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
