdon Square is not to be sniffed at.” Juliet coaxed her toward another doorway, separated from the rest of the apartment by a sheer curtain. “And here’s the pièce de résistance,” she said, throwing back the fabric. “Your study, Mademoiselle Docteur.”

  The room was no more than a cell, even more cramped than her office at Baines. Juliet had outfitted it with a maple desk and chair, a three-shelf bookcase, and a dented green filing cabinet that someone else had likely discarded. The desk faced a tiny window that looked out onto the bricks of a neighboring building. On the desk she had set a Royal typewriter Gen recognized as Juliet’s own and a cut-glass vase filled with daisies.