Stages of Grey

by Clea Simon

‘How did you know?’ Heath asked, finally. The question was open ended, but Dulcie figured that the actor had really only one remaining concern.

  ‘It was a combination of things, really.’ She said, as gently as she could. ‘Everyone kept talking about how good you are, but that you would never go anywhere else. Could never. That was a big clue.’ She decided not to mention the dye job, or the obvious attempts to bolster his self-importance. For all she knew, that was true of all actors. ‘And I would have suspected Roni long before, only you had vouched for her. So I had to assume she had something on you.’

  He nodded and looked away.

  ‘Mr Barstow?’ Another officer was walking toward them. ‘It is Mr Barstow, isn’t it? You’re going to have to come with us now.’

  ‘Yes.’ Heath answered with a little more force than necessary. He turned to Dulcie with an apologetic smile as the police officer led him away. ‘I’m sorry. I put you at risk.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it,’ said Dulcie. At least she would have a story for Trista. And he had been called away before he could ask her about Gus.

  FIFTY-NINE

  ‘He warned me, Chris. I know he did.’ Dulcie was sitting on an examining table in health services, catching her boyfriend up on all the things she couldn’t tell the cops. ‘He made sure I saw what I needed to, but then when I was in danger, he tripped Roni up.’

  ‘Or she stepped on him.’ Chris smiled indulgently.

  ‘You think that just because he isn’t Esmé or Mr Grey—’ She stopped speaking as the doctor came in.

  ‘As I thought, nothing’s broken.’ With a click, she called up the images of Dulcie’s left ankle. ‘But you should know, sometimes a sprain is just as bad.’

  Dulcie held her tongue as the doctor wrapped the ankle and sent her off with a set of crutches and a matching list of proscribed activities. As Chris helped her into her coat, however, she realized she had to speak.

  ‘You know what this means, right?’ She looked up at her boyfriend. ‘I’ll need you to be around at night, at least for a while.’

  ‘Of course,’ he responded, his brow wrinkling. ‘Why would you even question that?’

  ‘Well, it seems like you’ve been disappearing at night a lot.’ She paused, unsure how to proceed.

  ‘I guess old habits die hard,’ he said with a smile. ‘But I can change my ways for a while at least. As long as you don’t expect me to start acting like Jerry.’

  She looked up at him, confused.

  ‘You know, chasing you around like you’re some femme fatale.’ He held the door open as she hobbled out, swinging her injured leg. ‘Don’t get me wrong – he loves that stuff and Trista plays up to it. But it’s not me.’

  ‘I would never …’ Dulcie didn’t know what to say. ‘I didn’t mean …’

  ‘Anyway, from what the doc said, you’ll be up and about in a month, for sure. Then we’ll both be able to get out more.’

  ‘Chris?’ That timing – one month, a full lunar cycle – there was something in it, she was certain. She should follow up. But Chris had gone ahead to hail a cab and was now waving from the other end of the plaza, a smile as big as the moon on his sweet, pale face.

  SIXTY

  ‘Spin me a tale about Seeming, and I shall answer with my own.’ The Stranger spoke with a voice as soft as summer fog, and yet still could he be heard. ‘We are none of us merely what we would Seem. We are all of us more, and thus burden’d by what we may Bring. ’Tis our Curse, and yet also our Blessing. Would you not agree, my Lady?’ In the shadowy Night, his very features seemed to grow and soften, as she dashed away the Tears that threatened to pour forth, her Heart’s water, though whether of fear or of Relief, she would be loath to say. ‘If some of us fare brighter under the Moon’s fair luminescence, would you have us called out in Light of Day? Would you have us Depart from you, while your own Secrets hold you back?’ ‘No, I would not.’ She whispered to the Wind, her voice a secret Promise to the Dark. ‘I would have you stay, be what you will.’

  By Monday, Dulcie had accepted the inevitable. Although she had hobbled back to campus eagerly after receiving Griddlehaus’s call, she would have to put aside this latest intriguing fragment of text. The Philadelphia bequest had waited more than a hundred years; it could wait a while longer.

  As she made her slow way over to the departmental offices, she steeled herself. All weekend, Thorpe had been emailing and then texting her – using his new-found skill to urge her to get started on the Chicago article. This morning she was due in his office to discuss what he insisted on calling their ‘joint strategy,’ a phrase as confusing as it was ominous.

  She was going to have to come clean. Whatever notes Chicago had sent her had been lost. Whether they had been deleted when Chris had cleaned her phone, or simply swallowed up by the postal service, she might never know. What she did know was that she would have to contact the editors, and hope they had kept a copy of their comments. And before that, she needed to tell everything to Martin Thorpe.

  ‘Mr Thorpe?’ She had made it up the stairs and, dropping her bag on the floor, stood in front of his open door. ‘I have to make a confession.’

  An hour later, Dulcie’s head was spinning. On one hand, she had never expected Martin Thorpe to be so enthusiastic about her research. On the other, she felt she had let herself be co-opted in a way not even her former adviser, who had a penchant for stealing his student’s work, had managed.

  ‘This will be a marvelous opportunity for you,’ Thorpe had exclaimed, pacing around his office. ‘Having an article in Chicago will put us both up for the Candlewick Prize.’

  ‘But, Mr Thorpe …’ She had to tell him.

  ‘You do know what this means, don’t you?’ She had never seen him so excited. ‘We’ll both be up for one of the biggest prizes in academe when this comes out.’

  ‘Wait, I have to … what?’

  ‘The Candlewick. Which even the dean’s committee must recognize as a signature honor.’ He was on his toes now. ‘You know Bullock won the Candlewick the year before he was named department chair, don’t you?’

  She stopped, his words sinking in. ‘Wait, we both will be up for it?’

  ‘Yes.’ Thorpe motioned her into the guest chair before, finally, taking his own seat. ‘Don’t you know? The journal expects us both to work on this project, faculty adviser and degree candidate. It’s their way.’

  ‘Great.’ Dulcie forced a smile. It was a change to see the dour man so elated. And here she was going to have to spoil it. ‘As long as they don’t mind—’

  ‘Here, we’ve already gotten notes.’ He poked around on his desk until he found a stack of pages neatly clipped together. ‘I grabbed these as soon as they came in, but you might have Nancy make you a copy.’

  ‘Notes? But …’ Dulcie reached for the packet. Sure enough, the journal’s logo topped the first page. ‘I thought they’d sent these to me.’

  ‘Well, technically, they may have.’ Thorpe looked down at his desk, and Dulcie thought he might be blushing. ‘But of course anything that comes to the department falls under my bailiwick, and I recognized the address, and so …’

  He began to scribble on a yellow legal pad. ‘We’ll have to start with Hamilton, of course. Have you found any evidence that your author, that Rampages one, knew him? No? Well, you’ll have to get to work then, won’t you?’

  ‘I …’ It was no use. She let him continue.

  ‘Yes, yes, that will all be very good.’ He kept writing. ‘I’m thinking of calling it “The Federalist Femme”.’

  ‘But, Mr Thorpe,’ she broke in finally. ‘Don’t you want me to focus on my thesis?’ She made herself say the words. She could return to the Philadelphia bequest afterward, as a postgrad. It might be possible. ‘I thought you wanted me to finish it. To narrow my scope and write, so I’d be ready to defend this spring.’

  ‘Narrow? Nonsense!’ Thorpe barked. ‘Now is not the time to talk about narrowing anything, Ms Schwartz. Not at a
ll.’

  He must have seen the shock that stopped her questions, because he continued in a more subdued voice. ‘This may in truth occasion a delay in the ultimate presentation of your dissertation. But such a credit can only burnish your reputation and add further luster to your thesis when it finally is ready to defend,’ he said, warming to the topic. ‘The truest graduate students are the foot soldiers of research!’

  SIXTY-ONE

  Count it as a gift, Dulcie. The email from Professor Showalter couldn’t have come at a better time. Slightly stunned, Dulcie had hobbled home, grateful for the slight thaw that had left the sidewalks damp but wider and easier for her to maneuver on crutches.

  Still, it had taken all her strength to get back and up the stairs. Now she sat at the kitchen table and read the note that had come in response to her own panicked missive, sent after her meeting with Thorpe.

  The Chicago Avatar is a prestigious journal, Thorpe is right about that, and not all change is necessarily bad. This will buy you time to do your real work. Please tell me more about the new fragment when you are at leisure. All best, Renée Showalter.

  ‘Not all change is necessarily bad,’ Dulcie read out loud. ‘What do you think of that, Esmé?’

  ‘Mrup!’ With a leap, the plump cat deposited herself in Dulcie’s lap and began to knead.

  ‘Of course, now that Thorpe actually cares about my research, he’s going to try to take credit for it.’ She stroked the cat’s back as she spoke. ‘I guess that’s better than rushing me through it.’

  ‘Rushing through what?’ Chris appeared in the doorway, his arms full of paper bags. ‘We have time for dumplings, I hope?’

  ‘I do.’ Dulcie smiled up at her boyfriend. ‘But don’t you have plans?’

  ‘Only for dinner.’ He placed the bags on the table. They smelled great. ‘Don’t get up, I’ll get the bowls. How’d the meeting go?’

  ‘You wouldn’t believe it,’ she began.

  ‘Tell me,’ he said. ‘I’ve got all night.’

  By the time the dumplings – and the soup and the greens and the noodles that Chris had deemed essential accompaniments – were done and they had all retired to the sofa, Dulcie had brought her boyfriend up to speed.

  ‘Sounds like your old adviser, all over again,’ he said when she was done. ‘Trying to home in on your research.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Full and warm and cuddled against Chris, Dulcie didn’t find the idea quite as offensive. ‘I’m going to have to be on my guard.’

  ‘But this means you’ll have extra time to do your own work, right?’ He stroked her hair. Esmé, meanwhile, was purring at Dulcie’s feet.

  ‘Yeah, it just seems a little daunting.’

  ‘You can do it, Dulce.’ Chris’s voice was growing softer. Either that or she was falling asleep. ‘What is “seems” anyway?’

  ‘’Scuse me?’ she asked, or thought she did. The sound of Esmé purring grew louder.

  ‘We are what we would be.’ She was answered by a different voice, deeper and riding on that purr. ‘We needs go through many changes.’ Dulcie closed her eyes and thought of Chris and Suze. Of a world of make-believe and illusion, and a silver cat. Of Trista and of her dear, departed friend, Mr Grey. ‘As we are so many things. The world is wide, little one, and full of love. All is possible, if you will only try.’