said. “I don’t know how well you know academics, gentlemen, but in my experience they tend to just drink and pontificate and then drink some more.”
Hills snickered at that one, but Maynard acted as if he hadn’t heard.
“Now at these parties, were there any women?”
Fenton blinked, possibly a few too many times. “I’m sure there were. I usually attend parties with . . . a female colleague. You know, a close friend.”
Maynard made a note. Fenton took pride in catching himself before he blurted out Gen’s name. He wondered if that had happened with Mark—an innocent interjection that gave away names.
During an extended pause, Maynard consulted more pages of the file. Fenton slipped his watch from his vest and glanced at the time.
“Handsome watch,” Maynard said, startling him again. Fenton hadn’t been aware he was looking at him.
“My granddaddy’s,” he replied, tucking it back into his pocket.
“You in a hurry, Mr. Page?” Hills asked.
“I have a meeting in forty minutes. The other thing we academics like to do is meet. And then have a meeting about the meeting.” He enunciated each word slowly so the M’s didn’t catch up with him—tricky little bastards, just like the P’s. “I’m sorry my testimony hasn’t been terribly helpful.”
“Oh, no, it has, and I thank you for your time,” Maynard said, slapping his folder closed and gesturing to Hills to switch off the recorder. “We may have some follow-up questions. Another day. Especially with regard to Mr. Patton’s diary.”
Fenton feigned indignity. “Well, I’d hardly know anything about a man’s diary, would I? That’s the height of p-private m-material!” He quivered at his own stammering, which he’d harnessed so well until that final lie.
“It is, isn’t it?” Maynard said with a smile Fenton couldn’t read.
Chapter Seven
Gen
“We’ll start today with something that might feel off-topic,” Gen announced to her Civil War class. “I like to draw connections between the past and present. Anyone heard the statement, ‘Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it’?”
Margaret’s hand was the only one that shot up. After glancing around, she lowered it quickly.
Gen wrote the names Nixon and Kennedy on the blackboard, then stepped aside. “So tell me, who watched the presidential debate last night?”
The rocky transition threw the girls off-balance. To Gen’s surprise, only a handful of the twenty-four students raised their hands.
“You don’t have any interest in the upcoming election?”
With a hint of pride, Lee-Anne Blakeney said, “Paxton House doesn’t have a TV, professor.”
The mention of the dorm Gen would have lived in if she’d accepted the housemother position all those years ago made her wince. She might still be trapped there, living with girls like Lee-Anne.
“Well, such an elegant dorm must have a radio,” Gen said. “And I reckon most of you have transistors. I’ve seen you listening to them on campus, twisting your way across the quad.”
The girls laughed. “The Twist” was the latest dance craze, so popular that even Gen and Fenton had tried it out in her backyard.
“You could have listened to the debate, at least. Really, girls, you need to show some interest in your future as well as in the past.” Disappointment coursed through her. Gen ran down her notes as she realized she needed to salvage the first part of her class plan. “For those of you who did tune in, who can guess why I’m bringing up this current event when we’re learning about a war that took place a hundred years ago?”
Susanna Carr, whose family lived next door to Gen, offered, “Because of Kennedy’s opening statement?”
“Good, Susanna. What did he say?”
Susanna was stumped trying to recall the actual words, and Margaret chimed in. “He talked about Lincoln and the election of 1860. Something about Negroes still not being free?”
“Very good, Margaret. I jotted it down because it was so completely relevant to what we’re studying today. And as an aside, I was forced to take a course in Gregg shorthand the summer I graduated from high school. My mother thought a girl having a career meant being a secretary.” Gen smiled at the absurdity, but she knew some of these girls likely agreed with her mother.
“Senator Kennedy said, and these are his words, ‘In the election of 1860, Abraham Lincoln said the question was whether this nation could exist half slave and half free. In the election of 1960, the question is whether the world will exist half slave or half free, whether it will move in the direction of freedom, in the direction of the road that we are taking, or whether it will move in the direction of slavery.’”
Lee-Anne’s hand shot up. “But there’s no slavery anymore.”
“A fair point. But Kennedy went on to talk about Negroes not enjoying their full constitutional rights, how white children have a fairer shake in the country than black children, and he gave some startling statistics. For example, he noted that a Negro child has about one-half as much chance to get through high school as a white child.”
“Is that really true, professor?” Susanna asked, when Gen called on her.
Gen started. “About high school? Yes, it is.”
“But couldn’t there be other reasons they don’t make it through?” the girl added. “Like, maybe they don’t try as hard?”
“Or maybe school’s too hard for them?” Lee-Anne said.
Gen set down her notes. These two girls, peas in a pod, were prime examples of students she wanted to shake until she loosened their narrow beliefs about race. Yet, with their well-connected families, she couldn’t afford to alienate them.
“There is a legacy of slavery that we carry with us today. Negroes may no longer be literally enslaved, but the legacy means they don’t enjoy the same advantages in things like housing, jobs, and schooling. That is what Senator Kennedy was getting at with his statistics, and that is what I want you to remember as we learn about the Civil War and especially Reconstruction.”
Her firm pronouncement silenced them, and then they all opened their textbooks as instructed. Gen wondered how long it would take for Susanna or Lee-Anne to let the class lesson slip to their parents or to Henry Thoms.
✥ ✥ ✥
That week, Gen got a couple of hang-up calls at home—no one on the other end, just a dial tone. A likely prank, or someone who wanted to talk to her but couldn’t bring themselves to once they’d dialed. She’d hung up on Carolyn’s new number several times, so she was well aware the trick wasn’t limited to children.
After her supper, Fenton phoned, asking to stop by. It didn’t sound
