by Clea Simon
‘But I’ve been using it.’ Dulcie looked at the librarian. ‘I used it all through the winter, in fact.’
‘I don’t know what to tell you.’ Griddlehaus had a pained look. ‘The request seems to have been held up. Perhaps some confusion in circulation?’
‘Circ—’ Dulcie paused, catching herself before she said anything else. Anything that might incriminate her friend. What had Ruby said? ‘None of us here like him very much.’ ‘He must have been angry,’ was all she said.
‘Oh, he was,’ said Griddlehaus. ‘At the time, I thought perhaps he was overreacting, but now that I see this …’ He sighed.
‘Were you aware of this?’ Showalter turned to Dulcie.
‘December?’ Dulcie thought back. ‘No.’
‘Perhaps he pulled the material to check your work?’ she suggested.
Dulcie shook her head. ‘He wasn’t on my committee yet and, well, I hadn’t finished writing this chapter yet either.’ She remembered, with a twinge of embarrassment. ‘I kind of got distracted by some other things that were going on. Though, I’m much better now,’ she reassured her mentor.
‘I have no doubt,’ she smiled back. ‘Well, perhaps he was the right person to critique it, then, since he seems to have had a prior relationship with the material.’
‘But that’s just it.’ Griddlehaus looked up at them. ‘Fenderby never saw that box. He hasn’t been here since before Thanksgiving.’
‘Then how …’ Dulcie asked. Showalter broke in.
‘That’s ridiculous,’ she said. ‘He told me he’d found something important. Something key.’
‘I don’t know what to tell you,’ Griddlehaus reached for the ledger. ‘Ms Schwartz?’
But Dulcie had paused, the memory poised to break through interrupted by another. ‘The key,’ she said.
They both turned to her. But Dulcie was already standing and pulling her coat on. ‘The key – I’m sorry.’ Dulcie reached for her bag. ‘I’ve got to run. You see, I have Alyson Beaumont’s house key. I dropped by to feed her cat last night, when she was in the infirmary, only now she’s been released and I’ve forgotten to return it.’
THIRTY-SIX
Dulcie didn’t have the money to throw away on cabs. But the thought of her student locked out of her own apartment made such concerns trivial. Besides, she had to admit, although with the passing of time – or the congenial company of Showalter and Griddlehaus – she was beginning to feel more like herself, she was still under the weather. And as the taxi weaved through Cambridge traffic, she was grateful for the opportunity to sit and think. Something had been bothering her, and now, she decided, was the time to put it to rest.
‘Alyson!’ When Dulcie didn’t see her student in the lobby, she’d let herself in. But instead of finding the junior slumped in a doorway, she found her taking out the trash – her apartment door wide open behind her. ‘You got in!’
‘The building manager was in,’ Alyson said, hefting the bag in her arms. ‘And I got my spare. Did you rush over here? I’m sorry, I could have told you.’
‘That’s fine.’ Dulcie felt weak with relief. ‘I’m just glad you weren’t locked out. Hey, little girl.’ The marmalade kitten had poked her head out of the open door.
‘Oh, would you grab her?’ Alyson called back over her shoulder. ‘You can go in. I’ll be right back.’
Dulcie did, cradling the kitten up to her face. ‘Who’s so sweet?’ she asked, inhaling the baby powder scent of the kitten as she stepped into the apartment. Alyson had been busy, she noticed, as she pulled the door nearly shut behind her. The mat under the kitten’s food dish was clean and the empty counter looked like it had just been wiped down, too. Still holding the kitten, Dulcie sat on the sofa and took in the river view. It was only after the kitten squirmed to be let down that Dulcie noticed something unusual. Unlike every other student apartment she had ever seen, there were no books in evidence. Only a few journals – two fashion magazines and something on the dialectics of feminist theory – were in evidence, spread across the glass coffee table.
Rising, with a glance at the door, Dulcie began to explore. Many of her students read their assignments on e-readers, she knew. And other disciplines – like Chris’s – tended to rely on two or three bound volumes, the rest of their material existing solely online. She had just peeked into the bedroom when she heard the front door open, and she stepped out, a little abashed at having been found out.
‘The bathroom’s to the right,’ said Alyson, seemingly unfazed, as she pulled a shallow dish from a cabinet. Dulcie saw the graphic of a fish on its side. The kitten, apparently recognizing the dish as well and twined around her ankles, making for a scene so familiar that Dulcie felt right at home.
‘No, I—’ She paused, unsure how to continue. ‘How are you feeling?’ she asked at last.
‘A lot better,’ Alyson replied as she opened a can. ‘I think the doctors must have been wrong. I mean, I was sick and everything, but today I feel like myself again.’
‘Do you think it was something you’d eaten?’ Dulcie was hesitant to use Alyson’s own word: poison. It seemed too close to the gossip that Alyson had sickened herself to arouse sympathy. ‘I confess, when I was here yesterday, I had a bit of that cake you had left out, and I wondered …’
‘No,’ Alyson said definitively, as she set the food dish down and stroked the kitten’s back. ‘There was nothing in that that could go bad. Stale, maybe.’
‘But if someone put something in it?’
Another shake of the head as she watched the kitten eat. ‘That was from my boyfriend.’
‘Is he the one who gave you Penny?’ Dulcie squatted beside them. The little marmalade ate with gusto, eyes squeezing shut as she lapped furiously at the soft food.
‘Penny?’ Dulcie looked over to see Alyson staring at her.
‘The kitten.’ Dulcie stood, but pointed to the orange and white cat.
‘Oh, it’s funny you should say that.’ Alyson got up too and turned to the sink to rinse her hands. ‘But, yeah. I used to be a redhead when I was younger, and so when he saw this kitten …’ She shrugged and seemed quite caught up in her washing.
‘Is he the reason you live here?’ Dulcie asked, her voice gentle. Another shrug. ‘The reason why you don’t have any books?’
‘What?’ Alyson turned, reaching for a cloth to dry her hands. ‘Oh, no. That’s – I don’t like the clutter.’ She shrugged and smiled. It was an awkward smile, full of apology. But suddenly, Dulcie understood what was going on.
‘May we sit down?’ She motioned to the sofa, and with a sigh of resignation the junior followed her. Dulcie positioned herself carefully, aware of the pristine white fabric, and looked over at the coffee table – also so spare and clean. Alyson did too, but said nothing.
‘Alyson,’ said Dulcie, when enough time had passed for the kitten to jump up between them – unselfconscious, despite the pricey fabric – and start to wash. ‘I just came from the Mildon. I didn’t know that Professor Fenderby had put materials on hold for you.’
Alyson caught her breath, a pained look passing over her face, and Dulcie realized she needed to tread gently.
‘I gather you never made use of them?’ she asked. It would be better to just state the obvious, rather than force the poor student to confess to her lapse.
‘No.’ Alyson hung her head. In shame, Dulcie thought. A shame she understood. Dulcie had never been a slacker, not like that. But there were areas where she did the least possible work to get by. The requisite math course she had taken as an undergrad. And Physics for Poets, her one required lab class, for which she had had to beg for both extra tutoring and additional time simply to get a passing grade. Still, to have access to a resource like the Mildon and not make the most of it …
She stopped herself before she said anything harsh and looked around again. Clearly, this was not a woman who shared her love of literature.
‘Alyson,’ she said, finally, as the junior looked up at her with la
rge, sorrowful eyes. ‘Why are you even considering doing your thesis on the Gothics?’
The junior shrugged. ‘I don’t know,’ she said, and exhaled. It was the sound of exhaustion or, Dulcie thought, relief. ‘It’s really not right for me.’ She turned from Dulcie to stare straight ahead. From here they could see the little deck, and the bright blue day beyond. ‘It sounded like fun. I guess, I thought that, like, there’d be more magic in them. More mystery. Like some puzzles to solve – maybe something hidden in the pages of a lost manuscript. Something like that.’
Dulcie bit her lip. She had helped uncover a rare printer’s mark not that long ago. And that correction she had found … but, no, her student was talking about something more prosaic.
‘Something out of a novel?’ she suggested, keeping her voice gentle.
Alyson shrugged. ‘Yeah, I guess,’ she said.
‘I thought as much.’ Dulcie collapsed back into the sofa. Even as her tutee seemed reinvigorated – freed by her confession – Dulcie felt deflated, as if the spirit had gone out of her. ‘I shouldn’t have talked the genre up so much. I can get …’ She paused, searching for the right word. ‘Enthusiastic,’ she said, eventually. ‘Everyone tells me so, but just because I’m gung-ho on late eighteenth-century fiction doesn’t mean it’s right for everyone.’
There, she’d said it. It had been difficult, but it was out.
‘But that’s not the problem, Dulcie.’ Her student was looking at her with wide eyes. ‘Your enthusiasm has been wonderful, really. You’ve brought the books to life for me in a way I never thought possible. I mean, you’ve almost convinced me that I could do this.’
Dulcie looked at her without understanding. If the junior wanted any more of a mea culpa, she didn’t know what she’d do. She’d tried her best to convey her interest, and now she had virtually released her student from any obligation.
‘If you don’t love it, Alyson,’ she said, ‘don’t waste your time on it. Doing a thesis, even an undergraduate thesis, takes up so much of your resources.’
‘My resources, yeah.’ Alyson looked at Dulcie and then down at the kitten. ‘I guess I should make it official then,’ she said. ‘I don’t even think I want to do honors.’
‘Wait, I don’t mean to dissuade you.’ Dulcie interrupted.
‘No, it’s for the best.’ Alyson began stroking the kitten. ‘I need to do some major re-thinking. Maybe take a year off. But it’s not you, Dulcie.’ She looked up, her eyes clear. ‘You’ve been the best adviser I could ask for. As close to a real mentor as I can imagine. Only, I think I need to make a change.’
Dulcie didn’t know whether to feel relieved or despondent as she left Alyson Beaumont’s apartment, taking the elevator down to the large, empty lobby.
On a totally selfish level, she’d gotten off easy. Not having a junior to steer toward her thesis meant she’d have substantially more time for her own work, assuming she was reinstated.
On the other hand, she had failed. Or, worse, maybe she had unconsciously sabotaged the girl. Just because Alyson didn’t share her own interests didn’t mean she should drop out of the honors program. And what did she mean when she said, ‘as close to a real mentor as I can imagine’, anyway? Hadn’t Alyson referred to Dulcie as her mentor? Dulcie thought back – no, maybe that had been another student, Dale, Alyson’s former roommate, who had told her that. Just another undergraduate misinterpreting what Alyson had said. Or worse – buttering up the instructor for a good grade. But there was something else – something tickling the edge of Dulcie’s consciousness as she pushed open the door to the street. Something she should have asked.
Dulcie paused to consider, standing by an evergreen hedge that looked so hopeful with its glossy green. Was it that she should have pushed Alyson more? She looked down at the green sprouts along the hedge. Crocuses, maybe, or daffodils, sheltered by the evergreen. Should she have been doing that? Maybe shared some of her own discoveries to excite and engage the undergrad? The winter had been hard on everyone, and maybe with a little more effort, she could have prompted the younger woman to flower.
Dulcie bent to look at the green sprout, its tip already expanding into a bud. Already bent, she noticed, either from the wind or an errant foot. With one finger, she lifted the drooping tip. Was this what she had been trying to think of? Duties she had missed – opportunities that she hadn’t taken, or offered to a student in her charge?
No, that wasn’t quite it. But once again Dulcie’s thoughts were interrupted, as her phone began to buzz.
‘Hi, Lucy,’ she said, working hard to keep her voice neutral. It was never easy to explain the complicated politics of student life to her mother. Today was not the day to try.
‘Dulcinea, I’m ashamed of you.’ Her mother’s tone was bracing. ‘Giving in like that.’
‘Excuse me?’ For a brief moment – very brief – Dulcie wondered if her mother was, in fact, as psychically gifted as she had always claimed to be. Surely, her two-word greeting hadn’t revealed that much of her mood. ‘Lucy?’
‘Letting yourself be railroaded out of the university,’ her mother said. ‘I received the notice today, and I must tell you, I expect any daughter of mine to put up much more of a fight.’
‘Railroaded?’ Dulcie paused. ‘No, I’m not, Lucy. Honest. In fact, I have someone working on it.’ Rogovoy had said he would. Hadn’t he?
‘I certainly hope so,’ Lucy’s voice sounded a shade less stern. ‘When I saw that letter from the university, I knew I had to call you right away.’
‘Thorpe?’ Dulcie was taken aback.
‘Did you swallow something?’ Lucy asked. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Yes, I’m fine.’ Dulcie reassured her. ‘It’s just – Martin Thorpe wrote you?’
‘No, it’s not any Thorpe. Hold on.’ Lucy put the phone down with a thud, leaving Dulcie to run through the possibilities. It couldn’t have been—
‘Dean Grulke,’ her mother announced. ‘Isn’t he someone important?’
‘She,’ Dulcie corrected her. ‘Linda Grulke is the dean of the college. So, yes, she is important – very – but … I can’t explain right now. Just – please don’t worry about this. I’m taking care of it. And now I’ve got to run.’
‘If you’re sure,’ her mother jumped in before Dulcie could disconnect. ‘I’ll burn some sage for you, anyway.’
‘Thanks, Lucy.’ Dulcie hung up and turned around – the question she had forgotten to ask now pressing. Alyson Beaumont may have considered writing her thesis on the Gothic novel because of Dulcie. But – especially considering her lack of interest – why had Roland Fenderby set aside research materials for her?
THIRTY-SEVEN
Alyson’s apartment wasn’t typical student housing. Dulcie knew that already, but the fact was made clear as she turned and walked back to the sleek high-rise. Two men in business suits and a woman in heels converged on the entrance as she approached, blithely ignoring the new flowers on either side of the white concrete plaza. Two were on their phones, and all three looked a little the worse for wear, clearly returning after hard days in the office. The men, at least, didn’t look any older than Dulcie. The woman was wearing so much makeup it was hard to tell. But in her jeans and sneakers, Dulcie felt like a child compared to them – or maybe a different species entirely – a stray from the university who had drifted over to a foreign city.
‘You coming?’ One of the men turned back toward her. He was holding the door open as his colleague, cell to his ear, passed through. But he was looking at Dulcie, an inviting half smile on a face that had probably been clean shaven nine hours before.
‘Oh, thanks!’ She grabbed at the door. On campus, she’d have been asked to show ID, but maybe out in the real world, security was less of an issue. Luckily, her benefactor was too busy texting as the elevator came to inquire as to her business in the building. But as the elevator made its halting way up – all three of the new arrivals appeared to live on different floors – she
found herself mulling over possibilities in her head.
‘Thanks,’ she repeated to the stubbly man, who nodded back as he got off. And Dulcie realized she’d missed another opportunity. As much as she didn’t like to gossip, it might have been useful to inquire if any of these people knew their neighbor, Alyson. Maybe one of the young businessmen was the boyfriend both Alyson and her older neighbor had mentioned. That would be better than the ghost of an idea forming in the back of her mind as she got off the elevator and started down the hall. That such a bright and lovely young woman as Alyson would be …
‘Tom!’ It was Alyson, her voice high and tight – though with a whine at its end that spoke more of frustration than anger. Dulcie pulled up short when she heard it, that final quaver stopping her like a siren would. ‘You’ve made a mess of everything!’
Dulcie hesitated. She’d meant to return to Alyson’s apartment and confront her student. She’d assumed she’d be alone still. Now not only was it apparent that she had a guest, but it seemed that she was in the middle of an argument – or at least a very loud discussion. Although, Dulcie thought, Alyson could be on the phone. After all, she’d probably raised her voice while talking to Lucy, and it was possible that in such a modern building the walls were thin.
‘No, I— I …’ No such luck. Even without the stammer, the voice was clearly identifiable as Tom Walls – and clearly projecting from behind the door that, Dulcie could now see, hadn’t quite latched when he arrived. Tom and Alyson were having a fight.
‘You what?’ Alyson wasn’t waiting for the poor man to finish. ‘You thought that maybe you could step in? Take his place?’
‘N-no!’ Even from outside the door, the hurt in Tom’s voice was clear. ‘I would never.’ A catch of breath like a sob.
‘You hated him. Admit it.’ Alyson was moving. Dulcie could hear sounds like furniture being pushed aside, drawers opening. A squeak, a thud. Was the junior packing?
‘This isn’t about me.’ Tom was clearly crying now, his voice choking on the tears. ‘It’s you! And I— I don’t blame you. Alyson!’ This last cry one of desperation.