he arrived at the real reason for wanting to visit. The provost’s office had summoned him for a meeting the following day, with no specific subject mentioned.
Gen gulped. Provost Lowndes Ramsey, just a rung below the president of the college in power, had been in his job only a year. She’d shaken his manicured hand at a welcome reception. As faculty members listened to his greeting, Fenton had remarked on the provost’s trim build. “I wouldn’t turn him out of bed,” he’d whispered to Gen.
All that seemed ages ago now. Gen couldn’t deny Fenton the company he needed, even though she’d just cracked the spine on The Burden of Southern History and wanted to spend the evening alone with it.
Fenton appeared at her doorstep in a wrinkled button-down shirt that looked like he’d dragged it from the laundry basket. Always so fastidious about his appearance, his dishevelment stood out. His mouth sagged in a way she hadn’t noticed before.
“You look terrible,” she couldn’t help saying as she ushered him in.
“Thanks, hon.”
She splashed Jim Beam into his glass without asking if he wanted it.
“Say, you didn’t call and hang up on me, did you? About an hour before we actually talked?”
Fenton frowned, making the lines in his face more pronounced. “Why would I do that?”
“Sorry, of course you wouldn’t. Probably a neighborhood kid.”
Her friend belted back his drink while still standing up. Gen poured him another and watched as he polished that off, too. Fenton liked his bourbon, but he usually savored a glass or two over the course of a visit. As he placed the empty glass on Gen’s liquor cabinet, his hand trembled.
“Have you had supper?” she asked.
“I had a stale donut from the diner. Does that count?”
Gen smiled and led him to the kitchen by the sleeve. She flicked on the overhead as moonlight spilled through the window facing the Carrs’ house.
“I already ate but let me fix you something real fast.”
Aside from the barbecue recipe she served on special occasions, Gen had never bothered to learn to cook. When she was growing up, she resisted her mother’s attempts to teach her daughters about “meals to please a man.” Since leaving home, her most likely quick meals consisted of scrambled eggs or tuna fish salad. On weekends, she might attempt a recipe from Betty Crocker that she could eat all week, a casserole or spaghetti.
“How’s leftover meat loaf sound?”
“Divine. Don’t fuss, though. I’ll eat it cold.”
With its congealed tomato sauce, the meat loaf she plated for him looked unappetizing, but Fenton worked his way through it bite by bite.
“That was delicious. I didn’t know I was hungry.”
She’d brought the bottle of bourbon to the table, too, and he helped himself to a third round while she continued to nurse her first.
“I might regret eating, though,” he added. “My stomach’s not in the best state these days. Worried I have an ulcer again.”
“You might let up on the booze.”
Fenton let the third shot stand in his glass. He reached into his pants pocket and withdrew a piece of folded paper. He smoothed it open, showing a check for five hundred dollars with no name in the Pay to the Order of line.
Gen stared at the amount. “Hey, my meat loaf’s good, but it’s on the house.”
He didn’t crack a smile. “I want you to hold onto this,” he instructed. “That’s how much Mark said his bail came to. I don’t want to be caught having to scrounge around and beg people for the money. I also don’t want anybody having to write the check and implicate themselves. Especially not you.”
Gen’s pulse picked up speed. “Fenton, you’re not going to jail.” The statement rang hollow, said mostly to convince herself.
“I’d rather not pretend,” he said. “If they arrest me, I’ll need you to bring this to the station.”
“But what if—” She restrained her thought: What if the provost fires you? Won’t you need this?
As if reading her mind, Fenton said, “I have more put by.” He motioned toward the check. “I cashed in some railroad stock my granddad left me. I was saving it for a rainy day, but it’s starting to look pretty cloudy.”
The bourbon burned its way down her throat. They finished their drinks at the same time, and she glanced over the stove at the yellow Bakelite clock that read 8:34.
She wondered how he had gotten himself to this point. Fenton hadn’t divulged anything about the police interview, and she hadn’t prodded him, as if not knowing the details could make it all go away. Yet here he was, asking her to make bail for him if necessary, and she deserved information.
She poured herself a second shot, shorter than the first. Drinking emboldened her, though she sometimes regretted what came out of her mouth. “So what happened, Fen? Did Mark give the police your name?”
“Don’t know.” His finger traced a mark on the cotton tablecloth, a phantom stain that hadn’t come out in the wash.
“Didn’t you ask?” She didn’t mean it as a verbal slap, but it sounded that way, even to her.
“I was so flustered, hon, I was just trying to get it all over with. The police chief is a cool number, I’ll tell you that. The way those two looked at me—” He shivered at the memory.
“Well, if Mark didn’t give them your name, how would they have landed on you? Surely, just being a bachelor isn’t enough, and you say you’re always safe, that you don’t do . . . what Mark did.”
Her disapproval came through; she couldn’t hide it. She honestly didn’t understand the attraction of such a private matter like sex happening in a park or a public restroom. When Fenton didn’t respond, she added, “Or were you not telling me the truth?”
Pain clouded Fenton’s face. She knew he thought of her not just as a friend, but as a big sister figure. In light moments, he called her “Sissy” as a joke.
“I don’t lie to you,” he said slowly. “I may have . . . forgotten an incident with Mark. One time when I wasn’t quite as safe. Mark may have written about it. In a diary the police have.”
Gen’s spine straightened. “Tell me this wasn’t on campus.”
His eyes welled up and spilled over, a stream of tears that distorted his face. In her experience, men didn’t cry. Fenton had wept in front of her once before, several years back when his grandfather died, but that had been much more restrained and polite, a few drops he could wipe away with his pocket hanky. Then, she had patted his back in comfort. Now, she restrained the urge to smack him, keeping her hands securely on her glass and saying nothing.
A few minutes ticked by rhythmically. When Fenton’s crying subsided,
