by Clea Simon
This was silliness. ‘Put the cutlery on the table.’ She was trying for humor, but this time, her voice just sounded hollow. And so, toting the utensils, she climbed the stairs. Tim’s door – would she ever think of it as Suze’s again? – remained closed, and Dulcie turned away. And kicked herself. She’d never be able to sleep. Taking a deep breath, she yanked the door open, the pointy kitchenware raised, and saw . . . nothing. Strangely, since Luke had finished emptying it out, the front bedroom looked smaller than it had when full. Suze’s desk, now cleared, sat against one wall, waiting patiently for its real owner. The striped mattress looked bare in the dim light filtering through the clouds. Even the big, shadowy closet seemed innocent. Finally exhaling, Dulcie left, closing the door behind her, to collapse, exhausted, on her own bed.
‘Oh, Mr Grey! I hate this. I hate being afraid of everything.’
Dulcie didn’t know why she was still talking out loud. The sound did nothing to fill the space. And Mr Grey, if he was out there, certainly heard even her most private thoughts. Flipping on to her belly, she buried her face in the pillow. ‘I hate being lonely.’
I can’t help you with that, Dulcie. But you know you’re not alone.
‘Mr Grey?’ The voice was so clear that she sat up and looked around the room. ‘Are you there?’ The lights from the floor below filtered up the stairs, casting shadows in her bedroom. But – there! – was that a movement?
I’m here, Dulcie. I’m always here. The voice was accompanied by a soft thud on the foot of her bed.
‘Mr Grey?’ She pulled her feet up automatically, to make room. That sound, accompanied by the soft pressure on the bed, was what she used to hear every night as she drifted off to sleep and Mr Grey jumped up to join her. ‘Is it really you?’ She peered at the rumpled blankets. In the shadow, she thought she saw the outline of a cat, but when she stared, it disappeared.
I’m here, but not here. Dulcie felt a rhythmic pulse, like a cat kneading, near her feet. With you, but not with you.
‘I drank too much tonight, Mr Grey. I don’t understand.’ Dulcie wrapped her arms around her knees and lowered her head. ‘I don’t understand anything that’s going on.’
You will, Dulcie. You’re learning to listen; you’ll hear it when you’re ready.
‘Hear what?’ She looked up again. Were those green eyes, glinting in the dim light?
It’s in the voices. A warm bulk leaned on her feet.
‘I don’t get it, Mr Grey. I’m sorry, but it’s just been too hard a week. Can’t you be any clearer?’
Like a dog, Dulcie? She thought there was a note of humor in his voice. Could cats laugh?
‘No, I’m sorry. I just—’ She sighed.
There are good forces looking out for you. Others, besides me. Don’t underestimate the power of love, Dulcie. Keep your ears open. Keep your heart open. You’ll hear the difference. But now, Dulcie, you’ve got to get some rest. You’ve got work to do.
‘You sound like Mom – like Lucy.’ She did feel her eyes getting heavy, and lay back down. ‘But she’s been telling me to stay away from the books.’ Her mind began to wander. ‘She told me not to go back to the library.’
She wants you to keep your senses sharp. She knows how worlds can overlap; how the same forces apply for us all. Dulcie felt the pressure of a paw on the inside of her arm; one, then another, kneading her. We need you to be alert. Her eyes closed now, she couldn’t check to see if indeed her cat had lain down in the crook of her arm. But she felt, she was sure, the warmth of his body nestled against her. So, for now . . . the voice was softer now, more purr than sound . . . we need you to sleep.
‘Why should I be surprised?’ The half-formed question didn’t even make it to her lips. ‘Mom got it wrong again.’
Sleep, Dulcie.
And she did.
Twenty-Six
Dulcie’s hangover the next morning wasn’t improved by the nagging feeling that she was planning on doing exactly what her mother had warned her against. But even though Lucy had sounded as panicked as ever, the truth was, Dulcie needed to get back to The Ravages of Umbria. There was something in that book for her, she knew it. And without a thesis topic, she might as well give up and look for a permanent job with Priority. Besides, although her memory of the night before was decidedly fuzzy, it seemed like the ghost of Mr Grey had been encouraging her to do more research.
‘Why can’t cats be more straightforward?’ She voiced the question aloud, while waiting for her triple-shot skim latte. The barista smiled, but remained silent. Even on a Saturday, he seemed to know most people didn’t make sense before their coffee.
Dulcie began to wake up as she climbed the steps up to Widener. ‘Maybe the air is clearer up here.’ She smiled at her fancy, and startled the guard with a happy ‘Glad to!’ when he asked her to open her bag.
‘Lucy is such a worrywart.’ Dulcie looked around the marble lobby. Electronic gates opened only with a valid ID, and there were two guards on duty. The place was as safe as a courthouse. Safer, probably, since scholars rather than criminals came in to try their cases.
‘Which brings me to Exhibit A.’ Dulcie had the elevator to herself, and so the trip down to level A was fast. Most people might find a dim library basement a dull place to spend a sunny summer weekend, but to Dulcie this was heaven. Besides, she reminded herself as she unloaded her pad and pens on to an empty carrel, fair-haired girls sunburned easily. ‘Let Alana and her crew hit the beach. They’ll envy me when they hit forty.’
A gentle cough from behind the nearest bookshelf reminded her that others sought the same sanctuary. ‘Sorry,’ she whispered, and got down to work.
Two hours later, the carrel was piled high. Dulcie had been pulling books from the tall, metal shelves and toting them back to her seat like a restless squirrel, preparing for autumn. First she brought the novels – some of the lesser ones that she didn’t know by heart – but also other critical works. Not duplicating somebody else’s thesis was as important as writing your own, and with a school of literature more than two hundred years old, many of the available topics had been well covered.
‘Thank God for scholarly trends!’ Dulcie was careful to keep her voice low. With her feet up on the corner of the carrel, she could cradle one book open in her lap and still refer to a second, open on the desktop to her right. This was the way to study. Just to keep everything in perspective, she started with The Italian, the Gothic equivalent of a best-seller. A real potboiler, the Ann Radcliffe novel was never one of her favorites. The heroine, Ellena, was such a wimp – tossed back and forth between her noble lover and yet another mad monk. She was nothing like Hermetria, who took on all the odds by herself. Dulcie flipped the pages ahead to check, and looked over at the critical study open on the desktop. There was nothing about gender roles, just someone going on about the use of veil imagery. Maybe there was a connection.
‘No. Been done.’ Dulcie dismissed the idea before it had even fully formed, as she had dismissed so many others over the past year. ‘Veil Imagery in Late Eighteenth-Century Gothic Novels’: even the title bored her. What about the difference in heroines? ‘Hermetria and Ellena: A Study in Contrasts’. Yawn.
But there was something here, a flicker of an idea. Were these novels a genuine reflection of sex and social roles, or just more fantasy? And if they were geared primarily toward women readers – the chick lit of their day – were the heroines supposed to be role models? There must have been some reaction, some anger among the authors when they were dismissed by critics as ‘housewives’ and ‘She-Authors’. It wasn’t that far from being referred to as ‘just a girl’. Dulcie sighed and closed the book on her lap, sending up a waft of dusty air. She feared that was what she was destined to be: ‘ABD – all but dissertation’, a struggling grad student, for ever. It was enough to make her envy Hermetria. At least she probably got to marry her prince. Or nobleman. Or knight. Dulcie slumped in her seat. It was all the same, and crushingly dull. As dull and conventi
onal as Demetria’s speeches.
Suddenly, Dulcie straightened up. Maybe she was coming at it wrong. Sniffing aside the incipient sneeze, she reached for her yellow legal pad. Maybe slumping over had finally gotten some blood to her brain. She began to outline the rude germ of an idea. The unknown author of The Ravages could write. Those great scenes on the mountain peak, with Hermetria declaring her independence, proved that. But she really fell down on the job with Demetria. It was like going from a three-dimensional character to a flat cartoon.
‘Could that be the point? Was the author making this secondary character less interesting on purpose?’ She jotted down the idea and underlined it – twice. ‘Well,’ she asked herself, keeping her voice soft, ‘could it?’ These last few months, she’d been so involved in reading for entertainment that she hadn’t paid attention to where her books took her. She’d needed the escape. First there had been the loss of Jonah, then Mr Grey – not to mention all the craziness of the summer. But the reason it had worked was that the books were good. She’d fallen for Gothic lit, for The Ravages in particular, because it was lively and well written. Even Suze had commented on that – had noted that Dulcie was a scholar because she looked at the writing, the characterization. Therefore, if one character was particularly flat, maybe there was a reason. Maybe the author was trying to give her a clue.
Listen to the voices, Dulcie. Is that what Mr Grey had been trying to tell her all along? Not to eavesdrop on the switchboard women – but to pay attention to the voices in the text. The voices – the author – was trying to tell her something. But what?
Dropping The Italian with a thud, she raced back to the shelves for her favorite edition of The Ravages. Here it was, the passage that had always stayed in her mind:
I do swear upon my heart, my friend belov’d!
Whatever rough winds blow from fate, I’ll not be mov’d.
What was it Shakespeare had said, ‘The lady doth protest too much’? Well, the author of The Ravages would certainly know her Hamlet. Dulcie flipped ahead to check the details. Yes, much had been made of the attendant’s loyalty. She herself had been ‘of noble birth’, though clearly her circumstances were reduced if she had become, essentially, a paid companion. So the author wasn’t trying to denote a class difference, or make the lesser character appear badly educated, just down on her luck. So why the cheesy speeches?
What if – Dulcie held her breath while the idea came together – the ghost of the old retainer wasn’t the malicious spirit? What if the old retainer had hovered around Hermetria trying to warn her? Could Demetria be the ‘jealous spirit’? The one close enough to have cast ‘spells most potent’?
She started writing. It made sense. ‘Spirit’, from the Latin, had both connotations by the eighteenth century – ‘ghost’ and ‘soul’ – and the author of The Ravages might have enjoyed stirring up some confusion. Sure, there were details missing. Motive, for one, and also the mystery of the missing riches: if Demetria had ripped off Hermetria’s ‘patrimony’, then why was she still hanging around? But Dulcie would have months to explore possible clues and hints. She might never know the whole truth. But she had a new interpretation of The Ravages of Umbria. She had, maybe, possibly, her thesis topic.
‘“Jealous Spirits”: A New Reading of The Ravages of Umbria.’ Dulcie could see it now – or at least that title, in gold, embossed on a leather book cover. Then it hit her. If she was going to make this work, she had a ton of research to do. For starters, there were several versions of the remaining text. Little things – word choices, even the spellings of names – might trip her up. Or give her more fuel for her argument. Wasn’t there another Demetria in some other book from that decade? Dulcie grabbed her pencil to make a note. She’d have to look it up, make herself familiar with every repetition of the name. Everything was fair game now, and she was dying to dive in.
How could no one have thought of this before? Even as the question formed in her head, Dulcie knew the answer. Serious readers, even the critics from those very first days, had lambasted the Gothic novels, in particular, the ‘She-Authors’ who wrote so many of them. Radcliffe, the author of six hugely successful multi-volume novels, had been called ‘just a housewife’.
‘Talk about “jealous spirits”,’ Dulcie muttered and jotted another note: ‘AR – “housewife”?! Hysterical women?’
Looking at her own writing, Dulcie sat back and chewed on her pen. Housewives, soaps . . . Should she draw the connection with chick lit or was that going too far? Better she should focus on the character of Demetria. Motive – that was the big weak spot. If the gal Friday was the villain, what had she gained? And why did she stay with Hermetria?
Listen to the voices. She could hear that one voice as clearly in her memory as she had heard it in her head. She looked over her notes, but they were silent. Maybe that was because her stomach was now growling loud enough to drown them out. She wanted to keep going, to track down every version of the text and start comparing speeches, but that was going to be the work of months. For now, she had to be content with a lead, a clue; the beginning of a thesis. The rest would come. ‘Thank you, Mr Grey,’ she whispered as she tucked her notebook into her bag. Man, she was hungry!
Fifteen minutes later, Dulcie was at the counter at Lala’s, a good quarter of a three-bean burger in her mouth. Lala’s was a student hangout of the best kind, serving up healthy fare that still tasted good. Sure, the travel posters – framed shots of the Acropolis and the Marrakech souk – might be tacky, but the servings were large, the prices low, and Lala herself was known to work the grill on weekends.
Dulcie chewed contentedly. All around her, the Saturday lunch crowd had bellied up for bean burgers, couscous, and salads piled high in blue plastic bowls. She should have gone for one of those salads, she knew. The waistband of her jeans had been growing increasingly tight, but she was too hungry – and too close to a breakthrough – to risk depriving herself of crucial nourishment. She glanced around. Despite the boisterous crowd, nobody looked familiar, and Dulcie let herself indulge in the pure pleasure of a big bite. Something about the spicing, or maybe it was the house-made pickles . . . A stray drip of Lala’s hot sauce made its way out of the bun and Dulcie reached for a napkin, happily chewing.
‘Dulcie!’ Mouth half open, she looked up and quickly shut it, wiping at the streak of sauce with the back of her hand. Stacia, whose even tan was probably never augmented by hot sauce, was standing right beside her.
‘Lup?’ It was the best Dulcie could manage, as she choked down her mouthful. ‘What brings you here?’
‘The three-bean burgers, of course!’ As luck would have it, the bearded professor type at the next stool stood up, taking his check over to Lala’s register, and Stacia slid into the empty seat. ‘Especially when Lala is at the grill.’
Dulcie took a smaller, more ladylike nibble and chewed carefully while Stacia ordered. ‘I haven’t seen you here before.’ Was all her turf going to be invaded?
But the smile Stacia gave back was wide, warm – and apparently natural. ‘Best thing about summer school. Well, that and getting to help out at the legal clinic.’
And spend time with Luke? Dulcie took a sip of her Diet Coke as she digested the thought. But something – and she didn’t think it was Lala’s hot sauce – wasn’t sitting right. It wasn’t the pickle’s fault either, it was her own thoughts. What had Mr Grey said about the same forces functioning in different worlds? If Stacia had been a beleaguered noblewoman, Dulcie wouldn’t be the jealous Demetria, would she? The thought was enough to put her off her food.
‘Luke mentioned something about you working there.’ That sounded possessive, like she was marking her territory. Swallowing, she tried again. ‘It sounds like you’re really helping out.’ Dulcie did her best to give the compliment with a smile.
‘Oh, I don’t know that much.’ Stacia had the grace to look abashed, staring down at the napkin and silverware that had appeared on the counter before her. ‘I’m j
ust grateful that they’re willing to let a summer student sit in.’
‘Oh come on!’ Dulcie was warming to her theme. ‘Luke says you’re the computer mastermind down there.’
Stacia was shaking her head as she took her plate from the counter woman. ‘Oh, I wish! I’d be doing a lot better in my classes if that were the case.’ She took a gratifyingly large bite out of her own burger.
‘Luke really has been raving about your expertise.’ Dulcie dragged a fry through the small pool of hot sauce and popped it into her mouth. ‘In fact, he was suggesting I ask you to look at my laptop.’
‘Your laptop?’ Stacia dabbed at her own lips. How did she get her lipstick to stay on? ‘I think he’s just being kind to me. You know, because I’ve been taking care of Alana and all.’
‘I don’t think so.’ Dulcie reached for her wallet and noticed that her cell was buzzing. With all the bustle in the little luncheonette, she hadn’t heard it. She flipped the phone open: Cambridge Police Department. ‘Do you mind?’
Stacia waved her hand, her mouth too full to talk. Maybe she was human after all.
‘Hello, Dulcie Schwartz.’ She could hear the nerves in her voice.
‘Ms Schwartz, this is Officer Ron Pipkin in Property. You lost a laptop?’
‘My laptop was stolen.’ Dulcie didn’t dare hope.
‘Well, we’ve found it. You can come pick it up anytime. But we’d like to talk with you when you do. Do you know where we’re located?’
‘Uh-huh.’ She listened as the officer gave her directions anyway, and hung up, feeling completely restored.