Grey Matters

by Clea Simon

  ‘A what?’ Dulcie looked up. She hoped Chris hadn’t heard that, but he seemed to be happily digging into his own burger. There was a spot of hot sauce on his chin, and she reached to wipe it off.

  ‘She-wolf.’ Lucy seemed to have taken Dulcie’s question literally. ‘And frankly, I’m jealous. You know, I’ve always felt a kinship with the grey pack. Though perhaps it makes sense. Wolves are very family-oriented, you know. And I do think that your Chris sounds like a very nice young man.’

  ‘He is.’ Dulcie might never understand her mother, but she was also never bored by her.

  ‘So, tell me, which way do you prefer your squash?’

  ‘Either is fine.’ Images of a mushy care package filled Dulcie’s mind. ‘Baked, I guess.’

  ‘That’s what I thought, but Nirvana remembered otherwise. Now tell me one more thing, Dulcie, and I’ll let you get back to that boyfriend of yours.’

  Dulcie waited.

  ‘Do you think he’d like my wheatberry casserole?’

  ‘I love you, Lucy.’ Dulcie knew if she didn’t cut in, she’d be on for far longer than Lucy could afford. ‘And I’m hanging up now.’

  ‘Goodbye, Dulcie. And remember: the one who does the seeing may be just as important as that which is seen.’ With that, Lucy hung up, leaving Dulcie shaking her head.

  ‘What?’ Chris looked at her.

  Dulcie shook her head. How could she ever explain?

  ‘Are you going to finish those fries?’

  She pushed her plate over to him and watched as he wolfed them down.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  The two parted outside the café, with plans to meet up again later. Chris had said he was working the night shift at the computer lab. And this time, he promised, he really would be there, and so Dulcie had agreed to come by around nine, with food for a break.

  They kissed goodbye, Chris’s smile as sweet as ever, but Dulcie was still not completely satisfied. The lunch – and the strange phone call from Lucy – seemed like a set-up, somehow. As if those close to her were planning something. That was probably her imagination, she acknowledged, as she made her way back to her office. But she couldn’t help the prickly feeling, as if the hair were standing up along the back of her neck. Chris had not been completely straight with her, she felt, even if he claimed it had all been a mistake. And there was something else going on, she thought as she started across the Yard for the umpteenth time that day. Maybe it was this path, carrying her between Widener Library and the stark, old Memorial Church, but her thoughts seemed clearer here. Something was wrong. Chris was not the cheating type. She trusted him. But he was hiding something. Or at least, she corrected herself, he had not been entirely forthcoming.

  Once again, a fat squirrel darted across her path, and Dulcie paused to watch it as it stopped at the base of an oak tree. Acorn in hand, it nibbled a little, then shoved the nut into its cheek, all the while staring at the human intruder.

  ‘Don’t worry, fella.’ Dulcie smiled at the fluffy creature. ‘I’m not going to steal your feast.’ And with a flash, she realized what else was bothering her. Thanksgiving, as the college called it, was right around the corner. In previous years, she’d been happy to tag along with Suze to her folks’ place in New Jersey. But this year, she’d received no such invitation. Suze was probably taking Ariano with her, and Suze’s parents were conventional enough that the big Italian would undoubtedly be given the one spare room. And Chris’s mother had invited Dulcie for the longer winter break – the solstice holiday, as she still thought of it – and that would be her chance to meet his family.

  But Thanksgiving, however you termed it, was two weeks away, and nobody had even mentioned it to her. Watching the grey rodent stuff its face, Dulcie realized she would be alone while everyone else enjoyed a ritual dinner. Family, friends. Love. Suddenly the three-bean burger felt like a mistake, a lump in her stomach, and she trudged the rest of the way in a funk as grey as the skies.

  If we consider the precedents for such revolutionary theory . . .

  Dulcie rolled her eyes at the overwrought prose, but still she had to admit it: Raleigh Hall was smart, and once she toned down the hyperbole, her undergraduate thesis really might be a prize winner. Just because the young woman was pretty – and tall and slim – was no reason to discredit her work. And so, making a few notes, she read on.

  Discipline, that was the key. As she read, occasionally gnawing at the end of her pencil, Dulcie allowed herself to feel a little proud of herself. Here she was, abandoned and forgotten, and yet she was still getting down to work. Hermetria must have gone through similar days, alone in her mountaintop castle. Her best friend had proved faithless, too. Not that Suze was faithless, Dulcie corrected herself with a flash of guilt. Just preoccupied with her new romance. But Hermetria had managed to prevail, even sorting out her two suitors to find which one was true of heart. Had she made the right decision, going with the young, impoverished knight? Chris’s face flashed through Dulcie’s mind, and for the first time in a long time, she found herself questioning her own choices. She hadn’t wanted to fall for the skinny computer nerd. He’d won her over with his kindness, his persistence. His attention. Had she been too needy recently? Had she leaned on him too much – and ignored Suze?

  No, it was no use. Dulcie dropped the pencil. If she wasn’t going to concentrate on Raleigh’s paper, she shouldn’t be marking it up. She’d only be making more work for herself later. And if she was going to start thinking about The Ravages, she may as well apply herself to her own thesis. She was Dulcie Schwartz, scholar. And if she was looking for any comparison to Hermetria, she should keep in mind that the beleaguered heroine had worked hard to make her own luck. Of course, she had had a friendly ghost on her side.

  ‘Mr Grey.’ Dulcie addressed the still air of the office. ‘If you’re out there, would you help me?’ So many things seemed to be weighing on her, she didn’t know what to ask for. But ghosts weren’t like stars. You didn’t make a specific wish, did you? No, Mr Grey had always been a source of comfort. Warmth, stability: that was what she needed now.

  Would he hear her? She had to believe it, and so with a new determination, she fished the library book out of her bag. Somewhere in among these essays, she’d find some connection to The Ravages. And maybe a clue about its author.

  The key, she was convinced, was in that one phrase, cool as emeralds. Though since her talk with Lucy, she couldn’t help but wonder. The key is in the book . . .

  But the small office was stuffy and warm. The heat had kicked in for real, with the fading of the day, and somewhere a radiator hissed gently, the steam coming out in small gasps: whirr . . . whirr . . . whirr . . . Dulcie felt her lids grow heavy, the book unwieldy in her hands.

  Thump! It was the noise that woke her, the thud as the large volume slid from her lap to the floor. She reached for the book, which had fallen open, grateful that neither Professor Bullock nor Roger Gosham were there to witness it lying, pages open, on the dirty floor.

  And as she picked it up, a paragraph jumped out at her:

  The modern female must be strong, as cool as emeralds, and this strength she must utilize in furtherance of more than simply family or personal betterment. No, in order to better serve the society to which she is the rightful heir, she must draw that strength like a sword from its sheath, and wield it for the common good . . .

  That was it! Dulcie couldn’t believe it, and looked around for someone to share her good news. No Lloyd, but she’d tell Chris. He would understand. He knew how hard she was working. But first, she had to take notes. Dulcie couldn’t understand why she’d had so much trouble finding this one quote when it was there all along.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Grey.’ She closed her eyes and imagined the satisfied way his eyes would close, his whiskers proud and alert. And with a similar smile, she flipped back to the beginning of the essay, the marvelous, wonderful essay. And she froze.

  ‘Commentary on the Rights of Women,’ read th
e title page. Below it, the publisher had conveniently printed the original publisher and date of first printing: November 20, 1840. This essay had been published a good forty years after The Ravages of Umbria.

  Dulcie started and shook her head, confused. Could the essayist have picked up the phrase from the novel? But how? No critics had commented on The Ravages when it was first published, at least none that Dulcie could ever find. And too much would have passed since its initial publication for it still to be a hot topic in 1840. The Ravages had probably been forgotten by then – as if it had never been written.

  And as that phrase took shape in her mind, the implications grew. Forty years – a lifetime. After all that time to have that exact phrase pop up? No, it was too little, too late. Too long after the fact to have been lifted from the original, as she knew it, and too close to be an accident. By the 1840s, Gothic novels had become the butt of jokes, of parodies.

  Dulcie swallowed. Hard. She had found her proof all right. Proof that The Ravages was a fake.

  THIRTY-NINE

  A wave of nausea passed over Dulcie, leaving her weak and sweaty. No, it couldn’t be. She closed her eyes and opened them again. Yes, it could. This was exactly what she’d suspected for a while now, what Lucy’s strange dream had warned about. Suddenly the office was too small, too stuffy. She needed to talk to someone about this – anyone, but ideally someone who could tell her that she was wrong. That she hadn’t just stumbled over damning evidence that The Ravages of Umbria was not the product of a later era. A pastiche or, worse, a spoof.

  ‘Lloyd, where are you when I need you?’ Dulcie keyed in his number on her cell, but only got his voicemail. Of course, the big date.

  As she sat there, trying to think of whom else she could talk to, Dulcie was hit by how small a field she really worked in. Sure, the English Department was decent-sized. But Trista probably hadn’t read anything this early since she’d passed her general exams. For Sarah the medievalist, this would be several centuries too late. For Jeremy – no, never mind Jeremy. He’d gotten so caught up in Anglo Saxon that he found Chaucer decadent. Which left . . . who? Professor Bullock? Dulcie shuddered. Yes, if push came to shove, she would have to talk to her thesis adviser. He had never really liked The Ravages of Umbria and had only approved her thesis because her supposed discovery meant it had a good chance of getting published. With this turn of events, he’d be positively gleeful.

  ‘What a wonderful fraud, Dulcie!’ She could hear him chortle. ‘This will show them all!’

  Sitting there, she could imagine him gloating, his heavy eyebrows no longer hiding the sparkle in his eyes. That one phrase was it: the missing link. Would it be enough to ensure an academic career? Or was Raleigh right? As much as she trusted the professor, she could easily imagine Bullock claiming credit. She’d be a co-author, the student he’d shepherded to a great discovery. Of course, it might still be enough.

  But no, she didn’t care. Finding out that The Ravages wasn’t all she had thought was not like Chris debugging a program. It was more like discovering that there was no Santa Claus. Not even a beneficent Mother Time, as the gift-giving patron of the solstice holiday was known back on the commune.

  Thinking of Chris didn’t help. He would try to be comforting, but he was the source of too much uncertainty himself these days. Dulcie was in no mood for vague reassurances – or second-hand psychobabble. She needed to do some work on this, to see if there was a rational explanation for this late, and possibly fatal, reference.

  Lloyd would have been the best source, as close to Professor Bullock as she could get without alerting her adviser to the issue. But he wasn’t the only one. Hadn’t Dulcie shared a scholarly spark with Polly not that long ago? And now that the two woman had bonded, however awkwardly, over men, maybe the older woman would feel sympathy for Dulcie’s dilemma. The only question was, how to reach her? With a splash of shame, Dulcie realized she had never had a conversation with the woman except by accident. She had no idea if Polly had a cell or could take calls at the Bullock house. And at – she checked her watch – six p.m. on a Saturday, she might reasonably be assumed to have other plans. For all Dulcie knew, Polly Heinhold was Lloyd’s hot date.

  That thought made her laugh out loud, and the laugh brought Dulcie back to life. What she needed to do was to reach out. It wasn’t that far to Professor Bullock’s house. If she were lucky, this would all be cleared up before she was due to meet Chris.

  Crossing the Common in the lengthening shadows, Dulcie found herself formulating excuses. After all, she wanted to speak to Polly, not Professor Bullock, and on the off chance that the professor himself came to the door she didn’t want to have to explain why. Should she give some girly excuse, claim that she needed to ask the other woman about clothes or a date? Once again, Dulcie found herself laughing, startling a jogger. Polly wasn’t a bad-looking woman, just way too pale and worn for her age. With a little more color – Dulcie pictured that bright beret – she’d come back to life. But Dulcie was hardly the girl-talk type. As the years had gone by, she’d become much more comfortable with her bohemian-by-necessity style, and she had enough male attention, even before Chris, to know that not every man wanted a model-thin woman. But the idea that she’d walk across town for fashion advice was ludicrous. And for any other words of wisdom, she had Suze. Suze had grown up in a conventional household and had pulled Dulcie out of more than a few social straits.

  Nothing for it, she decided as she headed up Brattle. If Professor Bullock answered the door, she’d just wing it. But when she got to the row of brick houses, she hesitated. By now, the shadows of the day had lengthened, throwing the small front yards into shadow. Holly, dark and glistening, took on a menacing aspect, and Dulcie hesitated, her hand on the low iron gate, remembering.

  ‘Cameron didn’t die because of you.’

  The voice came out of nowhere, causing her to jump. ‘Mr Grey!’

  ‘He touched many lives, but not yours.’

  Dulcie blinked. There, on the high slate steps, sat a long-haired grey cat, his flag of a tail neatly wrapped around front paws. ‘You were not part of this, Dulcie. And you are a scholar.’

  ‘You’re right, Mr Grey.’ She pushed the gate forward and stepped in, hoping against hope that in a few steps, she’d be able to pick up her beloved pet once again. But as she walked forward a cold blast of wind rattled through the shrubbery, sending a rush of dust and leaves. Dulcie blinked against the onslaught. When she opened her eyes, he was gone.

  His purpose, however, was clear. Mr Grey wanted her to investigate, and while Dulcie could only mull over the exact meaning of his message, she got the gist of it.

  ‘But I am touched by this,’ she was saying to herself as she reached for the brass knocker. Just then, the door swung open.

  ‘Hello?’ Dulcie stood on the stoop and called in. ‘Professor Bullock? Polly?’ Nobody called back, and for a moment Dulcie worried about what she would find. Cambridge was a city, and an open door could mean another break-in – or worse.

  Then she remembered her vision of Mr Grey. He wouldn’t lead her into danger. In fact, he was usually warning her away from it. An unlocked door was probably simply a sign of the professor’s absentmindedness.

  ‘Hullo!’ She stepped into the foyer and looked into the study, where Polly stood apparently examining a shelf of books. ‘Polly?’

  ‘Oh!’ The thin blonde whipped around, a spot of color coming into each cheek. ‘I didn’t hear you.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Dulcie smiled. ‘I didn’t mean to startle you. The door was open.’ She stepped in and closed the door behind her, making sure she heard it latch.

  ‘Professor Bullock.’ Polly shook her head dolefully. ‘He just ran out. I swear sometimes he’s so preoccupied.’

  ‘Really?’ Dulcie was just making conversation, grateful for a simple solution to her dilemma. But Polly seemed to take her query seriously.

  ‘Well, he’s got a ton on his mind, you know.’ The color
in her cheeks drained away. ‘His research is eating up his time. The new book is going to be tremendous.’

  Dulcie nodded. She’d been hearing about the professor’s ‘new book’ for as long as she’d been at Harvard. What concerned her now was something she’d noticed as the other woman had turned around. Dulcie really just wanted to get to the point, to ask Polly about nineteenth-century essayists who might shed some light on the strange connection between that one piece and The Ravages of Umbria. But she couldn’t help but wonder why, as Polly had turned to greet her, she had seen the other woman slipping something into the pocket of her skirt. Something that looked suspiciously like the professor’s fancy letter opener.

  FORTY

  It all happened so fast, Dulcie doubted her own sight. Could it have been some other trinket? A pair of sewing scissors? No, she’d seen the ornate hilt of the little sword. The glint of the green stone.

  ‘So, did you want to leave a message for him?’ Polly was standing there, waiting, and Dulcie realized that she must look like a dolt.

  ‘No, no.’ She quickly recovered. Whatever Polly had been doing, she had come here for help. ‘I was actually hoping to run into you.’

  Polly smiled ever so slightly, and the years dropped away. Dulcie began to see why men might have fought over her.

  ‘It’s an academic question, really.’ She paused. How to explain without spilling her worst fears? ‘A question of authorship. Are you familiar with the collection Women Writing on Women, 1780–1840?’

  ‘The Gunning? Certainly.’ Polly stepped into the hallway and motioned for Dulcie to follow. ‘Would you mind? I was just cleaning up.’

  Dulcie breathed a sigh of relief. Polly was straightening up! She probably pocketed the errant letter opener, meaning to return it to the professor’s office. But now the older woman led her into the kitchen, where she put the kettle on the stove.