Читать книгу Testimony - Paula Martinac - Страница 10

Chapter Five

Gen

First came the Hershey’s kisses in her department mailbox. The following week Gen found a box of creme-filled Girl Scout cookies propped against the door of her office. Someone likely had a kid sister who hadn’t unloaded all her boxes during the cookie season.

Gen knew she was likely to devour the cookies in short order if she took them home, as she had the candy kisses. She had developed a craving for sweets after the breakup with Carolyn, and she alternately binged on chocolate ice cream and Tom Collinses to mask her pain. The failed attempt resulted only in tighter waistbands on her fall wardrobe.

Now, Gen dutifully placed the cookies in the department office for everyone to enjoy, not saving even one for herself. The treats vanished by the end of the day, and she spotted the history chairman helping himself to two vanillas.

She would have forgotten the gifts in time, chalked them up to some girl’s innocent gesture of regard. Maybe Margaret Sutter was quietly repaying her for the loan of the Civil War book.

The situation turned less childlike when a package appeared on her porch, wrapped in brown paper. Inside was a lurid pulp novel, Girls’ Dormitory, its spine cracked and cover tattered.

Two summers back, Carolyn had picked up the novel at a drugstore and read it in one sitting during their Rehoboth trip. She had pronounced it “a delightful dose of trash” and urged it on Gen. The cover, with three girls in various states of undress, sparked Gen’s interest, but the description of a college dormitory housemother who “initiated” students made it seem too salacious to bother with. Gen had tossed it aside for Doctor Zhivago, which she’d been saving for vacation.

She knew Carolyn hadn’t mailed the novel; the package had been placed on her porch with care. Whoever wrapped it tied it up with the same pink ribbon as the candy kisses she’d received at school.

Gen’s skin crawled at the thought that her “admirer” knew where she lived. Granted, Springboro was a compact town where people recognized each other by sight, if not by name, and she was the only Rider in the local directory. Still . . .

Worse, Girls’ Dormitory was about a lesbian predator at a girls’ school—a creepy message, for sure, but possibly an ominous warning.

The novel’s housemother plot brought back a memory. In her second year at Baines, the dean at the time asked Gen to be a dormitory housemother. “We rely on our single ladies without families for these positions,” the dean had said. “It will look good on your CV if you ever go up for promotion.”

The dean mentioned no end date for the appointment, which had made Gen nervous to accept. She wasn’t dating anyone at the time, but that didn’t mean she wanted to become a nun. With the advice of a friend at another college, a woman she’d dated in graduate school, Gen finessed her refusal—an excuse about a long-term lease. She’d never told anyone at Baines about the housemother offer, not even Ruby. Girls’ Dormitory landed too close, an eerie coincidence.

And that turned her thoughts to Juliet, who wanted desperately to give up her housemother position. In the five years Juliet had taught at Baines, she and Gen had met for coffee only a couple of times. After the women’s meeting, Juliet had followed her out of Ruby’s and asked if they could talk more about what applying for tenure had cost her. Gen agreed readily. Since securing tenure she was expected to mentor others, and she found Juliet affable. In the busy early weeks, though, neither of them had followed up. Now the incident with the book gave Gen an immediate reason to place the call.

Gen located Juliet’s number easily in the phone book. Juliet agreed to meet on Saturday, suggesting breakfast at the town diner, but Gen set her sights farther afield—someplace where she never encountered anyone from Springboro. That morning, she drove east until she reached the sign: “Barrington, Virginia—Founded 1768—Pop. 10,602.” It was a safe spot where she sometimes met Carolyn, midway between their two lives. Carolyn liked to fantasize that the “02” at the end signified a couple of spinsters who had met as nurses in Korea and set up housekeeping together when they returned.

Lace curtains draped the windows of Barrington Tea Shoppe, presided over by a war bride who had followed her American husband from England after VE Day. The cozy spot served finger sandwiches, pastries, and pots of tea, mostly to tourists snaking their way toward the Blue Ridge Parkway and points west.

Juliet had already procured a table facing the square. With her back turned toward the door, Gen almost didn’t recognize her. At school and at Ruby’s meetings, Juliet usually wore her blond hair in a bun at the nape of her neck, a professional look that accentuated her slender neck. For the weekend, though, she’d arranged it in a French braid that extended past her shoulder blades. The hairstyle and her cotton slacks and madras blouse gave her a girlish air. Gen wished she’d dressed more casually, too, instead of like she was heading to class.

As they deliberated over scones and tarts, Juliet said, “Thanks for reaching out, Gen. I’ve been so blue since Ruby’s, I couldn’t even bring myself to call you.” She clutched her menu, her grip crinkling the sides of the vellum sheet.

Gen hadn’t considered how disheartened her younger colleague might have been when the other female faculty downplayed her concerns—especially Ruby, so revered and yet so harsh when she disapproved. Gen’s own reason for contacting Juliet faded into the background. “I should have called you sooner.”

“It’s a busy time.”

“Not that busy.” Gen fiddled with her napkin, unfolding and refolding it, ashamed that she hadn’t offered Juliet more support. “I’m sorry I didn’t speak up for you at the meeting. The truth is I’m a chicken.”

Juliet snickered. “You don’t fool me, Gen. A woman doesn’t make it to tenure being a chicken.”

Their pastries and pot of Earl Grey arrived, and Gen fell silent for a moment while the waitress served.

“Fact is, there was something I couldn’t bring up in front of everyone. No one knows, not even Ruby—”

Juliet raised her eyebrows over her china cup, as if she expected a salacious reveal. “I thought Ruby knew everything.”

Gen smiled at the assessment. “She likes you to think that, but I’ve managed to keep some things close to the vest. So you can’t tell her, but here’s the thing. My second year at Baines, the dean approached me about being a housemother at Paxton.”

“No!”

“He implied I had no life at all, so I’d be perfect for it. There was no term limit either. It looked like I would just do it until I dropped dead or retired.”

“That’s the same line I got. How did you get out of it?”

“A friend helped me manufacture an excuse about signing a two-year lease I couldn’t break. Apparently, the dean doesn’t know a thing about leases. I was actually living in month-to-month rooms back then.”

“I wish I’d had a friend like that four years ago.” Juliet stared at the scone on her plate. “But I didn’t know you, and Ruby told me to do whatever the dean asked if I hoped to get tenure someday. So I said yes, but I had this sinking feeling about what could happen down the road.”

Gen sipped her tea. “Maybe you could come up with an excuse after the fact,” she said. She glanced toward Juliet’s left hand on the tablecloth, at the shiny jewel as blue as her eyes, surrounded by diamond chips. Juliet caught the shift of Gen’s attention and spun the ring with her thumb.

“I don’t have a fiancé. That would be the perfect excuse, wouldn’t it? But there’s no wedding in the offing, so folks at school will be on to me soon.” Juliet moved her hand to her lap. “Family heirloom from Granny May. Keeps the men at bay. Nobody understands why a thirty-six-year-old woman wouldn’t be married.”

Gen had assumed Juliet was younger, and something loosened in her when she realized only six years separated them. “I’ll see your fiancé and raise you one,” she said softly, like a co-conspirator. “Everyone thinks my man died on Utah Beach.”

Juliet’s eyes popped, and it was clear she’d heard that tale about Gen, too. “You mean, he didn’t?”

After a demure bite Gen explained. “I mean there was no fiancé. But that’s our secret. Well, yours and mine and a few select people that don’t include Ruby.”

“Ha! She doesn’t even know what she doesn’t know,” Juliet quipped. “So what is your story?”

Gen pressed the back of her hand to her forehead, feigning distress. “I’ve never recovered from the shock of getting the telegram. A bit callous, but it works.”

“No, I mean, is there some private person you don’t want Ruby to know about?”

Gen blinked quickly. The river of comfort had widened between them, and with the word “person” Juliet offered a way to jump in. But Gen needed more before she gave up all her secrets. “Not at the moment,” she said. “Anyway, my story doesn’t solve your problem, does it?”

Juliet peered at Gen as if weighing whether to press her further about her “private person,” but she let the subject drop.

“You know, I think I may just roll the dice and give up the post,” Juliet said. “I’m tired of girls knocking on my door at odd hours, and I’m dying to throw a raucous cocktail party. And I won’t even mention my private life, which has been nonexistent for too long.”

Gen made a quick segue into her own predicament. “I hate to tell you, but it isn’t that much easier for single women living off-campus.” She reached into her straw handbag, the one she had bought for beach trips with Carolyn, and fished out the copy of Girls’ Dormitory. She passed it to Juliet under the table, afraid that the waitress or another customer might see the smutty cover art.

“I’ve been getting little gifts at school, candy and then a box of Girl Scout cookies. Crush-type things. But then I found this on my porch the other day.”

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.