by Clea Simon
‘Yes, Mr Thorpe.’ She’d started walking again, which made talking a bit difficult. But even as she threaded her way carefully down the cleared path, she started to do her calculations. ‘If I get out of the health services in time to meet Roni, I could come by around four,’ she said.
‘Four?’ Thorpe sounded incredulous. ‘Do you actually have pages written, Ms Schwartz?’
‘Yes.’ So she hadn’t for their first meeting. But since then, she had been writing.
‘I don’t see why you can’t simply drop them off sooner then.’
‘But, Mr Thorpe …’ She stopped walking. Sometimes, it was easier not to fight. ‘Sure,’ she said. ‘I’ll be by within fifteen minutes.’
As she hung up, she realized that she’d missed a call. Chris must have gotten her truncated message.
‘Hey, sweetie. No! Esmé, stop it! What is it?’ Dulcie could easily visualize the cat leaping for Chris’s hand as he held the phone. ‘Sorry, she’s demanding attention again.’ Dulcie thought she could hear a perturbed mew. ‘Anyway, you’re probably down at the police headquarters now. Um, don’t know if you want to bother, but when you get out, you might want to talk to the office manager about another matter.
‘Turns out, that girl Amy never ended up charging Jerry for the tickets he got for Lloyd and Raleigh. She had to change the number when you and Trista got those comps, and the paperwork never went in. So Jerry owes the theater. But at least his credit info is secure. Anyway, he says if you can tell them that he’ll come by with cash that would be great. What is it, Esmé? Man, Dulce, this cat is out of control.’
Chuckling, Dulcie put her phone away. She’d treat herself to a nice long chat with Chris once she got through with Thorpe. Odds were, she’d have to wait at the health services for someone to look at her ankle, and she’d call him back then. And if he indulged in an ‘I told you so’, well, that would be a reasonable price to pay.
By the time she reached the little clapboard, she was limping badly.
‘Oh, Dulcie!’ Nancy saw her coming through the door and ran to meet her. ‘What did you do to yourself?’
‘The ice,’ she said as she collapsed into a chair. ‘I’m sorry.’ She looked back toward the door. ‘I’ve tracked in all sorts of snow.’
‘Don’t you worry about that.’ Nancy took Dulcie’s hat and looked down at her feet. ‘Do you want help taking your boot off?’
Dulcie shook her head. ‘To be honest, I’d be afraid that I wouldn’t be able to get it back on.’
‘Of course.’ Ever practical, Nancy went back into her office, returning with an armless wooden chair. ‘Here, let’s elevate it.’
‘Thanks.’ Maybe it was Nancy’s motherly concern, but Dulcie could have sworn her ankle already felt better. When Nancy returned with one of her own mugs filled with sweet, milky coffee, Dulcie was sure she was healing. If only she didn’t have to face her adviser, up the stairs.
‘Thanks so much, Nancy,’ she said at last, as the warmth of the hot drink sank in. ‘I don’t suppose that Mr Thorpe would be willing to come downstairs to meet with me?’
‘I would think it would be the very least he could do.’ Nancy smiled at her, hovering, and Dulcie found herself smiling back. The secretary had a way of phrasing things that made everything seem gentler and more humane. She could easily imagine the balding adviser grumbling about having to relocate for the meeting, but she appreciated the sentiment nonetheless.
‘I’ll go get him,’ said Nancy. ‘Oh, but first things first. You’ve gotten some mail.’
‘Mail?’ Dulcie watched as Nancy ducked back into her office. On any other day, she’d have risen and followed.
‘Something from a journal, I believe.’ Dulcie almost jumped up at that, ankle pain or no ankle pain. But just as she was testing the arms of the chair to see if she could raise herself up, Nancy reappeared. ‘Here we go.’
It was a thick envelope and the return address was from a box office in Chicago. Holding her breath, Dulcie tore it open.
‘Dear Ms Schwartz,’ she read. ‘Pursuant to our editorial meeting of January the thirteenth . . .’
‘It’s a contract,’ she read. ‘University of Chicago is interested in one of my proposals. They want to publish part of my thesis in an upcoming book. But, wait …’ She fished in the envelope for the remaining loose sheet.
‘What is it, Dulcie?’ Nancy’s eyes were wide with anticipation.
‘They’re talking about notes, as if we’d discussed the article already.’ She skimmed the letter and went back to the top.
‘Maybe they mean they discussed the article among themselves,’ said the secretary. ‘To give you some guidance before you wrote. That wouldn’t be a bad thing, would it?’ Nancy was picking up on her concern. ‘Perhaps it might make things run more smoothly.’
‘Well, yes, I guess.’ She was looking up at the secretary, but she was thinking of her laptop – and the computer virus. ‘But they say they sent them already. If those have gotten lost, how many other responses have I missed? And where have they been going?’
‘Maybe Mr Thorpe will be able to shed some light?’ Even Nancy’s famed optimism sounded strained. ‘At any rate, I’ll see if I can fetch him.’
While she climbed the stairs, Dulcie pulled her laptop out and opened it. To her relief, it started right up – and the pages she’d written for Thorpe, at least, seemed to be there. With a quick keystroke, she sent them to the printer in Nancy’s office and then she started to read.
What she found filled her with dismay. The pages she’d been so proud of, back in her office, looked speculative now – more wishful thinking than scholarly. What had she been thinking, gassing on about the stranger in the cab? How much of this was material she had actually found in the new pages, and how much was taken from her dreams?
She skimmed another page, her heart sinking as she read. Maybe Thorpe was right: she was spinning her wheels. It was time to settle down and write. She would stop researching new material and make use of what she already had. If she applied herself, she could have her thesis drafted by spring.
The sound of steps on the stairs only firmed her resolve. Steeling herself, she looked up to greet her adviser, who was descending the stairs, a pile of journals in his arms.
‘Mr Thorpe,’ she said. ‘You … I …’ As she paused, looking for the right words to admit what felt like defeat, he nodded toward her boot.
‘Ms Schwartz.’ The balding scholar looked more pink than usual, and Dulcie wondered if he had a cold. ‘Ms Pruitt tells me you’ve met with a mishap.’
‘It’s nothing serious, but thank you. And I wanted to say …’ Dulcie slid her boot off the chair, only to notice the puddle of ice melt that had accumulated on the seat. ‘Oh, dear.’
‘Never mind, Ms Schwartz.’ Standing there, he seemed to grow even pinker. He placed the journals on the floor.
‘I can go up to your office.’ Dulcie was worried. ‘I just needed to rest it a bit.’
‘No, no, please.’ Thorpe waved her down with a bird-like gesture.
‘Well, at least let me get my pages.’ She started to stand, nodding over to the printer in Nancy’s office as she braced herself on the chair’s arms. ‘Because, Mr Thorpe, you were right.’
‘Never mind that.’ More fluttering and Dulcie, startled, collapsed back into the chair. ‘Don’t bother with those pages.’
‘But … my chapter?’ Only now did she realize that the nervous hand gestures and, most likely, the pinkness in Thorpe’s extended face augured nervousness of some sort. ‘Mr Thorpe,’ she asked, growing concerned. ‘What is it? What’s going on?’
‘It seems your paper has stirred up a bit of attention.’ More fiddling. Dulcie realized she was holding her breath. ‘Including the offer of a contract from Chicago, I hear.’
‘Yes.’ She hadn’t thought Nancy the type to gossip, but perhaps she had thought she was doing Dulcie a favor, passing along her good news to the acting chair. ‘Though, I seem
to have mislaid …’ She paused. Better not to let Thorpe know that she had lost a letter.
‘Here they are!’ Nancy, with what sounded almost like real enthusiasm, handed over Dulcie’s pages. ‘Mr Thorpe, would you like me to get you a dry chair?’
‘No need, no need.’ The adviser dropped the pages on to the damp seat. ‘In fact, I have other work for Ms Schwartz to focus on.’
With that, he reached down for the journals and handed them over to Dulcie. ‘These are the latest from the press at Chicago,’ Thorpe said. ‘I recommend you start with the one on epistolary prose under Hamilton. In fact, why don’t you open to the editor’s page now?’
Thorpe was actually singing by the time he took off for lunch. For a moment, Dulcie feared he would even invite her, but the balding scholar caught himself in time. ‘Ms Schwartz, you should get to work,’ he’d said instead, as he wrapped a wool muffler around his neck. ‘Don’t let a little thing like a sprained ankle slow you down.’
‘Like he knows anything about it.’ Dulcie couldn’t help but grump as she reached for where she had dropped her own hat and coat.
‘Do you want me to call you a cab?’ Nancy popped out of her office, her face showing her concern. ‘Or an ambulance?’
‘It’s not that bad.’ For Nancy, Dulcie could summon a smile. ‘In fact, my ankle’s feeling better.’ She stood, gingerly testing it with her weight. ‘Maybe I just needed a rest.’
‘Or a counter irritant.’ Nancy’s comment was offered so softly, Dulcie doubted for a moment that she had heard it. After all, she had begun to suspect that the secretary and the department chair had more than a professional relationship.
‘Don’t get me wrong,’ Nancy must have read all this on her face. ‘Mr Thorpe is a kind and honorable gentleman. But he does have his little enthusiasms.’
‘That’s one word for it.’ It helped to air, but Dulcie knew better than to unload entirely on the secretary. ‘Well, at least I’ll have another publication to my credit.’
Nancy smiled at her, pleased by her attempt at optimism. ‘We’re all lucky to have you, dear.’ Nancy reached around to arrange Dulcie’s collar in a particularly motherly touch. ‘Mr Thorpe in particular.’
Dulcie stepped outdoors with a sigh of relief that might have been audible by the river. Despite Nancy’s kindness, she had begun to feel suffocated in the little office as her adviser’s excite-ment sucked all the oxygen out of it. No, it wasn’t his excitement, she decided, as she hobbled slowly down the stairs. It was his complete and utter disregard of her priorities. Her thesis. Her – yes, she might as well admit how she felt – author.
‘And have you lost your own vision?’ The voice took her by surprise, and she stopped, looking up in the air.
‘Mr Grey?’ She had reached the sidewalk, which she tested carefully with her uninjured foot. The air was cold enough so that even at midday, a thin sheen of ice covered the brick, making it shine like a freshly waxed floor. It was pretty, if treacherous, but some careful buildings and grounds person had scattered sand here, making the walk a little easier.
‘Have you not been seeking a name?’ The voice was warm as always, like a gentle breeze in the frosty day, but Dulcie thought she detected a gentle mocking. ‘An identity, for yourself.’
‘I’ve been trying to uncover the author’s name.’ As soon as the words were out, Dulcie knew she had to admit another truth. ‘And yes, a name for myself. But this project with Mr Thorpe, it’s not going to do either.’
A chuckle, or was it a purr? And Dulcie was hit by a sudden memory: Mr Grey, back when he was still a cat of flesh and fur, crouching in the kitchen she had shared with Suze. He had been so intent, so still, that the room-mates had become worried. Did they have mice? Was it some kind of horrid bug that had so entranced the little hunter? Or had it been a figment of his feline imagination, some play of dust or the light that had drawn his attention to the crack in the molding by the fridge?
‘You didn’t catch anything there, did you?’ she asked the air. Surely, the memory had come from him. ‘Are you saying that I’m like that? That I’m trying too hard?’ Nothing. ‘Mr Grey?’ The midday sun glinted off the heaped snow, glittering like diamonds.
FIFTY-FIVE
As inconclusive as they were, Mr Grey’s words had mollified Dulcie, even if she couldn’t have explained exactly what they meant. After all, he had clearly intended to show her something. And he had visited, which was a comfort.
If only he could have kept her from slipping on the ice last night, she thought as she made her way down the walk. She had been overly hasty, she could tell now, in turning down Nancy’s offer of a cab. With each step, her ankle became more aggravated, and she was limping by the time she reached Mass Ave, the weight of her bag on her shoulder growing with each step. Well, only a few more blocks to health services. Once her ankle was wrapped, she’d head the other way back to the URT.
If she ever got there. She was moving slowly now, and as her speed decreased so too did her sense of well-being. Like the stab of pain that made her gasp each time she put her weight on her left foot, doubt was cracking her earlier calm.
Why hadn’t Mr Grey been there, last night? Not just to help her when she slipped, but when Heath had threatened her?
Maybe, she told herself, this was a sign of faith. Mr Grey believed in her – believed in her ability to take care of herself, no matter what she faced. In truth, she had gotten away from Heath and gotten home safely, despite banging up her ankle. And, in truth, she had begun to believe that the grey spirit was slowly leaving her, weaning her away from her supernatural protector. It wasn’t as if she didn’t have Esmé in her life. And Chris.
What was going on with Chris, anyway? He had also been MIA last night, arriving home after she did. Could he really have missed her on the same path they always took into the Square? Her initial suspicion was just too horrible. Chris couldn’t really be some kind of, well, werewolf. Could he? But if not, then what were the other options? She didn’t – couldn’t – believe he was seeing someone else, but how could she know for sure? Jerry probably didn’t question Trista’s loyalty, either. If it were drinking or drugs, his work would be suffering.
And if Thorpe really did keep on monopolizing her time, how was she ever going to complete her thesis?
Dulcie was so preoccupied by these thoughts that she didn’t see the woman barreling toward her.
‘’Scuse me!’ Dulcie turned in time to see a large woman, made larger by her hot-pink parka. ‘Coming through!’ Hemmed in by the walls of snow, Dulcie knew she couldn’t get out of the way, and instead leaned into the bank to let her pass.
‘Thanks!’ The woman was gracious enough to yell as she passed, but the move – the fast turn – had aggravated Dulcie’s ankle more. If she could just get up to that next set of storefronts, she decided, she would step inside, call Chris – and if she couldn’t reach him, she’d call a cab. She was done with the heroics.
The end of the block was in sight when her phone rang again. For a moment, she ignored it. She needed to sit down. Then it hit her: if this were Chris, he could meet her. She fished her phone out and answered quickly.
‘Hello?’
‘Dulcie!’ The voice was familiar, but rushed and breathless.
‘Roni?’ The scene back at the theater had been chaotic, but not that bad. ‘What’s up?’
‘I should have listened to you.’ The other girl’s voice sounded muffled, and Dulcie realized that she must be talking with her hand over the receiver. ‘Where are you?’
‘I just left the office,’ said Dulcie. Maybe it was the cold, but she didn’t understand.
‘The police?’
‘No, my department. English and American Lit—’
She didn’t get a chance to finish. ‘Good. Oh, Dulcie, you were right. Can you come back? Like, now? Everyone’s left the theater and I’m alone in my office. Heath is here and he’s acting crazy. Dulcie, I’m scared.’
‘I thought he
was out sick?’ Even as she said it, Dulcie remembered: the actor had been a no-show. No reason had been given. ‘Never mind,’ she interrupted Roni’s sputtering response. ‘Have you called the police?’
‘He thinks I’ve already gone to the police!’ Roni’s voice had dropped to a panicked whisper. ‘I don’t want to make him angrier.’
‘If he’s already angry—’
‘Please, Dulcie.’ Her voice was little more than a hiss. ‘Please!’
‘But …’ It was hopeless. Dulcie was used to dealing with logical minds. Roni might be a bookkeeper, but she’d clearly been infected by the dramatic way of thinking. She’d been planning on accompanying the office manager to speak with Detective Rogovoy anyway. Her ankle was tender, but it could wait.
‘Okay, I can be there in about ten minutes.’ She tested her ankle. No, she wouldn’t be able to go any faster.
‘Thanks, Dulcie.’ Already, Roni sounded calmer. ‘The front door is still unlocked, I think. I’m staying in my office.’
‘See you soon.’ Tucking the phone away, Dulcie began to hobble. As she walked, she thought about calling Rogovoy. Maybe he would be able to meet her and they could pick up Roni together. Better yet, he could go straight to the theater. Dulcie wasn’t sure if she really believed the dark-haired girl needed protection. She did need reassurance, however.
As Dulcie walked, she realized she’d developed a rhythm. The packed snow on either side functioned as a kind of railing, and she found that if she walked with her arms slightly akimbo, she could lean on the frosted surface as she passed. It was awkward, but it was faster than her previous limp. It also meant that her hands were occupied with moving her along, so that by the time she had her phone out and Rogovoy’s number ready to go, she had arrived at the theater – five minutes earlier than she had expected.
For half a second, Dulcie weighed her options. In the back of her mind, she could hear Suze. The voice of reason, Suze would tell her to be careful, which meant she should call Rogovoy. Then again, Suze would also tell her not to get involved with the police without proper representation, and although Dulcie was confident that the university detective would not treat her unfairly, she had also been reminded repeatedly that this was not his case. If she and Roni went into his office to have a chat, that would be one thing. But if she called Rogovoy from the theater – the crime scene – might he be compelled to notify the state cops?
