Testimony. Paula Martinac
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