“Just chatting about snow,” the dean said. “I’ll let you take it from here, Arthur.”
At that, the secretary opened her steno pad and began writing in the swirls and flourishes of shorthand.
Burnside flipped over the sheets of his pad until he came to one with a lot of writing on it. Margaret thought she read her name at the top in block letters.
“Good morning, Miss Sutter. Thank you for agreeing to come in today.”
When the summons came from the dean’s office, Margaret didn’t think she had a choice. “Sure,” she said.
“You understand we’re here to talk about Dr. Rider.”
Margaret gripped her glass. “I told Dr. Thoms everything already.”
Burnside assessed her with a long, skeptical look. “We’re not in any rush, Miss Sutter. Give this some thought. Another student suggested you might have more to say than what you told Dr. Thoms.”
“I don’t have anything to say except she’s a great teacher.”
The lawyer’s pen scratched something onto his pad. “Nothing related to her conduct?”
Margaret shifted her attention from Burnside to the dean to the secretary. They were all regarding her in the same measured way, as if they knew the answer to a quiz she hadn’t studied for. She only had two good guesses about who might have implicated her.
“Look, if Lee-Anne Blakeney gave you my name, she doesn’t like me. She and Susanna Carr may be setting me up.”
He chuckled. “I’m afraid I don’t follow.”
“They want to make it look like I do creepy stuff.”
Burnside shot a look at the dean, who pursed his lips in a way that might have been code—but for what? “Well,” the lawyer continued, “let’s get to the root of this and try to figure out why your name came up. I’ll ask you some specific questions to spark your memory. Now I understand that you are fond of Dr. Rider.”
“A lot of girls are.”
“Yes, she’s a popular teacher. But we also have testimony from a few girls who say Dr. Rider has—on occasion, mind—looked at them or touched them in a way that made them uncomfortable. Has Dr. Rider ever done that to you?”
Annoyance mounted in Margaret as the interview played like a rerun of a show she’d already watched. “I already told Dr. Thoms no.”
“This is a different interview, Miss Sutter. Please just answer the question.” The lawyer set his pen down and folded his hands over the legal pad.
“No, she has not done that to me.”
“Has she ever said anything inappropriate to you?”
Once or twice, her adviser had made comments about Dr. Thoms, remarks that bordered on sarcastic and indicated the two teachers didn’t get along. The jabs had seemed unusual to Margaret, given Dr. Rider’s reliably professional demeanor. But that’s not what the lawyer was going for.
“No,” she said, hoping she hadn’t paused too long.
“And what about touching? Some of our girls say that the professor feels free to touch them on their arms, backs, and shoulders.”
Margaret took the smallest sip of water. The level in the glass had gone down quickly, and she should conserve the rest. “She’s kind, is all.”
“So she has touched you?”
“I never saw anything wrong with it.”
Burnside leaned toward her. “Where did she touch you? On the arm?”
Margaret nodded.
“On the back or shoulders?”
The warmth of Dr. Rider’s hand on her back flooded into memory. Her touch made Margaret feel special, cared for. “Maybe.”
“You can’t recall.”
“It didn’t bother me.”
The lawyer sat back again and made a long notation on his pad. His face gave nothing away, and the dean and the secretary studied the table as if bored. How many of these interviews had they sat through? Could this be the end of hers?
Then Burnside regrouped, his new question throwing her. “Why do you think it might bother other girls but not you?”
Dr. Thoms had never asked her anything personal, a question that didn’t center on Dr. Rider but on her own feelings. Margaret floundered to find the right answer. “Because . . . because there was nothing wrong with it?”
The dean cleared his throat as if he intended to jump into the interview. But maybe that was just another signal, because the lawyer shifted gears and accelerated the interview.
“Miss Sutter,” he said, “a few girls have told us you have a crush on Dr. Rider.”
Margaret drained her glass. Could she ask for more water? The secretary’s eyes focused on her again, her pen poised for Margaret’s response.
“Could I have more?” Margaret’s voice sounded scratchy in her own ears. She inched the glass toward the secretary, who refilled it from a crystal pitcher on a credenza.
The pause gave Margaret time to breathe. Mr. Page had counseled her about pivoting—taking a question she didn’t like and answering another. But there was no question, just a statement about a crush.
What else had Mr. Page said? She struggled to remember, but then his words surfaced in her memory: “Stop and take breaths whenever you need them. Imagine you’re on stage, panicking that you’ve lost your line. Take your time, breathe, repeat the cue in your head, and you’ll be back on track in no time.”
Margaret thanked the secretary and drank slowly. A few girls have told us you have a crush on Dr. Rider.
“If you’re referring to the card and ring,” she began, “I didn’t do it. I swear. I told you, Lee-Anne and Susanna may be trying to set me up.”
“What card and ring are you talking about?” There was only one card and one ring that she was aware of. Either Burnside really didn’t know about the card, or he was bluffing.
Across the table, the dean took several loud breaths, his eyes boring into her. “Miss Sutter?” he said.
Mr. Page’s advice came back to mind: “You don’t have to answer. It’s not like a courtroom and you’re under oath.”
“I’m starting to think I need a lawyer or something,” Margaret said, and Burnside huffed.
“I am a lawyer, Miss Sutter,” he snapped. “I represent the college and everyone affiliated with it.”
“You aren’t in any trouble,” the dean cut in. “Mr. Burnside is trying to help.”
“So,” the lawyer said, “forget the mysterious card. Let’s get back to your crush on Dr. Rider.”
Margaret opened her mouth to object but wasn’t fast enough.
“Girls in school do that, don’t they, and then outgrow the crushes later. You see this all the time at girls’ schools. But what I’m trying to determine is if you’ve been swayed in an unsuitable direction by someone you admire and trust. An authority figure. Like Dr. Rider.”
“No.” Margaret’s cheeks lit with anger. “Never.”
“She hasn’t suggested a different relationship?”
“Than what?”
“Than teacher and student.”
“No!” The room seemed smaller than it had at the start of the ordeal. Margaret squirmed in her seat. What if she just stood up and said she’d had enough? Could they expel her?
“Now, I apologize for having to use this word in your company, I am simply quoting someone else. Last spring, did you tell a boy at a dance that you and another girl are, quote, lezzies?”
She popped out of her seat. “I have to go”—but she had no idea where.
“We aren’t finished, Miss Sutter. It won’t be much—”
“Look, he was bothering us. I was joking!” She didn’t often attend dances. Either the richest, most attractive boys snubbed her for girls like Susanna Carr, or Margaret had to fend off guys with acne and bad posture. That night, a boy had leered at her and Polly from across the room before sidling up beside her and insisting she dance with him. He smelled like a liquor cabinet. When she refused politely, he persisted until he finally spat out, “What, are you two lezzies?” and she agreed just to get rid of him. She and Poll
y had laughed it off. Someone must have overheard and told.
Margaret shook her head to dispel the memory. She lobbed her next comment at the secretary. “Have you ever tried to get rid of a creepy guy who was bothering you?”
The secretary nodded, and Dean Rolfe tapped the table. “Let’s move on, Mr. Burnside. If you could just sit back down for a minute, Miss Sutter.”
Margaret grabbed the arms of her chair and lowered herself back down.
Burnside consulted his legal pad. “Miss Sutter, do you own a blue bicycle?”
Where was he headed now? She shook her head furiously.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure. My roommate does.”
“Do you ever ride hers?”
Margaret breathed as evenly as she could, but her reply still came out snappish and disrespectful. “Sometimes, sure. I’m allowed to.”
The lawyer examined the nails on his left hand, rubbing them with his thumb. The gesture struck Margaret as menacing, and she stared down at her own bitten nails in her lap. Had he seen them?
“What I’d like to know is, have you ever ridden this bike over to Dr. Rider’s house?”
Her heart picked up a beat. “No! I don’t even know where she lives.”
“Are you sure you’ve never visited Dr. Rider? You weren’t, say, at her house the Friday after Thanksgiving.”
“I was home all day. Ask my mom. While you’re at it, maybe she’d like to know what’s going on here.”
“No need for threats, Miss Sutter,” the dean said. “We believe you.”
“It doesn’t sound like it.”
Burnside returned her glare. “Someone on a blue bicycle was at Dr. Rider’s that day.”
“It wasn’t me. Other girls have blue bikes. There’s even a professor who rides a bike. I forget her name.” Margaret stood, her hands clenched at her sides. “Why are you picking on me like this?”
“No one’s picking on you. We are just trying to figure out what happened between you and Dr. Rider.”
“Miss Sutter,” the dean interrupted, “do you need a short break? We could take a few minutes, then come back and try again.”
“I don’t want to talk to him anymore. I want my own lawyer, or I won’t say anything else.”
The dean nodded slowly. “Would it help if I ask the questions?”
“I don’t feel well.”
A lightheaded feeling overwhelmed her, like the time she broke her arm as a kid and temporarily tumbled into shock. Suddenly, the secretary was at her side, helping her out into the hallway.
The secretary halted at the door to the ladies’ room, and Margaret broke away from her suddenly. As she burst through the double doors of Old Main, she heard “Miss Sutter! Miss Sutter! Come back!” behind her.
Fat flakes of snow melted on her upturned face and her tongue and revived her. She’d left her peacoat in the meeting room, but there was no going back now.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Gen
Gen pressed the receiver to her ear, listening to Juliet’s account of her meeting with the head of Modern Languages. As a “courtesy,” the chairman had offered resignation instead of the ignominy of suspension or firing. In her office, Juliet had typed up a letter and delivered it to him within the hour. He had instructed her to vacate Cavendish House by the next day but gave her until the end of the week to dismantle her office.
“A generous guy, right?” Juliet’s laugh came out as a snort.
A stew of fury and despair simmered inside Gen, leaving her with no response. After a pause, she cleared her throat and said, “What did your letter say?” Then she silently cursed her selfish, thoughtless question.
Juliet didn’t skip a beat or chide her for it. “Just a basic, I resign my position as Assistant Professor effective immediately, blah, blah, blah, blah.”
Her voice tripped on the word resign, and Gen reasoned all the tacked-on blahs were to avoid a cascade of tears. The tactic worked, because Juliet proceeded without stopping. “Honestly, I wasn’t sure he’d go through with it. Who’s going to take over my classes on such short notice?”
Gen marveled at the naïveté but held her thought. “Where will you go?” she asked instead.
“I called Ruby a few minutes ago and she offered their guest room until I have everything sorted. I won’t get in anyone’s way in such a big house.”
Dependable Ruby—she could never be compromised by association with Juliet.
“Could I, I don’t know, help you pack?” Cavendish sat on the eastern fringe of Baines, and going there might technically not be an incursion for someone who’d been escorted off campus.
“Too risky. Anyway, you’ve seen my rooms. All the furniture and kitchen stuff belongs to the school. There’s just my books and clothes, and I actually packed up the books last night in case the meeting didn’t go well. I got some very curious looks from a couple of girls who spotted the boxes. I said I was tidying up.”
Her tone was too light, too casual for someone who’d recently relinquished her job, future, and home. Gen still trembled at the memory of her suspension and banishment from campus.
“I don’t understand why you’re so calm. You just—” She couldn’t finish the thought without blubbering herself.
Juliet drew in a long, audible breath. “Darling, you don’t know me well enough, but this is me about to burst. My motto is, keep moving.”
After the call, Gen filled her gas tank and drove out of town. She intended to wander aimlessly, but once behind the wheel, with the well-worn Virginia atlas propped open on the passenger seat, she realized she always planned her routes. Before she knew it, her car took her to Lexington, to deliver the news to Ursula.
✥ ✥ ✥
For days, Gen expected a call from her attorney, telling her that Juliet’s admission of the kiss had ended the speculation about who had been with her the day after Thanksgiving and had brought the provost’s investigation to a close. The best-case scenario, Ursula had theorized, was that Gen would get the chance to resign, like Juliet, and maybe garner some severance, given her long years of exemplary service to the college. “We’ll work on that,” she promised the day Gen showed up at her office without an appointment.
What Ursula related when she did call hit like a flattening punch.
“The school’s attorney has dropped his inquiry into who was in your kitchen on November 25,” Ursula informed her. “He knows it wasn’t a student, what with Juliet’s testimony, and your friend Ruby corroborating it.” Ursula’s laugh was edged with derision. “Hard to believe so much of their case comes down to a bike. Anyway, that’s the good news.”
Gen’s pulse continued to race. “Why do I think you’ve held back the bad news?”
Ursula was quiet except for the pencil-tapping Gen had come to expect—the only ghost of nerves her attorney ever showed.
“Please, Ursula.”
“The bike wasn’t their only card to play; we knew that,” the lawyer said. “There are still all the history majors who testified that you made them uncomfortable, either with looks or inappropriate touches.”
“Unprovable, right?”
“Yes, it strikes me, like the Salem witch hunts. Do you cover that in your classes?”
“Wrong period for me. But of course I know about them.” In her anxiety, Gen struggled to dig back into what she’d learned in a colonial history class in grad school. The Salem trials had sparked mass hysteria on flimsy grounds. From Fenton she also knew about The Crucible, a Broadway play that addressed the Salem trials and, as he put it, “scarred” him.
“As in Salem,” Ursula went on, “we have a situation where one girl is particularly vocal about your purported guilt. She’s given testimony twice. The second time expanded her story considerably. She says that because of your quote, attempted solicitation, her grades have slipped and she can’t focus. There’s was something about your hand on her—I’m sorry, Gen, on her breast—”
“That is
a complete lie!”
“I have no doubt. But now, just this week, her parents brought her home. Seems she’s too distraught to continue at Baines because the school can’t ensure her safety.”
Gen exploded. “Safety? If they want to keep girls safe, they shouldn’t be looking at the female faculty.”
The tapping from Ursula’s end stopped. “Tell me more.”
Gen shrugged, even though Ursula couldn’t see her. She had no evidence against any male professors, only the gossip that drifted around.
“Never mind,” Gen said. “Who’s the girl, anyway?” She tried to toughen her voice, but the effort to sound strong proved impossible when her whole body was trembling.
“Confidential,” Ursula said. “But maybe you can mull it over and see what candidates you come up with. Parents appear to be big donors, if that helps.”
“Wealthy parents at Baines are more the rule than the exception,” Gen said. Her mind, though, was already sorting through the possibilities and landing squarely on one girl.
✥ ✥ ✥
The idea first materialized when she was inspecting her dwindling savings account. She’d had the same savings book from Bank of Botetourt throughout her years at Baines. On the lines for credits and debits, she’d inscribed the regular birthday and Christmas checks from her parents, the five or six dollars a paycheck that she tried to put aside (not always successfully), the $100 she withdrew to buy her sofa bed, the rental deposit for the cottage she shared in Rehoboth with Carolyn, and most recently the hundreds that had gone to Ursula’s law firm.
Thank God for the generous kitty from her female colleagues, which would ward off eviction for several months. She hadn’t yet deposited the assortment of raggedy bills, and they were tucked between the last page of the savings book and the back cover.
Since that first collection, Frances Palmer had delivered a second, smaller installment from the faculty with an apology. “People are still recovering from Christmas shopping. I reckon it’ll be more next month.”
“In my book, y’all are angels,” Gen had replied, giving the woman a hug.
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