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Testimony. Paula Martinac
Читать онлайн.Название Testimony
Год выпуска 0
isbn 9781612941806
Автор произведения Paula Martinac
Издательство Ingram
“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, she asked, “What happens next?”
He blew his nose, and the trumpeting echoed off the walls. “I should look for a lawyer. Lord, I can’t believe I just said that. You know anyone besides Darrell?”
“Just Frank Johnson at the NAACP.” Negro lawyers didn’t defend white men in their part of the country—or likely anywhere. “I could ask him about white lawyers.”
She thought for a few more moments, then continued, “How about men you know in Richmond? Could you ask around?”
Fenton scowled. “I need to keep my distance from those fellas,” he said. “They’re not going to want to see me anyway. Some of them have wives and families.”
They faced each other in silence as the second hand of the clock ticked and ticked. The weight of her uselessness sat heavily on Gen’s chest. “I’ve been no help,” she said finally.
“You let me come over. You gave me meatloaf and bourbon. You are the best friend I have.”
Guilt filled her to bursting. She was a terrible friend, judgmental and unkind.
“Do you want to stay over?” she offered, and he jumped at the chance. He had slept over before, when their evenings went late or he’d drunk too much. He claimed the sofa bed in her office was comfy, and in fact he was the only one who had ever used it.
Gen had tested the sofa bed at the store, picturing her parents visiting, maybe during the fall when the trees produced a breathtaking canopy of colors in the surrounding mountains. But she never invited them and they never broached the topic—a sort of mutual agreement of silence.
The next morning, Gen heard Fenton padding around in the kitchen. Her nightstand clock read only 6:20. Soon the aroma of coffee hit her nostrils, and she threw on her bathrobe.
Fenton was already fully dressed, his shirt even more wrinkled, as if he’d slept in it. “I’ll be out of your hair in a jiff. Don’t want to get you in trouble with the nosy neighbors.”
At the front door, Gen donned a big-sister face, concerned but smiling, to buck him up. “I’ll be thinking of you today. Let me know what happens?”
His old Dodge didn’t start right away; the cold engine took several tries to turn over. She hoped Mrs. Carr wasn’t up, that the racket didn’t attract her attention.
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