Testimony. Paula Martinac

      Chapter One

       Gen

      At just after nine o’clock, humidity licked the early September air. On the first floor of Waylon Hall, Gen Rider unlocked her office, a narrow space sealed like a tomb since classes ended in May. The air inside smothered her, and she recoiled.

      Flies dive-bombed the screen as she lifted the heavy sash of the window that faced the verdant quad. The blue blades of her desk fan made a comforting swish but offered no relief, scattering dust motes and pushing around thick, stale air.

      Gen undid the top two buttons of her linen blouse, which she’d ironed so meticulously the night before but that already showed every wrinkle and trickle of sweat. Her nylons itched, her brassiere pinched, and from the corners of her eyes she could see her dark pageboy frizzing. By 10 a.m., when her class on Civil War and Reconstruction commenced, her third-floor classroom in the old brick building would be an oven.

      The noise of a car motor distracted her from trying to review her lecture notes, and she raised her venetian blind a few inches for a better view. The flashing red light belonged to one of the town’s police cruisers, not campus security.

      A strapping officer Gen had seen in town and a slender one who looked like he could have been the other’s son slid out of the front seats and slammed their doors. Where they were headed wasn’t immediately obvious. Their heads swiveled between Waylon and Timmons, home to the college art and theater departments. Squinting in the sun to read the building names, the older man motioned toward Timmons, and the two mounted the steps to the front door, leaving Gen’s line of vision.

      Fenton, she thought, and a bubble of fear caught in her throat.

      She had spoken to him just a few days earlier, when she phoned to see if he was back from his Manhattan sojourn. He had spent most of his summer break subletting a tiny flat in Greenwich Village and “drinking up the culture,” as he put it, and he was still ebullient. In a breathless rush, he had catalogued the names of the Broadway plays he’d attended, most of which she’d never heard of. When he came to the end of his list, her friend apologized for babbling and asked how her trip to the beach had gone. Gen couldn’t form the words to tell him about the breakup with Carolyn, the lonely summer stuck in town, so she said, “Lots of news. I’ll stop by the theater and tell you all about it.”

      Fenton had surely had other experiences in New York as well. He considered himself an adventurer, and he’d been looking forward to all the city had to offer to “fellas like me.” Although he never talked specifics, Gen knew that during the school year Fenton drove to bars in different parts of the state. There was an outdoor area in Richmond called “The Block,” where a man could meet up with other men for sexual encounters, but Fenton claimed he preferred the bars. Gen worried his adventures might someday catch him up, but her friend assured her he was always careful and had never come close to arrest.

      “I don’t use my real name,” he said. “Everybody knows me as Fred.”

      Now Gen’s eyes fixed on the squad car as she gulped in heavy air. She glanced from the window to her notes and back again, over and over, expecting to see Fenton escorted from the building in handcuffs.

      But just before it was time to leave for class, the policemen emerged from Timmons by themselves. They each carried a cardboard box to their car and drove away without turning on their flasher.

      Gen’s heart slowed to a normal beat.

      In her first class, she faced a roomful of wilting girls who fanned themselves dramatically with sheets of notebook paper. Most of the students at Baines College for Women hailed from well-to-do families and likely had artificially cooled homes they’d left reluctantly. It was also possible that reviewing the course content had heated them up.

      “This is not the Civil War you know from Gone with the Wind,” Gen had said as preface. “We won’t talk about the Lost Cause of the Confederacy except to try to puncture that myth.”

      The class wasn’t new to the history department’s catalog, but Gen had completely revamped it since she had taught it two semesters earlier. She had held off introducing the revised version as well as a brand-new “History of the South” that closely examined Jim Crow until she secured tenure. Her mentor, Ruby Woods, a full professor in English, had advised the caution.

      “I know you think it’s your mission to teach our girls about the South’s shortcomings,” Ruby had said, “but why don’t you hold off? A white woman researching Negro history already draws attention, so your teaching needs to be beyond reproach.”

      Gen outlined the semester’s schedule for the girls and gave an overview of the reading material, some of it written by Negro scholars like W.E.B. Du Bois. The titles The Souls of Black Folk and From Slavery to Freedom made a few students shift uncomfortably in their seats, and a girl in a full skirt with daisy appliqués raised her hand tentatively.

      Gen recognized her as Lee-Anne Blakeney, a history major who let everyone know her mother, an alumna, was a prominent donor to the college. Although she had been one of Gen’s brightest students in a survey class, Lee-Anne tended to undercut her own intellectual abilities with a lot of Southern belle-style eyelash fluttering.

      “Was it really so much about slavery, professor? In seventh grade we learned that was a myth, that the war was more about states’ rights.” Lee-Anne fingered a lock of her strawberry blond hair.

      Gen knew about the school textbooks authorized by the Virginia General Assembly, which also put forth lies about the “bonds of affection” between slaves and masters.

      “Well, Miss Blakeney, give me the semester and we’ll see if we can’t dis—supplement what you learned as children.”

      She’d almost said “dislodge what you learned” but thought better of it. At the word “children,” Margaret Sutter, another history major who always sat in front, chuckled quietly, and Lee-Anne shot an annoyed glance in her direction.

      “What I think you’ll come to see,” Gen continued, “is that you can’t understand the war without a thorough discussion of slavery.”

      Lee-Anne let her wavy hair fall over her eyes as she earnestly scribbled into her notebook.

      Before she dismissed them, Gen ended with a note about her expectations. “This is an intellectually rigorous class, girls. Those of you who’ve studied with me before know I demand full commitment. You’ll be expected to participate.” The warning was aimed at students inclined to drop a class that seemed too demanding or too focused on issues they didn’t want to bother about, like the plight of Negroes.

      Back in her office, Gen left her door open in hopes of a cross breeze. There wasn’t time in her schedule to check on Fenton, so she hunched over her notes for her next class, making last-minute adjustments. A familiar voice cut through her thoughts.

      “Hello, you.”

      “You’re back!”

      Ruby Woods and her husband, Darrell, made it a practice to escape to their cabin in the West Virginia mountains for the summer. Now Gen’s friend and mentor stood in the open doorway, burdened with a load of mail and books. The English Department was situated upstairs on the second floor, and during the school year Ruby made a habit of dropping by Gen’s office a few times a week to check in.

      “You have a good couple of months?”

      “Not particularly. I meant to finish my chapter on Ovington’s meeting with Du Bois, but—”

      Gen stopped short. Ruby had voiced concerns about her research on the founding of the NAACP