Grey Matters

by Clea Simon

  ‘Maybe.’ With one more long look, Suze headed upstairs. As she heard the shower start, Dulcie poked her leftover oatmeal with her spoon. It had started to harden as it cooled, and looked no more appetizing than the cloudy day that stretched in front of her. ‘Or maybe something really is going on. And nobody wants to tell me what it is.’

  THIRTY-FOUR

  New England in autumn has its own particular kind of gloom. Everyone thinks of the foliage, those riotous weeks of September and early October, when each tree seems to be competing with its neighbor to be the most extravagant. In those heady early fall days, the chill in the air is welcome, the newly clear blue of the sky a stage-set backdrop to the impossible reds and oranges of the maples, oaks, and silver-barked beech trees. For Dulcie, that wild flurry of color coincided with the excitement of a new term, and the brightness of her adopted city perfectly complemented the feeling she had about coming to the university. This is autumn, the world seemed to shout. Can’t you taste it?

  But no matter how beautiful the season started, it always turned out the same by November. Just when the workload began to get heavy, the days grew grey, dull, and lifeless. It was enough to make one believe in the pathetic fallacy, Dulcie thought, as she descended the front steps. No Chris, no Mr Grey. Her new kitten wouldn’t talk to her and her thesis was mired in, well, mire. Life was truly imitating art.

  ‘Hey, Dulcie!’ A friendly voice broke into Dulcie’s gloom and she turned to see her neighbor Helene gesturing from her street-level front door. ‘Have a minute?’

  Dulcie found herself smiling. Her broad, and sometimes loud, neighbor had a heart even bigger than the rest of her. A city hospital nurse, she’d looked after Dulcie through the crises of the last summer, and Dulcie had come to appreciate the sweet woman behind the gruff manner. Since Helene had adopted two kittens, litter mates, Dulcie had found herself dropping by more often – the spunky felines doing more to bridge the town–gown gap than a dozen university symposiums.

  ‘What’s up, Helene?’ Dulcie trotted down the three steps that led into the ground-floor apartment.

  ‘I wanted to show you something.’ Helene beckoned Dulcie back into the kitchen. ‘Julius has a new trick.’

  Dulcie had been planning on going to the library, and she seriously doubted that either Julius or his brother Murray had invented any original moves. But it was pleasant to be in someone else’s life for a while, particularly when that life was spic and span, smelling vaguely of orange oil. ‘So, where’s the wonder cat?’

  Helene turned toward Dulcie, a grin splitting her wide brown face. ‘Check it out!’

  She stepped back and Dulcie looked past her to the windowsill. There sat Julius, an orange tabby, proudly holding a pot holder in his mouth. At his feet, tucked into the sill, were a catnip mouse, a kitchen sponge, and a shredded piece of fur that had probably once been a toy mouse.

  ‘He’s a hunter-gatherer!’ Helene sounded as proud as if her six-month-old kitten had mastered the piano.

  Dulcie tried to smile, she really did. But looking at that marmalade kitten, his white legs just beginning to get that leggy adolescent look, she had to fight back the tears. Mr Grey had liked to fetch, too, bringing a wide assortment of items to lay at his human’s feet. Another trait that his successor, the tuxedoed kitten, didn’t seem to share.

  ‘What?’ Helen was suddenly hovering, her grin replaced by a look of concern.

  ‘He’s a great cat,’ Dulcie said finally. ‘He just reminds me of Mr Grey so much!’ She found her smile and turned toward her neighbor. ‘Which just means he’s a super smart kitty. I’m so glad you have him!’

  ‘I didn’t mean to bring you down, dear.’ Helene had heard it all. ‘And isn’t it good that all our cats are different? I mean, Murray wouldn’t know what to do with a cat toy if you threw it at him.’

  Dulcie laughed at that and reached to pet the marmalade youngster. ‘And my new kitten just likes to run around like crazy and then lie there, staring at me. I wish I could figure out what she’s thinking!’

  ‘Maybe she’s saying, “When are you going to give me a name?”’

  ‘All in good time, Helene.’ Dulcie saw the other kitten, sacked out on Helene’s sofa, and went over to rub his belly. ‘But I’m in no rush.’

  With another round of pets, she took off, trying to ignore the look of concern on her neighbor’s face.

  By the time Dulcie reached the Yard, the sun had almost broken through the clouds. The wind had picked up as well, though, chasing the remaining leaves along the bare ground like scared prey. Dulcie tried not to think of her departed cat as she watched a pile of oak leaves swirl and settle, tempting any passersby to jump in.

  ‘What would you have made of Julius?’ The question came to mind. ‘Or Murray, for that matter?’ Mr Grey had had his lazy side, too. He was, after all, a cat, and could nap anywhere, anytime. But when he was awake, he had a certain alertness, an intelligence that shone in his green eyes. ‘Emerald eyes,’ Dulcie thought to herself, as she headed for the wide granite steps of the library.

  Once inside, the chill of the day seemed to fall away. Widener was her home, the one place where she could really be herself. On a normal Saturday, she’d have preferred to be with Chris, walking by the river or taking in a movie. But as long as Chris was going to be distant, she was glad she was here. She had work to do, too!

  Nor was she alone. With the semester coming to a close and the weather dismal, the marble-lined lobby of the library was serving as a refuge to other like-minded souls. Although the soaring ceilings – and the two guards – kept the hubbub to a minimum, Dulcie was aware of an un-library-like hum as she passed through the check point and made her way to the elevator. Three flights down, and she’d find the peace she craved. And maybe a few answers.

  But although the stacks were significantly quieter than the lobby, they were hardly still. Soft footfalls padded up and down the narrow aisles, and Dulcie was aware of the motion-detector lights clicking on and off, soft but audible.

  Tuning out the distractions, she started by pulling a copy of early feminist writings. The movement that so many thought of as a twentieth-century phenomenon had actually started two hundred years earlier, and the ‘she-authors’ of the time had played their part. Mary Wollstonecraft was the big name, her Vindication of the Rights of Women raising the cry when it was published in 1792. She’d even attacked other writers, Dulcie remembered, calling them to task for unflattering or overly pitying depictions of women in their books.

  Wollstonecraft wasn’t alone. There was one essay – Dulcie found herself skimming it again and smiled – that seemed particularly modern. ‘A Call for Practical Education,’ it spoke out against educating women solely for the roles of wife and mother. ‘An idle mind is not merely an invitation to sin,’ it read. ‘It is a waste, displaying a rash disregard for the divine gifts with which, too, the female may be blessed.’ The phrasing might be archaic, but the intent was cheering. As grateful as Dulcie was to have Chris in her life, she couldn’t imagine a world in which her sole purpose was to please him.

  But now Dulcie was looking for something else. That one phrase – ‘cool as emeralds’ – had stayed in her mind and this morning it had reawakened another idea: one that she had put on the backburner recently.

  The idea was simple: a corollary to her theory about the two main characters, Hermetria and Demetria. These two contrasting personalities may have been more than dramatic roles, Dulcie had begun to suspect. One strong and independent, the other an obsequious backstabber, they may have also reflected arguments about the nature of women in general from the author’s day. If that phrase could not be found in other fiction of the era, maybe this was the reason. If Dulcie could prove that the author of The Ravages had instead used a phrase from one of those early feminist papers, she could argue that the novel’s author had read them. Had thought like them. Maybe, even – if she could turn up the linguistic evidence – prove that she had been one of those s
trong women thinkers. It was possible. A lot of authors chose fiction to make their points, Dulcie mused. After all, more of the unknown author’s contemporaries were likely to read a wild adventure filled with romance than a political tract. That was still true today, and it would make a bang-up secondary theme in her dissertation – if she could prove it.

  But the fates were not with Dulcie. Although she knew she’d heard that phrase before – could almost place it – she wasn’t finding it. And the fact that her mind kept going off on tangents, wondering about Chris and about Mr Grey, about Lloyd and Raleigh, didn’t help.

  Which at least partly explained why she started when, out of the corner of her eye, she noticed a pale visage, somewhat familiar, passing by. No, it wasn’t one of Hermetria’s ghosts, she realized. It was Lloyd, making an uncharacteristic appearance in eighteenth-century fiction.

  ‘Lloyd!’ Her stage whisper carried and he looked up. The rings under his eyes were dark against his colorless cheeks.

  ‘Oh, hey.’ He seemed distracted, busy with a book he had pulled from the shelf. A critique of Fielding, Dulcie noted, before getting back to the matter at hand.

  ‘Lloyd, I wanted to talk with you last night.’ She was talking normally now, her voice soft enough to be heard but not to carry through the floor-to-ceiling shelves. ‘About the whole situation with Professor Bullock?’

  ‘Not to worry.’ Lloyd turned to the index, unconcerned. ‘That’s all taken care of.’

  ‘What do you mean? You said he dropped the claim. Did you mean about the stolen book?’ He nodded, still reading. Dulcie wasn’t appeased. ‘Why?’

  ‘It was all a lot of noise.’ Lloyd closed the book and went back to browsing the shelves. ‘Much ado about nothing.’

  ‘Ha, ha.’ Dulcie wanted him to look at her. Instead, he kept examining the shelves. ‘Nothing was stolen, Dulcie. It’s complicated, but just trust me on this one.’

  She wanted to, really, but something didn’t feel right. She looked at her officemate and then down at the book in his hand. ‘Speaking of the bard, what are you up to down here? I thought you were on Elizabethan duty until further notice.’

  He pulled another book down and, after a moment’s hesitation, a third. ‘Not anymore!’ He turned to look at her, his pale face breaking into a smile. Dulcie could have sworn some color had come back into those cheeks. ‘Like I said, it’s all taken care of.’ He squeezed by her and headed for the elevators. ‘But I can’t really talk now. I’ve got a big date to prepare for.’

  Dulcie watched as the chubby scholar walked off, positively bouncing. She’d meant to work back to her serious questions. To ask him about the mysterious package on his desk. But by the time she found her tongue, he was gone.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Too distracted to go back to work, Dulcie followed soon after, checking out the collection of essays. But even as she found a seat in the spacious reading room, her mind raced. A date? Lloyd had a date? With whom? And how exactly had he resolved his conflict with Professor Bullock?

  It was no use. How could she read about the intellectual callings of women when her own mind was stuck mulling over the social life of her officemate? Nothing for it, she decided, but to give in. The Science Center was just across the Yard. Maybe in the basement computer lab, she’d find both romance and the peace to pursue her mind’s work.

  As Dulcie crossed the Yard her mood lifted. The clouds were still skittering, a celestial echo to the leaves below, but the sun had broken through. And she was off to see Chris. On a normal Saturday, they’d be studying together. Why not today?

  Just then a gust of wind hit, throwing up decidedly unromantic dust. Turning away, she wiped the grit from her eyes, and pulled her collar up. Why hadn’t she worn a hat? That woman over there had been smart enough to – and with that thought, Dulcie recognized Polly, her bright scarlet beret standing out against the grey stone of University Hall.

  ‘Polly!’ Dulcie called and waved. The woman turned briefly and then hurried on. Well, the wind was picking up, and perhaps Dulcie had been mistaken. That was a handsome hat, but it was probably not the only one in Cambridge.

  Her cheeks were stinging and her nose dripping by the time Dulcie reached the Science Center, and she paused on entering to wipe her streaming eyes.

  ‘ID, please?’ Guards were everywhere these days, but she was used to it from the libraries. Still, as she handed over her university ID, she had to ask.

  ‘Is there something special going on?’

  ‘No.’ The guard scanned the plastic card and handed it back. ‘New policy.’

  Curious, but perhaps just a sign of the times, and Dulcie descended down the curling stairs to the heart of the cavernous center: the computer lab.

  ‘Dulcie!’ Jerry looked up from the help desk. ‘Welcome to the Underworld.’ His big smile belied his words, but he furthered the illusion by leaning forward with a conspiratorial whisper. ‘Don’t eat anything down here, you know. Or you’ll be forced to stay.’

  ‘There are worse things.’ She smiled back, her eyes already cruising the room. Row upon row of cubicles housed students, most working on laptops, some at university terminals that tapped directly into the school’s mainframe. In one corner, two students leaned toward one screen, giggling. Otherwise, the vibe was serious. But not silent. Between the machines and the occasional mutter of hope or despair, the entire room hummed, low and steady. ‘So where’s Chris?’

  ‘Chris?’ Jerry looked confused.

  ‘Yeah, you know,’ Dulcie smiled, wondering at his bewilderment. ‘Tall guy? Dark hair? Likes lasagna and the Red Sox?’

  ‘Oh.’ Jerry sat down and looked over at his terminal. ‘He’s not on till six. Didn’t he tell you?’

  ‘No, I just thought . . .’ Dulcie paused, suddenly unwilling to let her dismay show. ‘He must have.’ She smiled again, although this time she had to force it. ‘My fault. I must have gotten the days mixed up.’

  ‘Good thing.’ Jerry was looking over a schedule on his screen. ‘I mean, he can’t take all the hours.’

  ‘Well, thanks, Jer.’ Suddenly, Dulcie wanted to leave. The underground den no longer felt like a shelter and with a fast wave she was up the stairs, buttoning her coat as she went. But out in the Yard, again, she stopped. What was going on? Chris wouldn’t have run off without a reason. He wasn’t like that.

  She paused to watch a squirrel and tried to think. Chris had had his secrets, when they first met. She’d run into him coming from the health services, from a therapy session, one night and uncovered the biggest. Unlike some of their happy-go-lucky classmates, he was dealing with some heavy issues. His mother, who had raised him after his parents’ divorce, was battling cancer and a recurrence over the summer had sent him into a tailspin. But Sheryl was doing well now, her body clean of the invading cells, she’d said, the last time Dulcie had chatted with her on the phone. Well enough so that she was suggesting a visit over the semester break: Christmas on the Jersey Shore. ‘Or Chanukah if you’d prefer,’ she’d said. ‘We can even make latkes.’

  Dulcie had laughed, comfortable enough with Chris’s family to explain about Lucy then, and Sheryl had brightened at the idea. ‘Do you think your mother could come out? There’s great healing energy on the beach.’

  No, it wasn’t Chris’s mom. But something was up. The squirrel paused from its manic antics and fixed Dulcie with a shiny black eye. Yeah, she thought. You’re right. She reached for her cell.

  Chris picked up on the first ring and sounded glad to hear her.

  ‘Where are you?’ She hadn’t meant for that to be the first thing out of her mouth. ‘I was just at the computer lab. I thought I’d come and study with you.’ She stumbled over her own words, trying to explain.

  ‘I’m over at Winthrop House.’ He sounded quite rational, and not at all ashamed. ‘I guess I didn’t tell you. I’ve put together a study group, some private tutees.’

  ‘Oh.’ That sounded reasonable. But why hadn’t he told her?
‘I didn’t know.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Dulcie. I’ve just been working so hard. I guess it just slipped my mind.’

  She stood there, holding the phone. He sounded like Chris, but she had no idea what to say. Luckily, she didn’t need to respond. Over the line she heard another voice – a woman’s – and the sound of Chris muffling the phone.

  ‘Look,’ he came back on. ‘I can’t talk now, Dulcie. But our session will be over by three. Want to meet up after?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Her voice sounded weak, even to her own ears. ‘I mean, yes. I’d like that.’ But the day had lost its brightness once again.

  THIRTY-SIX

  Dulcie walked back through the Yard, kicking at leaves. But the nippy air was way too cold to let her spend two hours this way, and, besides, the squirrels were making her feel lazy by comparison. She knew her concentration was shot. What would the early feminists have made of this dilemma? Better she should focus on her other duties.

  ‘I’ll get Raleigh’s notes and finally work through them,’ she decided, turning toward the Union office. With Lloyd getting ready for his big Saturday night, at least she’d be able to concentrate there.

  It was no good. Twenty minutes with Raleigh Hall’s notes only convinced her that the young woman was as brilliant as she was beautiful. And that Dulcie was just not in a mood that promoted sisterhood. Suze would have been appalled, and probably could have talked her into a better space. But Suze wasn’t answering her phone either. And so Dulcie stuffed the papers into her bag, and hoisted the increasingly heavy load to her shoulder.

  It was the weather, not her imagination. Or so Dulcie told herself as she stepped once more on one of the myriad walkways that crisscrossed the yard. Clouds had once more rolled in, this time deepening the afternoon shadows and reminding Dulcie that snow would be coming soon. And not the pristine, silent snow of the Pacific Northwest. No, while Cambridge flakes came down as nicely and, truth be told, frosted the city quite beautifully for the first twelve hours or so of their presence, they never lasted. While the snows she had grown up with stayed beautiful, turning from white to blue as the daylight faded, here in the city it changed – and fast. Even before the first steps stopped crunching beneath her boots, Dulcie knew the white would be grimed with soot and grime. Soon the drifts would resemble lava flows, the streets filled with mucky slush. And Dulcie would wonder, once again, what she was doing here. She missed the trees. The quiet. Sometimes, even, Lucy.