by Clea Simon
Or maybe, she realized, as she walked through the brick gate that marked the campus boundary, it was because she finally had a clear vision of her future. Despite Fenderby’s criticism, neither she nor Thorpe had any intention of delaying her thesis. As per university policy, she had filed all the necessary paperwork. All she had to do now was finish the actual writing. And no interloper, no matter how curmudgeonly, was going to stop her.
If all went well, she decided as she trotted up the stone steps of the library, she would put Fenderby’s ridiculous complaint to rest this very day. So he didn’t think her research had validity. She’d incorporate a few more citations, noting the specific documents she had already combed over so carefully. Rather than cut anything out, she would add references – quotes, even – until not even the fussiest of critics could question her conclusions. All she had to do was go over the original material again. And that would be a pleasure.
‘Good morning, Will.’ Dulcie had been waiting in line to check in when the white-haired guard had waved her over.
‘Morning, Miss.’ He held the access gate open, and with a twinge of guilt – she was clearly not disabled – Dulcie passed through. Such courtesies came with being a recognized regular at the library, and today of all days she was grateful for the privilege. Without looking back at the undergrads still queued up, she sprinted through the library’s palatial lobby. All during the elevator ride down to the library’s lowest level, she fidgeted, eager to get to work. But once she stood at the entrance of the Mildon Collection, the exclusive library-within-a-library where so many rare treasures were housed, she forced herself to calm down.
‘Good morning, Mr Griddlehaus,’ she paused to take a breath. ‘And how are you this morning?’ Thomas Griddlehaus, the director of the collection, was both a dear friend and a bit old-fashioned. Although she had come to know something of his own wild history, Dulcie automatically reverted to a slightly formal – or, rather, courtly – behavior around him. Much, she reasoned, as one would with any other small, sensitive underground creature with whom one had developed a trusting but respectful relationship.
‘Well, I’m – I’m well, Ms Schwartz.’ With a brief nod, the librarian ducked out of sight only to emerge with a ledger, which he placed, open, on the counter. ‘I hope you’ve been enjoying this brilliant weather.’
‘I have.’ Dulcie signed in with a flourish and then scanned the previous entries, mostly the chicken scratch of people more used to keyboards than pens. They were scarce and did not include her student Alyson. They also, she noticed, were all dated from the week prior. ‘Are you only opening now?’
‘I was – we were – delayed.’ Griddlehaus looked down. Not to check her signature, Dulcie was sure, but embarrassed, perhaps because of the unusual admission. The Mildon always opened right after the main library was unlocked, at ten.
‘Is everything all right?’ Her voice fell to a near whisper. ‘Is your health …’ Griddlehaus was decades her senior, but not, she would have thought, likely to fall victim to the predations of age. Still, her recent discussion of Fenderby had made her conscious of health and aging. If anything were to happen to the gentle man …
‘No, no, please.’ He looked up, blinking, his delicate white hands raised in protest at the idea. ‘I am quite well, thank you. No, it was a bureaucratic matter that delayed me. Had you come by earlier?’
‘No, I was – I had a meeting with Thorpe.’ Dulcie felt a wave of relief. Relief, followed by anxiety. Having already lost at least an hour, she was ready to get to work. ‘May I?’
‘Oh, of course.’ The librarian stepped aside, and Dulcie marched past him – only wavering when she came to the spare white reading area. There, most scholars would take a seat at the empty table, donning gloves from the box in the table’s center and waiting for Griddlehaus or one of his few employees to fetch the books, manuscripts, or other documents that they had requested. But Dulcie had become such a regular and faithful scholar that recently she had become accustomed to proceeding into the storage area itself. Still, it was irregular and so she waited.
‘May I?’ she decided to ask, turning back toward her mousy friend. ‘I need Box 978 again, I’m afraid.’
She smiled at her own request. Only last week, she had told Griddlehaus that she was done with this particular set of documents – fragments, really, kept in protective covering. As much as she loved re-reading the story they told, a thrilling Gothic adventure that had been lost to time, and as important as she felt the text to be – its depiction of relations between the sexes was really quite revolutionary – she had, she’d thought, moved on. With Griddlehaus’s help, she had pieced together as much of the lost novel as she could. And while she hoped in the future to find more of the forgotten work – and maybe even finish its story – Dulcie had put it aside, focusing instead on the complex job of formatting her footnotes and tidying up her writing in order to submit this chapter to the scholarly journal.
But Griddlehaus didn’t smile back. In fact, his wide eyes – unnaturally large behind his oversized glasses – blinked rapidly, as if holding back tears.
‘Mr Griddlehaus!’ Dulcie’s voice rose in alarm, decorum forgotten. ‘What is it?’ She kicked herself. She had known something was bothering her friend, only she’d been too caught up in her own concerns to follow up. ‘Please, sit. Tell me.’
He let himself be maneuvered over to the table, where he perched on the edge of one of the white chairs. Dulcie did the same, anxiety mounting as she waited.
‘I had thought you were finished.’ He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at his eyes. ‘I was so hoping that it, well … that it might not have come up then.’
‘What might not have come up?’ Dulcie fought to keep her voice even.
A sigh bigger than the man himself, and Griddlehaus slumped into his seat.
‘Mr Griddlehaus?’ She couldn’t keep the worry from her voice.
‘I’m sorry, Dulcie.’ He blinked up at her, and she felt herself go cold. The librarian never used her first name. ‘I had no choice. I hope you understand. Professor Fenderby is a tenured professor and sits on the Mildon’s advisory committee.’
‘I didn’t know that,’ Dulcie whispered. Her mouth had gone dry.
‘He’s very rarely active, because of his, well, his issues.’ Griddlehaus put the handkerchief away. The ability to clarify – even if vaguely – seemed to soothe him. ‘However, when he summoned me and told me that Box 978 was to be sequestered, well, I had no choice.’
‘Sequestered?’ Box 978 was the acid-free container where the manuscript fragments were stored. It was the librarian’s choice of verb that was confusing Dulcie. ‘But why?’
Another sigh, not quite as big. ‘He said the work was too important to be handled lightly. That it should be reserved for serious scholars only, under his jurisdiction. He was quite upset about it being in circulation. I told him that other scholars were using it. That it was central to your dissertation. And – I’m sorry, Dulcie – I’m afraid he implied … he called you a dilettante.’
Griddlehaus had not wanted her to leave. He’d begged her to stay, in fact, reminding her of all the other pages in the collection. ‘Please, Ms Schwartz, I’m sure this will pass,’ he’d said. ‘Let me get you Box 803. You haven’t gone through half of those pages yet.’
‘No, I haven’t,’ she had agreed, her mind still reeling. ‘But I’ve read enough to know that they aren’t important. As important,’ she added, sensitive to the gentle librarian’s feelings. ‘It’s those manuscript pages I needed to see. Fenderby was the one who called my scholarship into question.’
None of it was making any sense.
‘Surely, you have sufficient documentation?’ Once he’d unburdened himself, Griddlehaus had recovered and now stood, worrying over Dulcie. ‘You’ve been taking such excellent notes.’
‘I guess.’ She shook her head, confused. ‘I don’t have much more of the recovered text in my notes, but I co
uld reference the box and envelope numbers. Only …’ It was baffling. ‘Why would he pull my material, especially when he said I hadn’t done enough work?’
‘Maybe he wants you to focus on something else?’ Her friend suggested, his voice tentative. ‘And he believes that he’s doing you a service?’
That was when she’d realized she had to talk to Fenderby. Clearly, there had been some confusion. He was on her committee: he had to want her to succeed. If she could only explain to him why those pages were so important.
‘Please, Ms Schwartz,’ Griddlehaus had protested when she had made her intent known. ‘I think you may be too upset right now.’ Griddlehaus wouldn’t lay hands on her, but he had stood before her, as if to physically block her.
‘I am upset.’ Dulcie couldn’t deny that. ‘But I need to clear this up.’
He hadn’t been able to argue with that. He had even allowed her to use her phone to call Fenderby, against all library policy. When she had listened to his voicemail for a second time – he wouldn’t have office hours till later that day – she had made her decision.
‘I’m going to his house,’ she said. ‘He lives in one of those new townhouses just outside the Square.’
That was when Griddlehaus had really protested. ‘Ms Schwartz, please,’ he’d said. ‘Intruding on an academic’s private life …’
‘What do you think he’s done to me?’ Dulcie’s nerves were frayed. ‘Besides, I think he wants me to beg. I bet this was his plan all along.’
‘Oh, dear.’ Griddlehaus blinked and bit his lip as she retrieved her bag and turned to go. ‘Please, Ms Schwartz,’ he said. ‘Oh, dear.’
FOUR
The Storm wail’d with unremitting Fury, tossing the poor Barque upon the Waves till she no longer knew Sea from Sky. Indeed, all seemed in Darkness as the Wind howl’d unabated. ’Twas all she could do to keep the Candle lit against the Night, and by its sputtering and guttered Light she penned what well could be her Final … her Final …
‘Bother!’ Dulcie sputtered as she stormed across the Yard, ignoring both the early blossoms and the startled expressions of those she passed in her fury. ‘Her final who cares?’ The words burst out of her, releasing, as they did, the forgotten word. ‘Final Passage, indeed.’
Some of her anger was at herself. Although Dulcie could nearly recite by heart the content of those last pages – most of them, anyway – she knew that wouldn’t suffice. The pages, which told of the heroine’s ‘storm-toss’d’ voyage from England to America, had filled in a vital early part of the novel. They had also, she suspected, echoed the author’s own travels and travails, fleeing a restrictive, if not abusive, relationship in search of autonomy. And while Dulcie had referred to the pages in her latest chapter for their metaphorical content – it was patently clear that the author was using her heroine’s voyage to illustrate the movement of literary and political freedom from the Old World to the New – she had neglected to copy the text out fully.
She hadn’t thought more detailed citations would be necessary. The chapter had been ready to send off, until Fenderby had put his two cents in. But even if she could work around his criticism, Dulcie had private reasons for wanting further access to this part of the manuscript. A secret suspicion that she barely dared articulate to herself about the anonymous author – a dream that she had been afraid to examine too closely, lest it dissipate. Which, she acknowledged, was one reason she was so angry not only with the annoying professor but with herself.
‘That doesn’t make what he did right!’ The words burst from her mouth, scaring a squirrel, who dashed up a tree, and two undergrads, who looked as though they might like to follow. ‘Bother!’
‘Now, now.’
Dulcie stopped short. That voice – calm and warm – had apparently come from right behind her, a gentle murmur in her ear. She knew better than to turn, however, and simply froze in place.
‘Only kittens rush about so heedlessly, Dulcie.’ The voice was accompanied by a velvety touch, as if a furry face was nuzzling against her ear, softening the reprimand. ‘Unconcerned with the connection …’
The voice faded as a boisterous trio walked by lugging instrument cases. The cases outlined trombone, a trumpet, and – strikingly – a tuba. A brass band, Dulcie thought. The kind of music a cat would most certainly avoid.
‘Mr Grey?’ She kept her own voice low. She didn’t see a cat, and certainly the average cat wouldn’t talk. But there was something about that voice …
‘Between predator.’ The voice picked up where it had left off. ‘And prey,’ he said, as Dulcie got a sharp image of a cat – a long-haired grey – waiting by a crack for a mouse to appear. A mouse, Dulcie was suddenly aware, that might be quivering with fear behind that baseboard.
‘Only kittens.’
With that, the voice fell silent. The visitation had ended. Although Dulcie couldn’t have explained how exactly she knew that he had left, she felt her shoulders slump. Mr Grey – the spirit of her late, great pet – still came to her, especially when she was in trouble. But he seemed to manifest less often in recent months, as if his visits were winding up along with her studies. And although his presence was comforting – more comforting, she had to admit, than her boyfriend’s latest call – his advice was, as usual, enigmatic and not immediately useful. Instead of providing solace along with the soft brush of his whiskers, in the time-honored feline manner, it was almost as if he had become another of her proctors, trying to teach her. Prepare her for being on her own … No, she couldn’t think of that.
Besides, it wasn’t as if he was telling her anything new. Yes, she had gotten upset, but she understood about working for the long haul. She hadn’t done five years of thesis research hoping for a quick reward. And surely the wise grey spirit she remembered so fondly would want her to try to right the wrong done to her. To correct – she amended her own thoughts – a situation that had become misinterpreted. Surely even the placid feline philosopher wouldn’t expect her to sit back and take this. If, as she feared, Mr Grey was fading from her life, surely it was because he trusted her to handle her own affairs. Wasn’t it?
A skittering sound made her turn, thoughts of that frightened rodent fresh in her mind. But it was only that squirrel, once again attempting his descent from a nearby oak. He froze as Dulcie craned toward him, and for a moment their eyes locked.
‘It’s OK.’ Dulcie said, hoping her tone if not her words would reassure the nervous creature. ‘I’m not a predator. Not a cat, anyway.’ She smiled at the idea, the rule of three echoing through her consciousness. Maybe there was something to her mother’s ethos after all. First, do no harm. Or, at any rate, focus on your own work. And with that, Dulcie realized, she needed to continue with her errand. If the feline spirit intended her to do otherwise, he should have made his intentions a little less opaque.
While she was mulling this over, she had reached her destination and took a moment to look around. To a newcomer, the townhouses might have looked like they fit in. Grey clapboard, like the departmental headquarters, with neat trimming picked out in glossy black, the three-story buildings resembled classic triple-deckers. They even sported bay windows opening on to their pocket-sized front yards, as if someone had heard about Cambridgeport and tried to reproduce it with a more modern design. Maybe it was this quaint perfection – the granite steps leading up to each stoop, the shiny fixings on the shutters – that made them stand out. Maybe it was simply that Dulcie had lived here long enough to remember the rundown buildings where classmates could afford to rent, which the new development had replaced. But that kind of thinking was antithetical to the live-and-let-live philosophy Dulcie had espoused only moments before, and so, conjuring up the image of her mother – and, more importantly, of the great grey cat she still loved – Dulcie filed that thought away and approached the building.
‘Fenderby/Wrigley.’ Dulcie found the buzzer minutes later. Although the spiffy end unit had the right number, she had hesitated until
she had seen the discreet label, the names inscribed in an understated script. A riotous garden – with daffodils already budding, lilies of the valley beginning to unfurl, and some kind of creeper making its way up the trellis – hadn’t seemed quite right for the home of the sickly professor. Her resolve had been shaken slightly by Mr Grey’s visitation. Was she the kitten or maybe, she wondered, the mouse? Now she wavered a bit more.
Fenderby as a singular burden – a smarmy authority figure who was throwing his considerable weight around – she was ready to face. Fenderby as a part of a couple … that was a different matter. Dulcie had forgotten that the balding academic had a spouse – wife or girlfriend, she wasn’t sure. She had to be responsible for the garden, but unlike most of the faculty, he never seemed to refer to her, or to bring her around to any of the sherries or other parties designed to bond the department.
‘Probably doesn’t want us to see him as human.’ Dulcie worked up her nerve. ‘Probably thinks we’re too far beneath him.’
She rang the bell, hoping to get the professor himself and not anyone who might humanize him.
‘Hello?’ The query that emerged from a small speaker – female, hesitant – dashed that hope. It also reminded Dulcie that she had indeed met Fenderby’s significant other.
‘Mrs Wrigley?’ A girlish name popped into Dulcie’s mind, along with a memory of a faded woman of indeterminate age dressed in some kind of outdated paisley outfit. It had been the Harvest Moon festival, an annual party that had morphed from a post-mid-term break into one of the grander events of the fall semester. Patty or Peri or, no, Polly – yes, that was it – Polly Wrigley Fenderby had seemed quite taken with the theme, going on about her own undergraduate days. ‘Polly Wrigley?’
