by Clea Simon
‘Tim?’ She bit her lip. The deceased boor was Luke’s brother, not hers.
‘Well, he was impressed by you, and I know he thought his tutor was really smart.’
‘And Alana?’ That slipped out. Maybe he hadn’t heard.
But Luke sighed. ‘Yeah, well. Her pedigree was right. But, ring or not, I don’t think he’d have gone through with a wedding. He’d even ratcheted up the “dumb blonde” jokes, talked about trading her in for a smart brunette.’
Maybe Luisa had stood a chance. Dulcie sighed. All in all, she was probably better off with Bruce. But Luke was still talking. ‘I had the feeling there was someone he hadn’t told anyone about. Some woman who mattered to him, and now we’ll never meet.’
Dulcie thought of the young tutor. She was so innocent that Dulcie had assumed she’d been duped; used by the callous rich boy. But maybe he’d seen the earnest young student inside that lush body. Maybe he had cared, or would have, if he’d only had time. Just then, their dessert arrived, a berry tart dusted with sugar. Luke pulled off the mint sprig garnish and made to put it behind his ear. Dulcie couldn’t help laughing at his silliness, and the serious subjects were left far behind.
Twenty-Eight
Sunday brought no solution to Dulcie’s confusion, but at least it spared her a hangover. Whether to prolong their date, or to sober them both up, Luke had suggested that they walk a bit after leaving the restaurant. Although they’d driven up into Watertown, he’d shown her they were still on the Charles, and the view from the nearby bridge was beautiful, all lights and shimmering reflection.
‘Rather like Paris,’ he’d said, reaching over to touch her hair.
‘Or Portland.’ Her response was automatic, and not entirely accurate. But something about the romantic setting made her timid, and wry was a good fallback defense.
‘That’s right. You’re from the Pacific Northwest.’ He took the hint and turned back toward the river. ‘Did you grow up in Portland?’
It was Dulcie’s turn to sigh then. This was always the moment she dreaded, explaining her unconventional family dynamics to someone from a more normal background. ‘Not exactly,’ she stalled, wondering where to begin. Then she realized that she knew more dirt about Luke’s family than she did about anyone’s except maybe Suze. So why not share?
‘So my dad’s still in India. At least, last we heard. And my mother is living “on the land”, back in the collective.’ Fifteen minutes later, she had all the worst points sketched out.
‘Cool!’ He’d actually laughed when Dulcie had told him about the yurt. ‘You really are a self-made woman, aren’t you, Dulcie Schwartz?’
Dulcie shrugged, flattered. ‘To be honest, my mom – Lucy – is a good mother. I mean, she’s nutty, but she loves me. And when I wanted to go East to school, she didn’t stand in my way.’
He was looking at her. ‘Do you know how rare that is? I hang out with so many spoiled brats. They complain when their folks don’t give them everything, and here you are.’ He reached out to take her hand, but she turned away, pulling herself up to the concrete balustrade.
‘Here I am, learning the ways of the oppressors!’ She’d meant it as a joke, but the moment the words were out of her lips, she regretted them. ‘Sorry, I don’t mean—’
‘No, I know.’ He reached to grab her wrap before it fell into the water. ‘But I think it’s time we called it a night.’
All things considered, she should have been content with the small goodnight peck at the door. But when she woke, she found herself lying in bed, staring at the light playing on the ceiling. Had she wanted more? Less? Was she taking this traditional female role-playing too far?
Enough. If she couldn’t straighten out her love life, she could at least make progress on her thesis. And maybe her new awareness of feminine dilemmas would pay off. If she could only find a motive for Demetria, she’d be set. A quick shower, an iced latte, and a mixed berry muffin, and she was good to go. Tossing the paper cup into a trash barrel outside the library, she hopped up the granite stairs toward what really mattered in life.
‘No laptop usage until further notice,’ the guard said without looking up. ‘Bag, please.’ Signs taped along the walls reinforced the ban, marring the marble grandeur of the library entrance: ‘Please keep laptops turned off’. For Dulcie, the notices only stirred up the ashes of her fury. But enough of that. Outside of Widener, the real world might hold sway, with confusing men and idiotic police. Inside was her realm. She opened her bag, empty of everything but her pad and some pens. After yesterday’s breakthrough, she was eager to get started.
‘Hey, Mona!’ She waved at her friend. The librarian smiled and came over, standing on the other side of the electronic gate as Dulcie swiped her card and walked through.
‘Well, look at you! Have you been having some fun?’
‘Why? What?’ Dulcie could feel the blush climbing up from her T-shirt collar. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
Mona waved her objection away, her jewel-inset nails sparkling in the sunlight-flooded entry. ‘You’ve got the look. You’re in love . . .’
Dulcie laughed. ‘Well, it’s never that simple.’ Her friend opened her mouth to protest, so she continued without a breath, ‘But, even better, I think I’ve got a thesis topic nailed down.’ Mona had heard enough of Dulcie’s late-night anxieties to take this seriously.
‘Well, good for you. At least something is nailed down here.’ At Dulcie’s puzzled look, she continued, ‘They still haven’t tracked that bug yet. We’re back to paper and pencil until further notice. Why do you think I’m here, after the Saturday night I just had?’ The librarian’s voice rose as she spoke, and Dulcie saw her glancing around, gauging her audience.
‘OK, you’re going to have to spill.’ Dulcie gave her friend a quick hug. ‘Later this week, at Grendel’s. But now, I think we’ve both got work to do.’
‘Nothing I can say in this place, anyway.’ Mona grinned back. ‘I’d set off the fire alarms for sure.’
As Dulcie waited for the elevator, she suppressed a shiver. Mona’s words reminded her that when the library had been renovated, the architects had installed a state-of-the-art fire suppression system. Weighing the risk of both fire and water to the three million plus books and untold manuscripts, maps, and what have you, they had opted to install a supersensitive alarm that actually analyzed air content, in order to avoid the sprinklers going off unnecessarily. At least, that was what the publicity material had led everyone to believe. But, according to grad student gossip, some of the rare books sections were protected by a different system. At the first sign of fire, the rumor said, airtight seals would close the doors and windows in the rooms with the rarest manuscripts – the vellums and papyri – and super-powered fans would suck out all the oxygen. That would extinguish a fire, all right. But woe betide any researcher trapped inside.
It would be a horrible death, Dulcie thought as the small elevator descended and the pit of her stomach rose from the rush. Although she was not sure she really believed the rumors. Nor, she reminded herself as the steel doors opened, did she usually spend time in the ‘locked wards’. Once she got down to writing, sure, she’d want to work from primary sources; to see the letters written by the first readers of The Ravages. She’d also want to read the contemporary critics, so much livelier – and nastier – than the modern press. But these papers, thought Dulcie as she walked by the tall, metal cases, were comparatively modern. Two hundred years was nothing to Widener. This place was like a pyramid, with secrets buried that were older by far.
‘Buried. Great.’ Everything was creeping her out today. ‘Maybe I should have drunk more last night.’ She raised her voice slightly in defiance. Two aisles down, she heard someone clearing his throat.
‘Sorry,’ she called softly, absurdly reassured that someone else was down here on Level A with her. And with that she went to work.
She started with the basics, first. ‘The Polite Lady, yes,
that’s good.’ She pulled the book from the shelf, marveling that a work that had first been printed in 1760 should be so accessible. Here, in her hands, was one of the definitive guides for behavior for the latter half of the eighteenth century. She pictured tea being poured, as well-trained servants looked on. But there was so much more, even then. Letters on Female Education, yes, she thought, that was another important book. For women were reading, women were writing; and even such ‘improving’ books would hold hints of that wider world of newspapers and novels and intellectual turmoil. Dulcie knew what she was looking for. Here she’d find the foundation for her thesis; the proof that, yes, the author of The Ravages of Umbria would be just as aware of what was expected, and what was silly, as any contemporary author. In here – she pulled another book, Letters on the Improvement of the Mind – Dulcie would find the model for Demetria, a simpering, two-faced traitor. Once she understood who the character was, why she turned on her friend would follow.
Arms loaded, Dulcie retreated to the aisle’s end. Around the corner, she could see an empty carrel. She deposited her books, put her feet up, and began to read. Time slipped away. ‘Critics and snobs, all of them,’ she found herself muttering more than once. Who cared if the author of A Sicilian Romance had ever actually been to Sicily? Had Defoe ever been shipwrecked? Just because The Ravages was set in a fictional Umbria didn’t mean the author wasn’t smart. Maybe the mountains were a dramatic device.
A light went on nearby. The owner of the cleared throat, she figured. Soft footsteps faded and in a moment the light turned off. Where was she? Ah, the struggle between the rational ‘Augustans’ and the emotional ‘Romanticists’. Well, that was what they were called once men got involved. Historically, she was getting ahead of herself. Gingerly – her right foot had fallen asleep – Dulcie pulled herself up. How long had she been sitting? Too long, she realized, as she managed to straighten out both legs and hobble back to where she’d originally pulled the book. No, she would have to go back earlier. The card at the edge of the stack said ‘1805–1845’. Humming softly, she crossed over to the earlier rack and then, for good measure, the one before. With a slight buzz, a light came on: 1745–1780. Yes, that would do.
‘Wow!’ Dulcie pulled a bound volume off the shelf: The Public Ledger, 1761–62. How often would she be reminded of what a treasure trove this library was? Somewhere, a few stacks away, a lighter footstep passed by, making Dulcie smile. At least she wasn’t the only one worshipping here on a Sunday morning. She reached up for one more volume – just above her reach. The Leedes Intelligencer. Nope, not quite. Looking around for a stepstool, Dulcie saw that the neighboring aisles had gone dark. No stool, no bystanders. ‘May Toth, the god of libraries, forgive me,’ she whispered, putting her toes on the first level of bound volumes and hoisting herself up. Her fingers almost reached over the top. If she could move the leather-bound volume out just a fraction of an inch . . . ‘There, I’ve—’
Dulcie jumped back just in time as the thick crimson tome fell to the floor with a thud. ‘Sorry!’ Her stage whisper wasn’t answered, even by a cough, but Dulcie thought she heard footsteps hasten off. Ah, well, so she’d disturbed another denizen of the depths.
The book itself, once she’d retrieved it, seemed unharmed, although Dulcie could imagine the scolding Mona would give her if she knew. ‘Well, she won’t,’ Dulcie said to herself as she carried the two books, each containing a year’s worth of daily newspapers, back to her carrel.
There she stopped abruptly, surprised. ‘What the hell?’ Dulcie spoke at full volume. Nothing here made sense. The books that she’d neatly piled were pushed back, her pad was on the floor, and her bag had been opened and emptied. One pen was still rolling, until it came to rest by Dulcie’s foot. ‘What is going on here?’ If someone had been looking for her wallet, he’d be disappointed. After paying for her muffin, Dulcie had tucked it into the back pocket of her jeans. But who had done this? Only another student would be this deep in the stacks. Maybe it had been an accident. Someone had stumbled. Maybe someone really needed a pencil.
She sighed and bent to gather her pens. There’d been no harm done, but the disruption was disturbing. For a moment, she thought of Lucy’s dream. No, having her stuff messed up was bad enough. Nothing really dangerous could happen down here. Not with all the security up at the entrance. She straightened and dropped the pens in her bag – only to watch them fall down to the floor again. Opening her bag, Dulcie looked inside. This hadn’t been a random bag toss: someone had sliced through the bottom of her messenger bag, and whatever had cut through the canvas had been sharp.
‘Oh, this is crazy.’ Dulcie’s own voice sounded loud in her ears. Why would someone do this? She looked around. Although the day had begun sunny and hot, down here the only light came from the soft glow of the overhead fixture. Even the nearby stacks had gone dark.
She’d have to tell security, that was all there was to it. Sure, they’d think she was nuts, but someone else might not be so lucky. Someone else might leave a wallet in a bag or a jacket pocket. Dulcie vaguely recalled a news item about book thefts. No, the rare texts – and the vast majority of standard ones – were now microchipped to prevent them from walking out. It was personal property that was at risk.
So much for the day’s work. She gathered up her pad and pens, sticking them in the undamaged outside pocket of her bag. The books she gathered up in her arms. She had too many to carry; she’d reshelve the bound volumes but the rest were coming with her. Air-conditioning or not, she’d get some work done today.
But after that invasion, that attack on her property, Dulcie no longer wanted to leave anything out of sight. Slinging the bag over her shoulder, she hefted all the books. Where were the newspapers from again? Yes, three over, down by the end. Putting the three volumes she wanted to check out on the floor, she found the slight space where The Public Ledger had rested and slid it back in. Up there, just above her head, the slot for The Leedes Intelligencer made a guilty gap.
Dulcie sighed, suddenly tired. But reshelving by staff could take days. Among the grad students, library etiquette mandated a different response. If you weren’t using it, and if you had the sense to put it back properly, you ought to.
Dulcie looked around. No lights betrayed the presence of any other person, and so, as quietly as she could, she slipped off her flip-flops, climbed on to the edge of the lower shelf, and managed to lift the bound volume up to the top shelf. ‘There!’ She couldn’t resist a triumphant whisper. With a gentle push, the book slid into place.
And then she heard it. Not quite an echo, but something. She froze, listening. Had she somehow pushed a book out, on the other side? No, the metal frame of the shelves kept each section secure. So, what . . .? Dulcie turned. Yes, it was a footstep. Someone was walking slowly down the aisles.
It was probably someone reading the cards, looking for a specific date. Dulcie kept her thoughts quiet, as she stepped down. But as she picked up her books from the floor, she grabbed her flip-flops, too. She couldn’t have said why she preferred to be barefoot just then, but she did – and began to creep toward the entrance.
The footsteps followed. In the quiet of the library, Dulcie couldn’t tell if they were one aisle over, or two, or even more. All she knew was that after each of her own steps, she heard another.
This was crazy. Why was she being so quiet? The overhead light announced her presence like a beacon. These were normal library hours. She had every right to be here. Of course, other people were here, too. She stood up straight. ‘Hello?’ Even her stage whisper sounded loud. There was no answer. Even the footsteps had stopped. ‘Hello?’ She raised her voice, trying to hold it steady.
Nothing. Maybe she’d been hearing things. Maybe whoever it was had simply been looking for a book and had left. Maybe . . . She took two quick steps. Three soft footsteps followed after.
Maybe it was one of her friends, playing a game. But if this were a game, it was an awfully mean one. Plus, whoev
er had cut her bag had a weapon: a knife or razor, something sharp enough to slice through canvas. Dulcie looked around. There were no windows, of course, not this far down. Though, if she could get to the elevator or even the end of this row of stacks she had a vague memory of something – an alarm, an intercom, a way out.
She bolted, her bare feet slapping against the metal floor. As she ran, lights sprang on overhead. But she was almost at the elevator. She was almost—
A cart, loaded with books, flew in front of her, banging into the wall with a thud. Dulcie froze, her path temporarily blocked. The stacks grew quiet again and she inched forward. The cart was still, the aisle behind it empty. She could move it, roll it out of her way. But who had pushed it there, and why?
The cart was a message. Somebody knew where she stood; somebody didn’t want her to leave. This wasn’t random, the snatch and grab of an unwatched wallet. This was personal. Down here, in the bowels of Widener, she’d felt safe from attack, from strangers, from rape. Unless it wasn’t a stranger. Unbidden, an image of her broken window sprang into Dulcie’s mind. Maybe whoever it was hadn’t found what he wanted on her laptop. Hadn’t gotten whatever it was from Tim.
The footsteps were quiet, but still there. Someone was moving slowly and very, very carefully, but Dulcie heard him. At the far end of the tall shelf of books, someone was moving to box her in. Someone had shoved the cart, letting her know that she couldn’t go in that direction, and now that someone was walking up to the edge of her aisle.
She looked up the row of books, the metal shelving lit by the soft overhead glow. Whoever it was out there knew she was here. But if she moved very slowly back, she could put another stack between herself and it – him. She could maybe back out, work around to the other elevator, or a fire alarm, and be free. Dulcie looked around for the familiar red boxes. That rumor about the fire suppression system couldn’t be true, could it? Not that it mattered; there were none in sight.
