by Clea Simon
Given her lack of action, Dulcie was a little relieved to find Suze gone and a note about a late showing of Casablanca on the fridge. She had too much on her mind to focus on an old film, no matter how great, but at least she wouldn’t have to explain the day to her roommate. By the time she’d heated up some dubious leftover pizza – when had this been from? – Chris called back. She bit into the pizza, glad for the company, even if remote. But he sounded distant, apologizing for the noise as he ran through the Square from a teaching section to the Science Center.
‘So, did you talk to the cops?’ From the sudden quiet, Dulcie guessed that he’d reached his second job of the day.
‘It’s a long story, Chris.’ She took another bite. She was famished. But she also, she admitted to herself, wanted to stall.
He made a noise that didn’t sound happy and in her fatigued state, Dulcie almost snapped at him. But, remembering her encounter with Mr Grey, she opted for the diplomatic approach. After swallowing, she made sure to keep her voice even. ‘It would be easier to tell you about it in person, Chris.’
‘Yeah, I know.’ That wasn’t the answer she expected and she nibbled on a piece of pepperoni. Did he sound particularly tired, or was that something else in his voice? ‘We’ve got to talk anyway, Dulcie.’ It was fatigue. It had to be. ‘About a lot of things.’
Dulcie coughed out the cold sausage as her boyfriend said something about dinner the next day. Mouth dry, she could barely respond. ‘We should talk.’ She didn’t need to be a semiotics major to know what that meant. Was she going to lose her thesis, her adviser, and her boyfriend all in the same week? Somehow she choked out a response, agreeing to meet after her powwow with Bullock, and they hung up. Suddenly the remaining pizza looked disgusting to her, congealed and stiff. She sat there, stunned, staring at it until a certain small feline scrambled on to the table, knocked over the salt cellar, and mewed as loudly as a cat twice her size.
‘Kitten, I don’t . . .’ Dulcie swallowed the lump in her throat. ‘I can’t play right now.’ But the kitten pounced, wrestling Dulcie’s hand to the table, and she was forced to pick up the small beast.
‘Oh, kitten.’ She held the little cat up to her cheek. Even as the tears fell, she could feel the kitten start to purr. This wasn’t Mr Grey, far from it, but there was something comforting about the tiny animal’s warmth and the rhythmic rise and fall of soft fur.
FIFTY-NINE
The dream came again, full of choking smoke and sparks. This time, Dulcie was more aware in it. She knew, right away, what was happening – and that the large, carved door in the corner was not an option. She couldn’t keep herself from glancing out the window once again, but those leaded panes only looked out over a terrifying drop. The rocky slope below was too steep and too far away for it to provide an escape. For a moment, she leaned against the window, the glass still cool against her palms. But she could hear the flames now, the snap and hiss as sparks caught. Already the edge of the carpet glowed, as embers caught in the ancient wool. Time was running out.
That left only the shelves of books, and in the dream Dulcie started pulling at them. Against all reason, she grabbed at them, indiscriminately. Some she opened, most she simply knocked to the floor. Behind her, the pages of one bound volume had already taken a spark, the pages turning red – then black – as the fine old rag paper was eaten by the flame. Still, she kept pulling at books, desperate now, in a panicked attempt to find something. But what? Look in the book, Dulcie. Even in her dream, the ghostly voice called to her. The key is in the book. But the smoke was rising, and Dulcie tripped over her long skirts to tumble to the ground.
Round green eyes stared into hers and blinked once. It was the kitten, and Dulcie was awake – on the floor.
‘Kitten! Are you okay?’ Dulcie raised herself on one elbow, trying to figure out how she’d gotten so tangled up in the sheet. In response, the kitten scampered off, leaving Dulcie to shake off the remnants of the nightmare and begin her day.
‘Well, you’re under deadline so that could be a “burning” issue.’ Suze had put down the paper when Dulcie came downstairs. Her take on the nightmare was more psychological than psychic. ‘And all that about the books, well, it does make sense.’
‘But what was I looking for?’ Try as she might, Dulcie couldn’t dismiss the idea that the dream was more than symbolism. ‘What was the key?’
‘Does it have to be that literal?’ Suze stopped, mouth open. But Dulcie knew her well enough.
‘You think I’m turning into Lucy, don’t you?’ The recurrence of the dream had made her wonder.
‘I think you were raised in an environment where psychic phenomena – magic – is taken seriously.’ Suze was choosing her words carefully. Too carefully for Dulcie.
‘And my mom is a nut.’ She poured herself more coffee and then refilled Suze’s mug, too. It wasn’t her roommate’s fault if she was rational. ‘But there is something odd about this dream.’
‘Why should your dream be any different from the rest of your life?’ Suze smiled as she said that and Dulcie had to agree. Why indeed?
Despite the disturbing dream, Dulcie felt strangely calm as she got dressed and headed into the Square that morning, deciding at the last moment to splurge and take the T. Perhaps, she told herself, this is what condemned prisoners go through. Some strange mix of resignation and denial. After all, it wasn’t like she had any choice. She’d go teach her section. Then she’d gather up what notes she had and make her case to Professor Bullock. Maybe he’d see what she had done and sign on for another half-year of grants. Maybe, she thought, with Lloyd in mind, he wouldn’t understand what she was talking about, but for his own reasons – to hide his disability – he’d sign off on her grants anyway. Or maybe he wouldn’t. Nothing she could do about it now.
Dulcie checked her cell phone before she descended into the T. Chris had called to wish her luck, in the tired and distracted voice she’d almost gotten used to, and to stress that they needed to talk. Great. But she hadn’t heard from Lloyd yet, so she was hoping that the fourth option – that Bullock would already be either in custody or on his way out of the department – was off the table. By dinner time that night, she’d know one way or another.
Maybe it was that certainty. Maybe it was the way Suze had slipped out while she was in the shower, but Dulcie felt a need to settle things. Waiting for the rush of air that presaged the arrival of the train, Dulcie thought back on the morning – and her own attempt to set her life straight. Suze had been dismissive of her dream, but not hostile. After all, to a legal mind, proof was something physical and everything else was speculation. But Dulcie had other concerns besides that strange recurring nightmare. Before heading up to the bathroom, Dulcie had tried to feel her roommate out about the upcoming holiday – and about the new distance that seemed to have grown between the two old friends. A few pointed comments had been met with noncommittal grunts. And her one outright question, asking about Ariano’s Thanksgiving plans, had been countered with an observation on the time. Suze was certainly honing her lawyerly skills, and Dulcie had given up, partly because the clock had shown the morning getting on. Chris, however, should be somewhat easier to tackle.
‘Hey, Chris. It’s me.’ Dulcie heard her grammar slipping and hoped her boyfriend would find it vulnerable and endearing, rather than sloppy. ‘I’m glad we’re going to get together. I have some things to talk about, too.’ She swallowed. ‘About Thanksgiving.’ She hung up. For good or ill, the message had been left. Of course, that just meant her imagination could run wild. Maybe he was planning on breaking up with her. But wasn’t it just as likely that he’d been working so hard that the approach of the holiday had eluded him? He was a computer geek, after all. She paused on the T platform. Or maybe he’d found someone else during those long nights in the Science Center. Someone more rational and law abiding. Someone slim and pretty, like Raleigh. They were both tall and graceful, and Dulcie could picture them, heads together and laugh
ing, at the Krullworth Awards banquet, while she toiled away at her new career as a waitress . . .
That distracting vision evaporated as she found herself slammed into the wall of the stairway. ‘Watch it!’ A large woman gave her a dirty look as she pushed past. ‘This is a T stop, you know.’
Before she could come up with a cutting remark, Dulcie found herself carried along to the top of the stairs and deposited out on the street. But the body block had done her some good. There was no point in moping, she decided, as she swung her bag back on to her shoulder and queued up to cross Massachusetts Avenue.
Just as the light changed, her cell rang. She ignored it until she’d reached the opposite curb. Let him wait! When she pulled it out of her bag, however, her heart sank. Lloyd – but he’d left no message. He’d probably already talked to the cops. Her fate might already be sealed. Maybe that was a good thing, Dulcie told herself, looking up at the wrought-iron gates of the Yard. Between Lloyd and Bullock, Chris and Suze, maybe she was getting a message. Maybe karma had other plans for her. She’d always been a bit of an interloper here anyway: Dulcie Schwartz, the hippie’s kid. Maybe the leap from a cooperative yurt to the ivy-covered halls of academe was just too steep. Maybe . . .
Somehow, Dulcie had gotten through her section, the odd looks she’d gotten from her students and the long silences before she thought to ask another question only confirming in her mind her unfitness for life as an academic. But even the most awkward classes end eventually, and as the church clock rang out the hour, Dulcie searched out a quiet place where she could sit and think.
This was harder than it looked. Neither the library nor her office seemed very welcoming at the moment, and undergrads flooded the other Yard buildings, darting back and forth like crazed birds, preparing for their big migration. But, at a few minutes past the hour, things had quieted down, only the occasional stray wandering along the bare paths. Dulcie took a seat on the cold steps of an administration building and tried to make sense of her day.
‘Mr Grey, where are you?’ She found herself staring at a fat grey squirrel. But although its black eyes looked up as she spoke, she heard no answering voice. No touch of fur. ‘I could really use a friend right now.’ She was sinking into self-pity, she knew. And really, what reason did she have? Suze had a lot going on in her own life. Lloyd was probably doing the right thing, legally and morally. And Chris, well, she’d hear what Chris had to say later. Maybe it wasn’t that bad.
Almost before she realized what she was doing, Dulcie found herself calling the community center’s number back in Oregon. ‘Lucy Schwartz, please?’
‘Karma!’ She heard someone calling and could only hope that her mother had not taken it on herself to change her name.
‘Dulcie, dear, what’s wrong?’ Whatever she was calling herself, Lucy had come to the phone immediately. And at that unfamiliar motherly prompt, Dulcie broke down. Chris, Lloyd, Suze, Bullock . . . everything from that awful moment when she had found Cameron lying there came tumbling out. Even Mr Grey’s relative silence was thrown on to the bonfire of her life. Tears streaming down her face, Dulcie hiccuped. This was what she needed. To talk to a sympathetic person. To talk to her mother.
‘And so I thought, well, maybe it was time for me to come home.’ She hadn’t realized how much she craved the comfort of the commune with all its silly rituals and self-affirming warmth, until she said it. But once it was out, she realized just how right a move that would be. ‘I don’t belong here, Mom.’ She paused. ‘I mean, Lucy. I think it’s time for me to go back to the land.’
But Lucy’s response was not what she’d expected. ‘Absolutely not! And give up on all the dreams you’ve had? All the work you’ve done?’ Her mother sputtered. ‘Your father may have dropped everything to go off and meditate. But you’re a Sellenbock as well as a Schwartz, young lady! You are not a quitter; that’s not how I raised you! You’re going to get your degree!’
Dulcie hiccuped and sat up. Was this really Lucy Schwartz on the phone?
‘But, Lucy—’
‘You’re having a rough time, dear. I understand that and, frankly, I’m not surprised. Mercury is retrograde and your sign, as I recall, has Venus in the ascendent. Very tricky right now. But you can’t lose hope, Dulcie. I’ll see you soon enough.’
‘But—’
‘Dulcie!’ Lucy’s voice had taken on a tone that Dulcie had never heard before. It sounded, just a little, like her grandmother, Lucy’s mother. Despite herself, she smiled. ‘You just stay with it, dear. Keep on searching. I’m sure you’ll find the key.’
For the first time ever that Dulcie could remember, it was her mother who ended the call. But for a good ten minutes, she continued to sit on the cold stone steps, pondering her mother’s newfound determination and the strange phrases she had used. What did Lucy mean when she said she’d see her soon enough? And why, for the second time that day, had she been told to keep on searching for a key?
She might have sat there till she was numb, if her reverie hadn’t been broken by another buzz. A message, probably delivered while she’d been talking to Lucy, had just made its way to her voicemail. Well, the morning couldn’t get any worse, she reasoned as she poked in the access code. As soon as she heard Lloyd’s voice, though, she remembered her earlier fears and regretted her bare-bones optimism.
‘Hey, Dulcie. It’s Lloyd again. Bother, I wish I’d caught you.’ Should she hang up? No, she decided. Let’s get the worst over with.
But despite her first concerns, her friend and officemate hadn’t been calling to tell her that he’d reported Bullock’s bizarre behavior to the police. Nor was he calling to say he’d told the departmental powers-that-be about the tenured professor’s decline. What he was saying was garbled and a bit frantic, causing Dulcie to hit ‘replay’ and listen again. Yes, Lloyd had gotten Dulcie’s message; he had not told anyone anything. Now, however, he was regretting his lack of action. Because at some point this morning, after he had gone out, someone had broken into his apartment. As far as he could tell, nothing had been stolen (‘I don’t have much to take anyway, Dulcie.’). But his bookshelves had been emptied on to the floor, and the covers of several larger volumes torn off.
‘My place looks like a cyclone hit it.’ He’d paused then, but Dulcie could hear a tremor in his voice. ‘It looks like our office. And, Dulcie, I’m scared.’
SIXTY
‘Lloyd?’ She’d called her friend back, the fear in his voice pushing her own concerns aside. ‘Are you OK?’
‘Yeah, I’m fine. I mean, I’m glad I wasn’t here when it happened.’ She heard a thud. ‘Sorry! I didn’t realize the chair was leaning so far over. I’m at home now, trying to clean up.’
‘Shouldn’t you call the cops?’
‘They’ve come and gone. Unfortunately, they don’t seem to think it’s a big deal.’ Another thud and a small grunt. ‘Oh man, my desk drawers have all been emptied out.’
‘How can that not be a big deal? Do they know about our office?’
‘I told them. Asked them to check with the university police.’ Another grunt, but this time it sounded like Lloyd was sitting down. ‘But they gave me a whole spiel about crime in the neighborhood. About how I should have had window locks on the fire escape. They seem to think it was random.’
‘That’s impossible.’ Dulcie realized she was gesturing when she smacked a bystander. ‘Sorry!’ The office workers were beginning their lunchtime exodus, and Dulcie retreated off the stairs to talk. ‘It sounds like the same person, doesn’t it?’
‘To me, sure.’ Lloyd sounded tired, his voice flat. ‘But the city cop who took my report was just going on about how the neighborhood is changing, how there’s new money right up next to the older buildings.’ Dulcie was surprised to hear a soft chuckle. ‘When he heard I was a grad student, I think he thought I was part of the “new money.”’
‘Yeah, I get that sometimes.’ Dulcie had to smile. ‘With the new Harvard Square and all. But you said n
othing was missing?’
‘Nothing much to steal. I have to finish going through my books, though.’
Books. Something sparked in the back of Dulcie’s mind, something about books and the Square. ‘Hey, did you hear that Gosham’s is expanding? Trista said something. I guess there must be some money in used and rare books. You think someone’s looking for something to sell to him?’
Another grunt. ‘Considering that his main clientele are academics, it would be pretty stupid to steal from one of us to sell to another, don’t you think? Besides, I don’t have anything worth anything.’
‘Still . . .’ Dulcie couldn’t quite dismiss the idea. ‘Maybe I’ll ask Gosham next time I see him. Or see if I can get Polly to.’
Lloyd laughed out loud at that. ‘I’d love to see that. Gosham terrified of losing Bullock’s patronage. Polly fluttering about. I don’t know, Dulcie. Maybe the cops were right.’
‘Maybe.’ But Dulcie didn’t believe it. ‘Hey, Lloyd, could Bullock have done this? Could he have forgotten what you found out about that book of his, and maybe been searching for it?’
Lloyd seemed to consider this, but after a moment he responded. ‘No, I don’t think so.’ Another pause. ‘He was too embarrassed. Humiliated, really. Besides, he’s never been violent. His way of lashing out was to sic the police on me. And also, to be honest, I don’t know if he could get it together enough to come here and do this. I mean, find my address, come over here, climb up the fire escape, and break in and all? It’s just not likely.’
Dulcie nodded, a little relieved. ‘Hey, do you need any help cleaning up?’
‘No, thanks.’ Lloyd sounded better now, too. The shock had passed. ‘I’ve got a friend coming over. And speaking of Professor Great Books, don’t you have a meeting with Bullock today?’
‘Oh hell!’ Dulcie looked at her watch. ‘I’m going to be late.’
‘Don’t worry about it, Dulcie. He probably won’t even remember.’
