“The jury’s still out on that,” he said, wiping traces of the soft chocolate from his mouth with his handkerchief. “I’ve a mind to write a review of his new one. Southern history as a burden, indeed.”
She pursed her lips, holding her thoughts in. Did he also know that she planned to write a review? Thoms enjoyed provoking her, but she refused to take the bait. “Another kiss for the road, Henry?”
He waved off the offer. “Wouldn’t want Mrs. Thoms to smell it on my breath.”
“Well, you give her my very best.”
Gen escaped with her mail and the bag of kisses before Thoms could get in another combative word. She intended to save the candy for Halloween, but instead she ate the chocolate drops one by one throughout the weekend.
Chapter Three
Fenton
In summer and early fall, Fenton’s flat reminded him of a treehouse. The rooms huddled on the top floor of a stately old home, and leafy willow oak branches brushed the windows, shielding him from the rest of the world. He’d become accustomed to thinking of his space as a haven from prying eyes.
Until Mark Patton was arrested and the Springboro mayor announced a crackdown on “vice.” The police had raided Mark’s apartment and office and carted off whatever they fancied they needed to prove their case against him. Mark’s landlord had changed the locks, leaving him sleeping on a friend’s couch after he made bail. He called to ask Fenton if he could stay a night or two with him. “Till I can get something more permanent.” What worried Fenton was that the “permanent” place might be state prison.
“It’s awfully cramped up here, old chap, as you know.” His compact apartment was a combination living room-bedroom with a double hot plate for meals and a bathroom the size of a closet. During their four-month affair, he and Mark had spent most of their evenings at Mark’s roomier one-bedroom. “And my couch is so hideously uncomfortable; well, you can barely call it a couch at all.”
A sigh traveled from Mark’s end of the line. “You don’t need to make up excuses, Fen. I’ve heard them all, and I get it. The thing is, I’m not allowed to leave town and nobody wants to associate with me. I implicated the friends who posted bail for me just by getting in touch with them. I’d be better off back in the town jail.”
“Don’t say that. No one’s better off in that hole.” Guilt hit Fenton like a punch in the gut, and he considered relenting. If he snuck Mark up the back stairs late at night, maybe. Or would Gen take him in for a night? She had a spare room with a comfy sofa bed, but Mark and Gen knew each other only casually, and it was a lot to ask.
After an awkward pause in which Fenton didn’t offer anything, Mark’s tone switched to resigned. “I do need to tell you something. And not on the phone.”
Mark suggested they meet in the town library, and Fenton hesitated. Two years earlier, toying with the possibility of changing what he called his “habits,” he’d had a handful of chaste dates with the children’s librarian, a World War II widow about Gen’s age. He abruptly stopped calling her when he realized the folly of it and had avoided the library ever since. But the children’s room sat at the back of the library, and he reasoned he could hurry to another floor without the woman spotting him.
Fenton proposed a spot in the stacks on the third floor, past the dustiest genealogical materials that no one but the town historian ever consulted. In another time, he and Mark would have hugged each other upon meeting up. Now Fenton kept his arms at his sides, as did Mark, like strangers who just happened to arrive in the deserted stacks at the same moment.
Mark’s face looked gray, and circles ringed his eyes. He swiped his hand across his face. “I know I look like shit.”
“You’ve been through a lot.”
Mark came to the point in a whisper. “Listen, Fen, the police took a lot of stuff from my apartment. Some things that might affect guys like you. I thought you should know.”
Fenton’s mind raced through the possibilities. Mark had amassed a stunning collection of beefcake photo magazines with names like Physique Pictorial and Tomorrow’s Man. He had spent a small fortune on the literature, buying it on trips to New York and Greece, and he shared it liberally with friends.
Did Mark ever take photos of him? Not that he recalled. They never wrote each other notes or letters. No need, as they worked in the same building and could steal moments between classes to arrange assignations.
“I don’t see how your collection could affect me—”
A shuffling noise made Mark’s eyes dart over Fenton’s head. Fenton automatically grabbed the nearest tome from a shelf and opened it. The words blurred in front of him. From the corner of his eye, he saw the ancient town historian making his way to his usual carrel without even registering their presence.
Mark grabbed Fenton’s arm and pulled him further into the stacks, his voice a hush. “The magazines won’t damn anyone but me. I’m talking about my diaries.”
Fenton’s hands went cold. He had forgotten Mark catalogued his love affairs like museum artifacts.
“I used code names. You’re Georgia, for your home state.” Mark reddened. “But—well, I may have written about the time we had the quickie in the men’s dressing room at the theater.”
Fenton’s stomach lurched. He remembered the incident well. He had stayed behind after all the students left a performance of The Importance of Being Earnest. The young actors and actresses were never careful about props, and Fenton liked to keep everything neat. Mark had attended the show and followed him backstage. They fumbled their way to the dressing room, where Mark suggested he wear the top hat that was lying out, casually discarded by the student who played one of the leads.
“God, Mark! You may have? Did you or didn’t you?”
“I’m sorry, Fen. I did.”
“Why would you do that?”
Mark’s mood shifted from contrition to annoyance. “Well, why do you think? It was thrilling. One of my more memorable encounters on campus.”
For Fenton, the dressing room incident was a one-off, and he wondered how many “encounters” Mark had enjoyed in academic buildings. Fenton cleared his throat to cover his frustration that Mark had put the small homosexual community at Baines at such high risk.
“Well, I trust you didn’t write about our encounter at any length.”
Mark’s shrug didn’t reassure. “How was I to know my diaries would land in the Springboro Police Department someday?”
“You’re a homosexual, for God’s sake,” Fenton hissed. “Your private life is up for grabs.”
Fenton’s thoughts drifted to his own personal possessions. He didn’t keep diaries, but he had a stash of books under the bed, as well as an envelope stuffed with sentimental letters from a man who had started as a friend and mentor but metamorphosed into more.
“Are you sure the police can just take your things like that? Is it even legal?”
“That’s the sixty-four-thousand-dollar
