Grey Matters

by Clea Simon

  Suddenly, a squirrel darted across her path, and Dulcie stopped short. The little animal stopped three feet away and stared, as if to reprimand her. And something in its piercing black eyes snapped Dulcie back to her youth. Growing up in the commune hadn’t been all tofu and spirit circles. The more Dulcie got to know her college classmates, the more she recognized that the utopian ideals of sharing and respect were good ones – even if it meant being forced to come up with words of praise for Savannah’s eight-bean casserole every new moon. Plus, all the hours she’d spent out in the woods were probably pretty healthy for a growing girl. At least, Dulcie hadn’t worried about her weight then, though that may have been because everyone had been rather retro-shaggy and her ease with the communal animals had been considered as much of a social draw as Sirena’s butt-length hair.

  Nor had she been deprived, not in any real sense. Although their eco-friendly yurt had little room for private luxuries, or privacy for that matter, Lucy had always encouraged Dulcie’s love of books and had even cleared out two shelves of crystals to make room for Dulcie’s growing collection. True, she had tried at various times to push her daughter toward metaphysics. But when, at thirteen, Dulcie had laid down the law and firmly rejected the offer of yet another moonsigns guide, Lucy had seen the light. She’d given Dulcie her own Riverside Shakespeare, a last remnant of her own lost life, and encouraged her to take the biodiesel bus into town every week to visit the local library.

  Dulcie smiled, remembering her first visit to Widener. She’d thought something was missing, and only later realized that it was the smell of cooking oil. Maybe that was why she loved Lala’s french fries. That little library had been her first true love, long before Chris or Jonah, her faithless ex. Even before Widener. And when the local librarian had encouraged her to think of college, the die was cast. As much as Lucy sniffed at the idea of ‘Back East’ – she’d grown up on the Philly Main Line – she knew that the state schools weren’t enough for her daughter.

  ‘She’s going to be a wise woman,’ Lucy had explained to the community. ‘A crone.’ And if Dulcie had winced at those words, she’d been grateful, too. Lucy had always encouraged her to follow her own dreams. And her mother’s greatest gift, after that complete Shakespeare, was letting her go. She wouldn’t give up. Not now.

  She looked at the squirrel, and the squirrel tipped its grey head up to stare at her. Then, with a flick of its tail, it was gone.

  ‘Thank you!’ she whispered. Maybe there was something to all this psychic stuff. But as she was looking around for another bit of animal inspiration, she saw a camel-colored figure, decidedly not rodent-like.

  ‘Polly!’ Striding along without a hat, the other woman must have been chilly. What had happened to that lovely beret? As Dulcie watched, the other woman moved quickly, her chin tucked into her collar and her pale blonde hair streaming behind her. ‘Polly!’

  Grateful for another familiar face, she trotted after her and found herself out on the street, just in time to see the older woman duck into an upscale stationers. Dulcie hesitated – something about the other woman seemed furtive, private – and then pulled the door open. A small chime went off and Dulcie found herself in a warm and well-lit space, surrounded by pricey pens and paper so creamy she longed to fondle it.

  ‘May I help you?’ The sales woman was wearing an ivory blouse that looked like silk. Surrounded by pens and ink, she’d managed to stay spotless.

  ‘Just browsing.’ Dulcie smiled at her, suddenly aware of her own flushed cheeks, the curls that were escaping every which way from under her own knit wool cap. ‘Thanks.’

  The store went back further than she’d noticed, and Dulcie found herself drawn to a display of fountain pens. Maybe for the winter solstice, she could get one for Chris . . .

  ‘That one is lovely, isn’t it?’ The sales woman had come up behind her. ‘And quite a bargain. It’s three hundred fifty. Reconditioned, of course.’

  ‘Of course.’ Dulcie swallowed. Chris wasn’t a pen guy, anyway. She backed away from the case and saw Polly, far in the back, by a display of hand-blown glass pens and spherical paperweights. The latter were lovely things, little globes drawing the eye with color and light. Looking at them, Dulcie thought of Lucy and smiled. In Lucy’s world, such a globe would be valued for its magic, as a focus for meditation – or a tool to gather psychic energies. Still, she knew her mother would secretly love such an object for its beauty, no matter what she called it. She moved closer, toward Polly, who held one of the smaller orbs in her ungloved hand and was running her thumb along its smooth surface.

  ‘Pretty.’ Dulcie found herself staring at it; a swirl of deep blue drew the eye in. But Polly must have been hypnotized, as well, because she started and put the paperweight down so quickly it made a noise.

  ‘May I help you?’ The sales woman was back again, this time giving them both a sharp look. ‘Those are fragile, you know. Imported.’

  ‘We’re just looking.’ Dulcie forced a smile. Harvard Square was becoming more like Newbury Street every day, with its pricey boutiques. ‘Sorry,’ she said as she leaned over to Polly. ‘Didn’t mean to startle you.’ The face that looked back at her was paler than ever. ‘Are you OK?’

  Polly nodded, and Dulcie was left with a strong sense that she had overstepped as Polly reached out to touch the pretty thing again, her thin fingers trembling. But before she could, the sales woman swooped in and grabbed the little globe, wiping it down with a chamois before replacing it in the display. Clearly, these weren’t real customers.

  Dulcie had grown used to such treatment – in Boston if not in scholar-friendly Cambridge. But Polly looked shaken, and Dulcie’s heart went out to her. She reached for the older woman’s arm and steered her away from the snooty clerk. Who needed an overpriced paperweight anyway?

  But Polly glanced back, and in that look Dulcie saw the hunger – for something beautiful, something precious. For just a moment, Dulcie saw a flash of the other Polly, the scholar who had spoken to her at Professor Bullock’s. The woman she must have been ten, even fifteen years before.

  ‘I’m sorry, Polly.’ Dulcie felt for the other woman, her days spent in intellectual servitude. ‘I didn’t mean to interrupt. I think I’ve got a bad vibe today.’ She tried to smile, to make a joke out of it. Polly could use some humor. ‘Sales girls. Squirrels. I’m just hitting it off badly with everyone today.’ No response. ‘Man trouble.’

  ‘Oh?’ A bit of life came back into the pallid blonde’s face, and Dulcie found herself breathing easier. It wasn’t that she wanted to beef about Chris, but she felt better knowing that she’d found a way to reach Polly. She hadn’t thought of her as the type for girl talk, but then, she had never bothered to inquire.

  ‘Yeah.’ She steered the other woman out of the store. The little chime sounded brittle this time, a curt goodbye. They stepped out on to the street, and when Polly turned toward Brattle, Dulcie kept pace.

  ‘My boyfriend is acting weird.’ It was an offering, an invitation to intimacy. But as the words came out, Dulcie realized it was also a relief to say those words out loud. Which was just as well, because as an opening, it was going nowhere. Polly kept walking, her head bent against the wind. ‘Men,’ Dulcie added, trying for sisterly camaraderie.

  Polly glanced over, her pale eyes blinking beneath colorless lashes. Dulcie could have sworn her lips moved. But between the wind and the older woman’s reticence, she missed it. ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘I said, you can’t let them get anything on you,’ Polly repeated, her voice sounding strained. She kept walking, and this time Dulcie had to struggle to keep up.

  That wasn’t exactly what Dulcie had been thinking, but then, she didn’t know much about Polly’s relationships. She started to trot to keep pace, and found her mind racing as well. Could Polly be talking about Roger Gosham – or about Cameron? Or – another thought struck her – was Polly more than a housekeeper for the professor? The concept seemed so ludicrous, and yet so obvi
ous, that she pulled up short. Suddenly, she remembered what Sarah had said at the pub. Cameron had been prying into Professor Bullock’s life. Had he uncovered an inappropriate relationship? Had he been trying to help Polly? Had the professor killed him over an affair?

  ‘The bastard.’ Luckily, they had reached the corner, where a dozen other pedestrians waited for the signal to cross. Several faces turned toward her, most as pale as her own, frankly curious. ‘Son of a —’

  Polly turned to stare, her blue-grey eyes slightly distended, and Dulcie realized how crazy she must sound. ‘I just mean, they are trouble, aren’t they?’ She tried to smile, to make it a joke. She needed time to sort this out. Could Bullock be in love? ‘But they’re human, too, right?’

  Polly shrugged back, looking much less certain about the proposition. The light changed and the crowd moved into the street. Dulcie put her hand on Polly’s sleeve and held her back.

  ‘Polly, can you tell me? Is there something going on with Professor Bullock?’

  Polly started like a spooked horse, and Dulcie fought back the urge to grab her. ‘Polly? Please. I don’t mean to pry—’

  ‘Then don’t!’ The other woman turned on her, and Dulcie saw her lips start to quiver. ‘I have nothing but respect for the professor. Professor Bullock is a scholar. Professor Bullock has an international reputation. And more than that, Professor Bullock is . . . he is the consummate gentleman.’

  Dulcie let go and stepped back, shaking her head. She still wasn’t convinced. ‘I’m sorry, Polly. I only thought, the way you were acting . . .’ Suddenly, Polly’s words hit her. Something about the emphasis . . .

  ‘It’s not him, is it? Polly, tell me, did something happen with Roger Gosham?’

  The thin woman turned away, but not before Dulcie saw her wince. Immediately, Dulcie felt a surge of sisterly anger and drew the taller woman in toward the shelter of a tobacconist’s window.

  ‘Polly, we should tell someone about this.’ Up against the display of humidors, they were protected from the whipping wind. It almost felt private. ‘If you’re in an unsafe relationship—’

  ‘No, no, it wasn’t like that.’ Polly looked panicked, and Dulcie held back, listening. ‘Really. It was just a – a misunderstanding.’ The pause before the final word made Dulcie hesitate. Was Polly lying out of shame or a sense of complicity? ‘It was, well, it was complicated.’ Polly looked so miserable that Dulcie didn’t have the heart to push.

  Polly looked in at a carving of an Indian holding a tobacco leaf and whispered to him. ‘There were . . . other factors.’

  ‘Cameron?’ Dulcie said softly, watching the other woman as she nodded and bit her lip. Inside the store, a clerk had noticed them and started toward the door, a note of concern on his mustachioed face.

  ‘But it’s all worked out now,’ said Polly, stepping away from the window. ‘Hasn’t it?’ With a smile that did little to erase the sadness in her eyes, she reached into a pocket and pulled out the bright beret, fixing it on her head before walking off. Dulcie watched her go, with no heart to follow. That was one way of looking at it, Dulcie realized, and wondered again at the older woman’s attachments.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  She should have felt comforted, Dulcie told herself. Polly’s strange comments had been, well, strange, but she should have felt better upon seeing Chris waiting for her at Lala’s, where he’d managed to snag one of the few tiny tables. But she didn’t, and even after they ordered, she found herself playing with the condiments – switching the hot sauce with the pickled peppers – and waiting for him to explain.

  ‘What is it, Dulcie?’ Chris took her hand, but she pulled away.

  ‘Are you asking me what’s wrong?’ Dulcie heard a tone in her voice that brought to mind those peppers. ‘Because if you are seriously asking me literally what this is . . .’ She reached again for the small bottle.

  ‘No, I know,’ he said, taking her hand once more. ‘Please. Tell me what’s wrong.’

  Dulcie felt miserable. How could she explain that she didn’t feel centered anymore? That she didn’t know what was safe?

  ‘Dulce, please?’ His face was sad, his dark eyes huge under those recalcitrant bangs. And she melted.

  ‘Oh, Chris, I don’t know what’s going on.’ She couldn’t say ‘lying,’ she just couldn’t. But after that horrible, horrible day when she found Cameron . . . after all the turmoil about Lloyd and Raleigh, Professor Bullock and her thesis. The new kitten, who wouldn’t talk, and Mr Grey, who had also become so quiet. It all came tumbling out, in no particular order, until finally she got up to Chris, up to him not being where she thought he would be. The final straw for her metaphorical camel to bear.

  ‘Oh, sweetie.’ He lifted her hand to kiss it, and she thought she saw him smile. ‘You have nothing to worry about. I mean, Lloyd, I don’t know. Nor that professor. To be honest, he doesn’t sound like he’s all there. But I’m all yours. Didn’t I tell you that I love you?’

  ‘Yes, you did.’ She blushed. Somehow, she hadn’t been able to tell him about her own feelings. Probably because he was never around long enough. And that thought sparked her anger all over again. ‘But you’re not telling me what’s going on. Because, Christopher Sorenson, something is going on. I may not be psychic, but I can tell.’

  He stopped trying to hide his grin. ‘Speaking of psychic, have you spoken to Lucy lately?’

  As if on cue, Dulcie’s phone rang. She looked at it and then up at Chris. It was her mother.

  ‘Mom?’ Dulcie couldn’t remember the last time she had called Lucy anything but Lucy. Then again, she couldn’t remember when her mother’s timing had been quite so on. Perhaps if Lucy wasn’t psychic, Chris was.

  ‘Dulcie, darling! I’m so pleased to have gotten you. Did you find out about that book yet? I really suggest you get rid of it, if you haven’t already. I was meaning to tell you that you can’t just throw it out. There’s a key in it. Or maybe that’s another book, I’m not sure. Just that there’s a new message, “the key is in the book.” But then there’s the fake book. And that you’ve got to get rid of—’

  ‘Lucy! Hang on.’ Dulcie was laughing now. At least one thing hadn’t changed. ‘I’m still doing my research. And no, I haven’t yet found the key to anything – or anything poisonous, either.’

  ‘Treacherous, dear. Treacherous or maybe false.’ Lucy, like her daughter, was a stickler for words.

  ‘The treacherous book, then.’ Her mind flashed to The Ravages of Umbria. ‘About the key, I have some ideas. But, Lucy, I hope you’re wrong.’

  ‘We often wish for things, Dulcie. But unless we pay attention to the portents, we may never get them.’

  ‘I am working, Lucy.’ Whether because she wanted to prove herself to her mother or because she needed to get her own ideas straight, Dulcie found herself explaining her research to her mother. ‘So, even if it’s just for background, I’d like to find out who the author of The Ravages really was.’

  Lucy was characteristically cryptic. ‘Does anyone ever truly reveal who they are?’

  ‘Who he or she is, Lucy.’ Dulcie was beginning to regret her attempt to communicate.

  ‘Don’t be semantic, dear.’

  ‘Pedantic,’ Dulcie corrected under her breath. But Lucy’s punctiliousness clearly only extended to her own concerns, and she was already rattling on about another message, something that had come up during a purifying circle. ‘This question of identity, it’s so important to you, Dulcie. I can see that.’ Dulcie bit her tongue. ‘I can see that, though I’m not entirely sure how it fits in. There are shadows, dear. Some things are not clear yet.’

  That sounded to Dulcie like a recipe to get back to work. Unless Lucy had another clue. ‘You can’t tell me anything else, can you?’

  ‘I wish I could, dear.’ Lucy’s voice faded out briefly and Dulcie had a moment’s pause. Was she really talking on the phone to her mother, or was this some strange astral projection? The waitress came over with their pl
ates. At least lunch was real. ‘You know what you have to do. It’s for you to uncover.’ Her voice was fading, distant, reminding her vaguely of something. Some dream. ‘You know what makes a heroine, Dulcie. Trust yourself.’ Then her mother’s voice came back, clear and strong. ‘But that’s not why I called.’

  ‘Oh?’ Dulcie waited. There must have been another dream. Or perhaps a vision, if Lucy and her friend Nirvana – aka Shirley – were doing peyote again. While she was waiting, Dulcie took a bite of her three-bean burger.

  ‘It’s about squash.’

  Dulcie almost choked on her burger. ‘Squash?’

  ‘Yes, this year, the squash are just the most beautiful things you’ve ever seen. Butternut, acorn, those big green ones that I always forget the name of. The goddess has truly smiled on us, and I was trying to remember something.’

  Dulcie, her mouth full, grunted.

  ‘Do you prefer the squash baked with maple syrup or mashed?’

  A wave of sadness swept over Dulcie, and suddenly the bite of burger was too big to swallow. After a moment, she managed, and found that her voice was cracking.

  ‘Lucy, Mom, you know I’m not coming home this semester break, don’t you? I’m sure I told you. Chris’s mother invited us both down to New Jersey, and what with the shorter bus ride and us both being broke—’

  ‘Yes, yes.’ Lucy seemed unconcerned. ‘You told me, dear. Sheryl sounds like a proper human, for a she-wolf.’