Читать книгу Testimony - Paula Martinac - Страница 7

Chapter Two

Gen

A handful of students lingered behind after Gen’s Civil War class, surrounding her desk. She was accustomed to this post-class “ring around the rosie,” as Ruby jokingly dubbed it. Students rarely showed up for her established office hours, choosing instead to pepper her with questions about assignments and readings as she packed up her own notes and books to vacate the classroom for the next professor.

Margaret Sutter hovered to the side of the room until the other girls had left. She said she had a thesis statement for her theme paper and wondered if Gen would take a look at it, even though office hours were over for the week.

“Your first paper’s not due till midterm, Margaret,” Gen said warily. “Wouldn’t you like to wait and see what all your options are?”

The girl bit her top lip. “I like to start my papers as soon as possible,” Margaret explained, “in case I run into problems. I have a lot on my plate this term.”

You’re an A student, Gen thought but didn’t say. She didn’t want to trivialize the girl’s earnest approach to her studies, which Gen recognized from her own college days.

With Margaret in tow, Gen moved into the hallway, where Lee-Anne Blakeney was whispering with Susanna Carr, who was also in the class. Given Lee-Anne’s reservations about studying slavery in such depth, Gen had hoped the girl would drop, but she appeared to be soldiering on. Lee-Anne caught Gen’s eye and chirped, “See you next time, professor!” but her eyes settled on Margaret and not her teacher.

Gen nodded to Lee-Anne while she continued talking to Margaret. “Walk me back to my office?”

Margaret’s face lit at the invitation, and they descended to the first floor in tandem.

What Gen’s office lacked in size, it made up for in coziness. She had installed an Oriental rug from her parents’ house and two lamps so she didn’t have to read by fluorescent light. With the help of the janitor, she’d covered every inch of the walls with framed photos of forest trails, waterfalls, and sandy beaches—all from trips she’d taken with Carolyn, all carefully curated so her lover never appeared in any of them.

From the corner of her eye, Gen noticed Margaret assessing the collection.

“I’ve probably said this before but your photos are beautiful,” Margaret commented as she sat waiting for Gen to organize her books and papers.

“Thanks. I took most of them.”

“Gosh, really? I’d love to know how to take pictures as good as these. You must have a terrific camera. I still have a stupid Brownie I got for my twelfth birthday.”

“I do have a very good camera.” The Leica counted among her prized possessions, an extravagant Christmas present from Carolyn their first full year together.

“How did you learn to use it?”

“A patient friend taught me.” Carolyn sprang to mind again, the unhurried way she’d guided Gen’s hands on the camera body. Gen rolled her shoulders to dispel the memory. “Now, Margaret, tell me about your idea.”

Margaret drew a typed sheet from a folder for Gen. “I get nervous sometimes when I have to talk, tongue-tied almost. So I wrote it down.”

“You do very well speaking in class, though.”

Margaret shrugged. “I have to force myself. Some of the girls here are, well, snobby and judgmental about all sorts of things, like when they think you’re talking too much or too loud.”

Gen had witnessed the behavior in her classes, occasional flashes of annoyance from girls who deemed forcefulness and inquisitiveness too “male.” In high school, Gen and Laurette Sparks had helped each other develop public voices to match any man’s in strength. They practiced in Gen’s bedroom, projecting speeches to the far corners of the room. “Did you say something?” became their private joke when one of them resorted to a wispy voice.

Margaret’s face flushed as she continued, “But you . . . you make it easier to speak up, Dr. Rider.”

Gen always advised her students to rid themselves of their “Aunt Pittypat” voices, the reference to the skittish character from Gone with the Wind always filling the classroom with giggles. Most of them ignored her recommendation, though. “Boys don’t like girls with loud voices,” she’d heard more than once, but a smattering of students, like Margaret, heeded her advice.

“Well, let’s get to this thesis statement, shall we?” Gen said to cover her embarrassment at the compliment.

She bent over Margaret’s typed sheet, her pen following the words. Each semester, she waited for the student who sparkled with new insights, but Margaret’s idea was as unpolished as an old shoe. Gen sat back in her chair and laid her glasses across the sheet of paper.

“The battle of Antietam is certainly a solid choice,” she said. “You’re interested in military maneuvers, I take it?”

Confusion flitted across Margaret’s face. “Isn’t that what the Civil War is? Battles and such?”

“It can be, of course. But there are plenty of other topics that might interest you as we progress through the semester. Social or economic or even cultural topics. No need to tie yourself down so early, even if it’s a busy semester.”

Margaret nodded. “I have so many extracurricular activities, though,” she pointed out. “The history honors society, for one. I’d love to submit something for the national conference. And you saw me at the theater, trying out for the school play? I got a call-back.” She blushed again.

“Well, that’s wonderful, Margaret. I’ll keep my fingers crossed for you.”

“Thanks, but being in a play can be pretty time-consuming. I’m not sure why I did it. I thought maybe I’d make some friends.” Margaret’s hands twisted in her lap, and Gen felt a pang of sympathy. College had been a lonely experience for her, too, commuting from her parents’ house every day and never having much in common with girls who treated it like finishing school.

“Making friends can be hard,” Gen acknowledged. “You just need to find your tribe.”

Margaret sighed. “The problem is, I don’t know who my tribe is.”

This seemed like a longer conversation, one that would force Gen into the role of counselor rather than professor. She aimed to keep a professional distance. “Be friendly, not a friend,” was her motto.

Gen deftly steered the conversation to a more professional track. “Give it time, Margaret. You’re doing the right things to meet people. Now, about your paper. It might be easier going with a topic you’re really engaged with. For example, if you’re interested in photography, I could see you focusing on Matthew Brady’s work or on war photographs in general. It was the first war documented so thoroughly in photos.”

She stood and located a volume on one of her shelves: The Civil War Through the Camera. Another present from Carolyn. Gen opened the cover to make sure the endpaper didn’t bear a private inscription meant for her eyes only, but there was just her floral-printed book plate with the words “This Book Belongs To” and her name in swirling black ink.

“I don’t think our library has this, but you’re welcome to borrow my copy.”

“Oh, my gosh! Thank you, Dr. Rider.”

“It was a gift, so please don’t spill anything on it. I’ll make a note that I lent it to you.”

“I’ll guard it with my life.”

“No need to die for it,” Gen said with a smile.

“This is just so—” Margaret shook her head repeatedly, fumbling for words to capture her emotion. She had told Gen on another occasion that she aspired to be a college professor—“like you, at a girls’ school just like this one”—so maybe she felt she’d been admitted to a private club.

Gen handed the typed sheet back to Margaret without any markings on it, but the girl refused it and made no move to leave. Instead, Margaret settled in her chair like she was readying for an extended gab session with a friend. “Oh, you can toss that,” she said. “I can’t believe I came up with such a silly topic when there’s so much else to talk about. Could you tell me more about Matthew Brady, Dr. Rider?”

Gen stood to end the meeting, running a hand down the side of her slim skirt to smooth it. “Now, I can’t do your work for you, Margaret. That’s for you to research. I do hope you enjoy the book.”

Margaret stared at her in surprise for a moment, then gathered up her books and left with an apology for taking too much of her time.

✥ ✥ ✥

A brown paper lunch bag tied with satiny pink ribbon nestled in her department mailbox late that afternoon. No tag, no note. Inside was a small stash of Hershey’s kisses, already starting to soften in the heat.

The secretary told Gen she didn’t know how the bag got there. “So many people in and out,” the young woman said over the clack of her typewriter keys. “Could have been anyone.”

It wasn’t the first time a Baines girl had given Gen candy or another token of affection, but crushes had been more frequent when she was a young instructor closer to her students in age. Now forty-two with strands of gray in her hair and tortoise-shell reading glasses, Gen assumed her students all viewed her as a dour old lady.

And the suggestion behind a gift of “kisses” unnerved her slightly. She was still staring at the bag with a mix of confusion and concern when her colleague Henry Thoms passed directly behind her to fetch his own mail from the box below hers. He was so close she caught a whiff of his Old Spice.

“Secret admirer?” he asked.

Gen noted the hint of sarcasm in his patrician voice, the way “secret” sounded almost dirty. Thoms was not a fan of hers and may very well have voted against her tenure. She would never know for sure as those votes were confidential, but she had once overheard him tut-tutting to the chairman. “All that Negro nonsense. As if there weren’t more worthy subjects for research. Really, it tarnishes the department.” Although she hadn’t heard her name on Thoms’s tongue, no one else in the department qualified as a scholar of “Negro nonsense.”

Gen extended the bag toward Thoms. She reckoned teasing was the best way to deal with her nemesis, the highest-ranking history faculty member after the chairman. “Perhaps these kisses were meant for you, Henry. I’ve gotten your mail by mistake before. Help yourself.”

Thoms smiled and reached into the bag. “Perhaps just one.” He unwrapped the foil and plopped the sweet into his mouth.

She was about to leave but Thoms engaged her again. “Heard you’re assigning that Woodward book this term, Virginia. The Jim Crow one.” He never used her nickname, insisting that her given name was so much more fitting and elegant.

Gen winced at his perfunctory reference to a distinguished text. “I am indeed,” she replied, though she wondered how he knew. She hadn’t discussed her syllabus with anyone in the department, so news about her required reading must have reached Thoms from a student—another unsettling thought. “It’s definitive on the decades after Reconstruction.”

Thoms shrugged. “The jury’s still out on that,” he said, wiping traces of the soft chocolate from his mouth with his handkerchief. “I’ve a mind to write a review of his new one. Southern history as a burden, indeed.”

She pursed her lips, holding her thoughts in. Did he also know that she planned to write a review? Thoms enjoyed provoking her, but she refused to take the bait. “Another kiss for the road, Henry?”

He waved off the offer. “Wouldn’t want Mrs. Thoms to smell it on my breath.”

“Well, you give her my very best.”

Gen escaped with her mail and the bag of kisses before Thoms could get in another combative word. She intended to save the candy for Halloween, but instead she ate the chocolate drops one by one throughout the weekend.