by Clea Simon
Thinking of her mother, Dulcie said a silent prayer of thanks to the goddess as she entered her section. Upperclassmen, a mix of sophomores and juniors, this small group was usually perfectly capable of entertaining itself for a few minutes. As she took her accustomed seat at the head of the table, she wondered if in fact her presence was necessary. The three women and two men were already deep in conversation about that week’s reading: biographical material on the Victorian novelists.
‘I don’t see the point of Strachey,’ Tom, a lit major, was saying. ‘All we’re getting is second-hand gossip.’
‘Don’t be such a prig, Tom.’ Jules liked to bait the self-important young man. ‘Strachey’s a stylist. Reading him we get the essence of the era, boiled down to a few well-placed anecdotes.’
‘That’s the problem,’ Tom fired back, flipping his long golden hair off his shoulders. ‘Nothing in Strachey is boiled down. Ever. And with the reading I’ve got for the Victorian Novel? I cannot help but remember how many of these guys were paid by the word.’
Dulcie couldn’t help smiling. She’d been doing this long enough that she could have anticipated this particular discussion. Part of the problem was timing. For some reason, she always landed the Tuesday section. Because the lecture was held on Wednesday, the day before tended to be tense, as the students hurried to catch up. Part of the problem was, she admitted, with Professor Baer. A throwback to the old school, Baer recited his lectures like they had been written in stone, pronouncing each syllable as if it contained some great weight. Add in a reading list that hadn’t changed in at least half a century, and the result was deadly. Required, essentially, for any student who cared about nineteenth-century fiction. But dull as a bag of rocks.
Since they couldn’t complain about Baer, not in public anyway, they took it out on the section: particularly on the seemingly non-essential assignments. Every year, the students questioned the supplemental material. Every year, they missed one of the biggest reasons for it being assigned. As she pulled her notebook from her bag, Dulcie silently thanked Trista. It was her friend, a Victorian specialist, who had given her the key to teaching this course.
‘What about context?’ She kept her voice soft. It was bad enough that the professor held forth in stentorian tones. In her section, she preferred to keep things conversational. ‘Isn’t that important?’
Her simple question shut the discussion down immediately. ‘Context?’ Tom finally fired back, his voice rising half an octave on the second syllable. ‘You mean, like, about the author?’
‘Exactly.’ Dulcie recognized her student’s sarcasm, but chose to ignore it. Academic fads came and went, and once again it had become fashionable for students to pretend that literature existed in a vacuum. The easiest way to break these undergrads of such a sophomoric idea was to be straight with them. ‘Context. It’s not a dirty word.’
The looks on the faces that all now turned toward her showed her they believed otherwise, so she continued.
‘Jules has a valid point.’ She smiled and looked around, making eye contact with each of her students. There was no point in antagonizing them. ‘Strachey is a stylist, and in his writing we can see how many of the later Victorian stylings made their way into non-fiction. We can use these as a basis of comparison with the fiction of the authors he’s discussing. But the content of what he writes is important as well.’
Ignoring the stagey gasps, she continued.
‘Books, as much as we may not like to admit it, are written by people. People have lives, and these lives influence what they write.’ She was reciting, just as much as old man Baer did, though she hoped with more feeling. She’d given this particular talk every semester for the past three years. ‘Where they’re from, what their background is. Did they have spouses, children, or other dependants? These all help us evaluate what we read.’
She saw one of her students about to interrupt, so she raised her hand to stop him. ‘Yes, Charles Dickens wasn’t much of a family man. But isn’t that interesting in light of, say, Tiny Tim and Bleak House?’ She named several other examples, before bringing them around to her conclusion. ‘These works have to stand on their own. The author’s biography is not an apology or an excuse. But for a serious scholar, context – and that includes biography – can only add to understanding. It’s another tool, another weapon –’ she paused for a moment – ‘for your arsenal.’
With that, she stopped and looked around. Although her smile was now firmly back in place, inwardly she groaned. It was that word – ‘weapon’ – that had tripped her up. She’d given this little talk so often, and it was a good one. Watching the faces around the table, she could see that, once again, they were beginning to reconsider, to admit the possibility that more knowledge just might be a good thing. It was the beginning of a bigger lesson, a stealth lesson that Dulcie always tried to sneak into her sections. Basically, it was the beginning of shaking these young scholars out of their preconceptions.
‘If you can forget about what you think ought to matter,’ she added her customary postscript, ‘then you open yourselves up to really see, to really read. And that’s a discipline that will serve you not only in academia but throughout life.’
It worked. Already they were reconsidering. She saw Jules whispering something to the girl to her right. Tom was actually paging through the reading, his usual affected moue softening as he read. They were good students, Dulcie knew. They just needed a push.
What she needed was something else again. All the while that she was speaking, Dulcie couldn’t help but think about her dream. This latest iteration seemed to make things clear: Yes, her author had written a new novel, in which a grisly murder played a role. But also she had – Dulcie didn’t want to use the word ‘participated,’ not even to herself – at least been a witness to a similar act. And for some reason that Dulcie could not yet discern, she had felt the need to change details of the scene. She shook her head. The evidence was piling up; her author had somehow been involved with the gruesome death of that handsome young man.
‘Ms Schwartz?’ At least, this wasn’t her imagination: her class really was more engaged now, and she spent the next fifty minutes answering questions and guiding them toward finding their own avenues of research. Her own questions remained unanswered, however, as the church bells – quite loud up here on the second floor – announced the end of the hour.
‘See you next week,’ she said as cheerfully as she could. Thoughts about her author had led her back to her own predicament. Next week, she could be arrested. Or expelled. As she stood, several of her students looked up, as if to approach her. But while normally Dulcie would welcome that, today she had too much on her mind. At the very least, she wanted to get back to the Mildon, to see if Thomas Griddlehaus had shown up.
Ducking her head down, she moved toward the door before any of them could stop her. Next week, goddess willing, she’d take their questions.
For once, she was grateful for the section’s room assignment. Emerson Hall was made up primarily of classrooms. In the ten minutes following the hour, its hallways and staircases were jammed, and Dulcie was able to lose herself in the crush of bodies. If only the buzz of conversation could drown out her thoughts.
‘Oh, hi, Ms Schwartz.’ Dulcie saw a broad chest in a blue sweater before her. Looking up, she saw the chiseled face of Andrew Geisner. Thalia, by his side, turned and saw her.
‘Oh, hello.’ Dulcie managed a smile. ‘Am I in your way?’
‘What? No, I walked into you.’ He smiled a big sunny smile, and Dulcie found herself floundering. He seemed so friendly. Could there be any real harm in asking him a few questions?
‘Actually, I’m glad we ran into each other.’ The three exited the main doors, and Dulcie turned with them toward Widener. ‘I was hoping I could ask you about something.’
‘Me?’ Andrew looked puzzled, and warning bells went off in Dulcie’s head. Thalia, meanwhile, was staring daggers.
‘Oh, just some
things I was wondering about.’ Dulcie smiled at Thalia. There had to be some way to let the girl know she wasn’t going to break her confidence. ‘Some things I heard from the dean’s office.’
Thalia didn’t appear any more relaxed, but Andrew was waiting, so Dulcie continued. ‘I gather you were doing some background checks on visiting scholars?’ Neither student responded. ‘You were looking into Melinda Sloane Harquist?’
‘Yeah, I was.’ He glanced around, suddenly uneasy. ‘I shouldn’t really talk about it, though. It was all kind of confidential.’
‘I gather it got a bit personal.’ Dulcie didn’t know what exactly she was fishing for, but his discomfort hinted that she was on the right track.
‘I was only doing what the dean asked.’ He looked distinctly uncomfortable now, and Thalia was pulling on his arm.
‘He must have been sizing her up for a position.’ She waited, but he only shrugged. ‘Pulling up family records? Where she’d lived? What she’d done?’ Dulcie was on the right track. She knew it. ‘Sounds a bit like stalking to me.’
‘It’s not what you think,’ Thalia burst out. ‘You make it sound like it was romantic, but it isn’t. It wasn’t. You don’t understand.’ Dulcie looked over at the younger woman, her dark eyes bright with fury. ‘You’ve got it all wrong.’
With that, she pulled her friend’s arm so hard the sweater nearly came off, and they hurried away. Dulcie made a move to follow, though whether she’d apologize to the young girl for disillusioning her about her handsome friend or confront him about his actions, she didn’t know. All she could think of was Suze’s warning. She’d stepped right into something, and she was still no closer to getting any answers.
FORTY-NINE
Suze had been right. Dulcie kicked herself mentally as the young couple walked off. She should never have accosted Andrew, never have asked him about his research. Maybe he’d had his reasons, much as she had. As she watched them go, she bit her lip, sending up a silent prayer to all of Lucy’s various deities that her thoughtless actions would have no major consequences. If Andrew felt persecuted, or Thalia betrayed, they could make Dulcie’s situation a lot worse.
‘I’ve been such a fool.’ She was outside now, standing by the base of the stairs.
‘Not a fool.’ A soft, calm voice spoke, apparently right by her ear. ‘Headstrong, perhaps.’
‘I don’t know, Mr Grey.’ Dulcie found herself staring at a fat grey squirrel. The comparison would have been anathema to the living cat. Dulcie could remember how her pet would lash his tail and chatter whenever the furry rodents ran by. Now, however, it didn’t seem that odd. ‘I was acting on emotion, rather than what I knew to be right.’
‘Your heart is your best guide, Dulcie. Never forget that.’
‘If I listened to my heart . . .’ Dulcie didn’t know how explain. Chris, her thesis. It was all so jumbled up.
‘Unjumble it, then.’ The answer was so direct, so straightforward, it startled Dulcie.
‘You’re right, Mr Grey.’ She pulled out her phone to call Chris, and then stopped. It was only a little after eleven. He’d been up all night. As her phone powered on, she saw a text – from Chris.
Need 2 talk. 2night pls?
Suddenly, the day lost its warmth. Surely, this wasn’t what Mr Grey had meant. But as she looked around, she realized even the squirrel was gone. How was she supposed to untangle things now? Unless, the sinking feeling made her limbs feel like lead, ‘unjumbling’ was a synonym for disengaging.
OK, she typed back, and then turned the phone off. Maybe she couldn’t salvage her romance. But there were other parts of her life that she could deal with, or she wasn’t Dulcie Schwartz.
On her way to the library, she made a plan. First stop, of course, would be the Mildon. If Griddlehaus were there, she would insist on seeing what else he had found. That fragment had been golden, and if he had more, she wanted to read it for herself. If he wasn’t there, well, she had other friends in the library. She’d inquire about the chief clerk, and then find out if anyone else could give her access. Until anyone said otherwise, she was a scholar at the university. She had the right to library access – to the folder in the Mildon that bore her name. Her buddy Mona would know whom to contact. Maybe Mona herself could get the keys, and they could have a congenial time of it, rooting through the collection.
With a new determination, Dulcie strode through the entrance hall, barely giving the guard time to check her bag. As soon as the elevator appeared, she pressed the button for the door to close, ignoring the frantic wave of an older man still at the guard’s desk. As soon as it had descended to the right floor – Lower Level C – she was out, almost knocking over a frail-looking clerk, carrying an arm-load of bound volumes to a cart.
And, yes! The Mildon was open! The security gate that had covered the entrance had been rolled up, leaving only the gleaming white counter between Dulcie and the riches within. The only problem was, there was nobody to sign her in.
‘Hello?’ she called softly, leaning over the counter. The reading area, off to her left, was lit up but empty. To the right, where the actual collection was stored, was quiet.
‘Hello?’ A little louder this time, but still she got no response. ‘Hello?’
Something was definitely odd, and so Dulcie reached over the counter to where the release button was located and pressed it. The catch on the counter gave way, and she raised it, entering the restricted collection.
For a moment, the audacity of that act stunned her: Dulcie Schwartz, alone inside the Mildon. The whole scenario was so absurd, she couldn’t believe it. And yet, if nobody was going to stop her . . . She turned to the right. There, on rows of metal shelves, stood volumes she had only begun to explore. In locked cabinets, large, flat display boxes held fragments of paper, the stained and damaged pages that had already proven so useful. Papyrus and vellum had their own cases, controlled for humidity and temperature. It was like a fairyland, Dulcie thought. A candy store for book lovers. As if in a dream, she proceeded.
And turned the corner right into Thomas Griddlehaus.
‘Oh!’ He looked up. She’d startled him, she could see that. ‘Oh,’ he said again.
‘Mr Griddlehaus!’ She waited for him to respond, to greet her, but he continued to stand there. ‘I didn’t know if you were here,’ she said finally.
He looked at her without speaking. His eyes, unnaturally large behind his big glasses, blinked once.
‘I mean, you weren’t earlier.’ Dulcie was suddenly aware of having broken the protocol. She’d let herself in; she’d also, she realized belatedly, started toward the collection without donning the white cotton gloves that were required before handling any of the Mildon material.
‘I was. Here, that is.’ She had definitely overstepped. ‘At nine forty-five and . . .’ The reality of the situation came to her. ‘I was worried about you.’
‘Oh, well.’ He turned away, apparently flustered. ‘No need. There was a meeting. I mean, I meant to post that opening would be delayed. Though I’m sure I was here on time.’ He turned to face her, those big eyes blinking wildly. ‘Perhaps you were mistaken? About the time, that is?’
‘I don’t think so.’ Dulcie watched as the clerk scurried away again. This time, she went after him. He’d gone into the stacks and as she watched, he took two volumes from a cart and started walking along the stacks. One he re-shelved, and immediately removed again. The other he stared at, as if he had never seen it before. Something was wrong, and Dulcie knew she was to blame.
‘Mr Griddlehaus, I know I shouldn’t be here. The gate was up, and all the lights were on, so I . . . came in.’ It sounded lame, and she knew it. It was, however, the truth. ‘I’m sorry.’ Nothing. ‘Is there something the matter, Mr Griddlehaus?’
‘Nothing is the matter.’ He walked away, still holding the book, and Dulcie could hear him muttering. Trust your heart, Mr Grey had said, and suddenly the implications of her own actions hit her. She’d been rude
on the elevator, worse in the hallway. And now she’d barged in on what she knew the little clerk considered his private domain.
‘I was wrong to come in here,’ she started. ‘And I am truly sorry about yesterday,’ Dulcie spoke softly, but she was sure her voice carried through the open metal shelving. ‘I know you would never do anything malicious.’
The answering sigh was so deep and so heavy, she worried for a moment that the little man had expired. But as she ducked around the stack, she saw him still standing, although he was now leaning forward, his forehead pressed against the metal shelving.
‘Mr Griddlehaus?’
He looked up, clearly weighing something in his mind. ‘I am sorry, Ms Schwartz. I did hear you. I was simply . . . simply . . .’
Hiding. She didn’t need him to say it. In fact, courtesy seemed the better part of valor. ‘It’s OK, Mr Griddlehaus. I haven’t been the best company recently. It’s only that you said you’d found something else? Something you put in my folder?’
He blinked at her, looking for all the world as if he were scared.
‘Mr Griddlehaus?’
‘I’m sorry.’ He collapsed into the chair next to her. ‘I just don’t know what I should do. They brought the material back this morning. I was told that, finally, I could file everything, after they questioned me . . .’
He broke off, blinking again, and she thought she saw tears welling up in his eyes. She thought of the manuscript page, the one he had sneaked into her folder. ‘Oh, Mr Griddlehaus. I’m sorry! I never wanted to get you into any trouble.’
This was why he’d been late, and this was what he hadn’t wanted to mention. What perhaps he had been warned not to mention. Dulcie knew the dean was going to be looking into her research. She hadn’t realized he or his staff would be interrogating – no, intimidating – her friends and colleagues, including the quiet clerk.
‘I should go.’ Sometimes, she realized, her heart really did know what to do. ‘I can’t subject you to any more of this.’