Into the Grey

by Clea Simon

  ‘Fenderby,’ the voice corrected her, and Dulcie rushed to explain.

  ‘I’m sorry. We’ve met,’ she said. ‘This is Dulcie Schwartz. I’m looking for Professor Fenderby.’ She paused. Silence. ‘Is he here?’

  Another pause, and then the building’s door buzzed. Dulcie grabbed at it. Either Polly Fenderby had gone to get her mate, or she had misunderstood. Either way, Dulcie was beginning to regret ever coming to the academic’s home.

  ‘Hello?’ Dulcie called up the stairs. The building retained the tall, narrow outlines of the triple-decker it had replaced, and she stood now in a small foyer. ‘Anyone there?’

  In for a penny, in for a pound. She climbed to the first landing. There, at the end of the hall, a door stood slightly ajar. ‘Hello?’ Dulcie rapped softly as she called. ‘It’s Dulcie.’

  ‘Come in.’ The voice didn’t sound much more animated than it had through the intercom. If anything, it was flatter and, despite the words, not very welcoming. Still, she’d come this far. Dulcie pushed the door open and stepped inside.

  ‘Hello?’ Dulcie looked around to see a woman, standing back from the door as if waiting for Dulcie to make the first move. Any doubt Dulcie might have had about who had let her in was dispelled – this was the woman who had accompanied Fenderby to that party, and even on this gorgeous spring day, she was as drab as Dulcie remembered. Her hair, a reddish brown dulled with grey, was pulled back into a ponytail, the paisley skirt replaced by orange corduroy overalls that only emphasized how much the woman wearing them had faded. But clearly they hadn’t been worn for fashion, clashing oddly as they did with the green thermal top she had on underneath. It was a leafy hue picked up by the stains on her knees, as well as the gloves she was holding. Polly Fenderby was responsible for the garden out front. And likely one out back, thought Dulcie, which would explain not only her appearance but also the delay at the door.

  ‘I’m sorry to have disturbed you.’ Dulcie looked around the landing. Sure enough, it seemed to be given over to horticulture, with packages of seeds and a small spade lying on a low cabinet. Several young daffodils – they looked small, anyway – lay on a sheet of newspaper. ‘Were you planting?’

  ‘These are trash.’ The woman rolled up the paper, crushing the young sprouts. ‘Invasive species.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry.’ Dulcie didn’t understand the animosity in the woman’s tone. Then again, she wasn’t a gardener. ‘It looks like you’ve got quite a green thumb.’

  ‘It’s a serious interest, you know.’ With her arms crossed over the overalls bib, the faded, dirty woman looked like a stunted flower herself, leaves folding in on themselves. Or, perhaps, she was an unhappy plant, recoiling from the first blush of spring. It should have been an amusing image, the colors playfully bright. But as Dulcie stood there, the woman’s scowl deepened, furrowing her brows.

  ‘Of course.’ Dulcie’s reply was reflexive, as if she’d disturbed the cat. Maybe it was the brows, but she almost expected a hiss. At any rate, she decided that any further pleasantries would be useless. ‘I was looking for Professor Fenderby?’

  ‘I heard you.’ The same flat voice. ‘You’re his student, the one working in the Mildon.’

  ‘I am.’ It wasn’t a question, but Dulcie felt compelled to respond. At least the woman wasn’t hissing at her. ‘I was hoping to speak with him?’

  ‘He’s not here.’ The intent was the same. ‘He’s probably in his office.’

  ‘You could have said that when I rang.’ Dulcie was confused. She took a step back, reaching behind her for the door. ‘I’m sorry to have bothered you.’

  ‘You didn’t bother me,’ said the woman. ‘I’m glad you came by, no matter what your excuse.’

  ‘My excuse?’ Dulcie took another step back. She was beginning to be frightened.

  ‘Yes, your excuse. But I’m grateful,’ the woman continued. ‘You see, I wanted to see you for myself. Like you wanted to see his home. See what you have been trying to destroy.’

  FIVE

  Dulcie tried to respond. She opened her mouth. Attempted to form words. But nothing came and so it was with another series of confused apologies – ‘I’m sorry, really. I shouldn’t have come’ – that she retreated out the door and flew down the steps. It wasn’t until she was halfway back to the Yard that she stopped running. When the events of the day hit her, she felt suddenly overwhelmingly exhausted.

  ‘Mr Grey?’ She looked up at a sky that was still the same deep blue as it had been an hour before and at trees with the same hopeful green buds. ‘Can you explain – any of this?’

  A half block up, a new coffee shop had put benches out front in anticipation of the milder weather, and Dulcie made her way over to collapse in the nearest one. ‘Is this what you were warning me about?’

  There was no response, forcing Dulcie to draw her own conclusions. The woman had to be ill, she decided. That was the only explanation. And Dulcie had disturbed her at home, obviously aggravating a pre-existing condition. No wonder Professor Fenderby didn’t take her around much – and Mr Grey had cautioned her. If only she had listened. Instead, she’d gone off like, well, like Esmé. The tuxedo cat might no longer technically be a kitten, but the way she careened around the apartment she shared with her two humans was as heedless and energetic. And, to be honest, often as destructive. No wonder Mr Grey had tried to stop her. She should have heeded his advice.

  Well, she was being still now. And as thoughtful as her older pet might wish. In fact, sitting here, on this beautiful day, Dulcie even found her anger with the professor subsiding. It was a misunderstanding; that was all. Fenderby had clearly talked about her work, and his wife had misinterpreted his concern as something more serious. He probably thought he was doing Dulcie a favor by removing a temptation to stray further from her original topic. Maybe this was something he had gotten accustomed to doing because his own wife was unbalanced. And maybe his temper or his manners weren’t what they should be because of his living situation. For all she knew, stress could be behind the professor’s ongoing health problems, too.

  Dulcie’s own family was far from balanced. Her mother, despite her Philadelphia Main Line upbringing, had declared herself a free spirit – moving herself and her only daughter through various alternative living situations before settling in the commune where Dulcie spent the latter half of her childhood. That commune, to which Lucy – as Dulcie called her, once her custodial parent rejected the ‘patriarchal authority of the parental institution’ – had moved them both when Dulcie was eight, hadn’t been a bad place to grow up. Dulcie loved the quiet of the woods, and there was a library close enough for her to indulge her other passion. But its offbeat inhabitants had also encouraged Lucy to believe in her so-called psychic powers with occasionally disastrous results.

  At least Lucy had been there, Dulcie recalled. Her father had taken off years before in the search for some ineffable sense of self. He did write occasionally, but Dulcie had no idea if her own letters back – addressed to post restante – ever arrived at his yurt in northern India. No, Dulcie understood unconventional families. And she could cut Fenderby some slack, if only he restored her privileges at the Mildon.

  They simply needed to talk.

  ‘Is that what you meant, Mr Grey?’ Even as she voiced the question, Dulcie felt confident of the answer. Even in the beginning, soon after his mortal death when his appearances were more than a comfort – they were a veritable life saver – her feline protector had never answered her in obvious ways. In fact, the oblique nature of his communications had on occasion made her doubt she was hearing her beloved pet at all.

  After all, during his lifetime, Mr Grey had not spoken with her. Not, that is, beyond the usual mews and gestures of tail and ears by which any feline makes himself understood. But over the past two years since his death – what Lucy would call his departure from this plane – Dulcie believed she was beginning to understand the complex nature of her spectral visitor. He had first appeared
to her nearly two years ago, when she was sharing a summer sublet with a particularly obnoxious roommate. He’d been gone for several months by then, not that she’d stopped missing him. And when he had appeared on her stoop one evening, she’d been surprised – but pleasantly so. She’d recognized him right away: those tufted ears, the proud, wideset whiskers that shone against his pearl-grey fur. He had appeared to warn her – ‘Don’t go inside, Dulcie’ – the voice she now associated with him had come through clearly, but in her delight and surprise, she had ignored his warning, to her dismay.

  These days, he continued to guide her, often with a caution about future events that he seemed to have some knowledge of. His warnings were rarely as clear as that first one, however, and were often as cryptic as one would expect a cat to be. In addition, he never manifested to more than one sense at a time. For example, if she heard his voice – the low, warm rumble that reminded her so much of his purr – she couldn’t see him, and to seek his sleek grey form would end the conversation. If she felt his presence, as when he’d jump on to the bed late at night and begin the rhythmic kneading she remembered so well, she couldn’t talk to him. And if she asked him a direct question, well, she was usually disappointed.

  Even as her words faded into the balmy air, Dulcie felt herself relaxing. She certainly still treasured Mr Grey’s company. However, she took it as a vote of confidence that maybe she no longer needed him quite so much to steer her path through life. Like Esmé, the young cat who now shared her and Chris’s apartment, Dulcie was growing up.

  ‘That doesn’t mean I don’t want you around,’ she was quick to say, as a sharp-eyed sparrow tilted his head toward her. Mr Grey, she was convinced, sometimes used other animals as his emissaries, and that bird had a quizzical look. ‘Or are you just hoping I have some crumbs?’ She craned around. The coffee house was known for its scones, and it was hitting her now that she hadn’t had breakfast. With all the turmoil of the morning, she hadn’t felt hungry. Now the combination of caffeine and roiling emotions was making itself felt.

  ‘Hang on, little fellow.’ It was the work of a moment to purchase a snack – the iced lemon scone the last of the morning’s leavings, except for a tired-looking focaccia that appeared to have been chewed. Dulcie had bagged the scone herself and left two dollars on the counter. Tipping was unnecessary, she decided, if the barrista didn’t even look up from her phone. Two minutes later, and Dulcie was on the bench again, crumbling a corner of the scone for the little bird and several of his colleagues, who seemed to take such offerings as their due.

  ‘So you agree, don’t you?’ Dulcie ate the rest herself, licking the sweet-tart icing from her fingertips. ‘I should just assume Fenderby meant well. He’s clearly under pressure at home. And that’s all added up to what must be a misunderstanding.’

  Now that she’d eaten, Dulcie felt a ton better. But she still had to do something about the situation at the Mildon. If she didn’t, then she would have to cut most of that last chapter. And while she certainly had enough material already written so that her dissertation wouldn’t be lacking, this last bit hit the note she wanted. Not a summary, as might be usual, but a way of looking forward – an appraisal of where the author had gone after The Ravages of Umbria. Besides, with its particular focus on the political writings of an author most distinguished for her fiction, it would be perfect for the article she had planned. Studies in Pre-Modern Fiction adored interstitial analyses, and Dulcie had to admit that at times she could be a bit, well, not limited, but perhaps overly disciplined in her thinking.

  ‘Maybe that’s it.’ Dulcie sat up, scattering the remainder of the scone to the happy flock. ‘Maybe Fenderby doesn’t understand cross-genre research.’ She didn’t like to think of the university as that hidebound, but it was always a possibility. And so with that thought in mind, Dulcie tossed the bag and headed back toward campus. Fenderby’s office hours didn’t start for another thirty minutes yet. But she’d be there the moment he opened his door, ready to make her case.

  With a bounce in her step, Dulcie made her way back to the library. Maybe, she mused, she could clear this up and go right back to work. Fenderby’s office, after all, was only two levels up from the Mildon. She’d passed it before, his name made out in gold letters on the frosted window of an actual door, so much more private than the carrels assigned to graduate students. Rumor had it, Fenderby even had a window, although on Lower Two, that probably meant a ceiling-high slit just big enough to let in the noise of passers-by.

  No matter. With a cheery greeting to the security guard and a wave of her ID, Dulcie was once again waiting for the elevator, and then bounding through the stacks, the tall metal shelves filled with books. Only her respect for her surroundings kept her from breaking into song. Not that anyone seemed to be studying. The carrels she passed were empty. The overhead lights – set to be motion sensitive to conserve energy – only flipped on as she passed. And, over by Fenderby’s office, a cart, loaded with books to be re-filed, sat, abandoned and ignored. A day as fine as this one was not likely to draw many into the depths.

  ‘Professor Fenderby?’ The door, with its marbled glass, was closed when Dulcie approached, but it wasn’t latched and, instead, stood slightly ajar. Dulcie leaned in, putting her face close to the slim opening. ‘Are you in yet?’

  No response. An index card, tacked rather indecorously to the door frame, indicated that, in fact, the professor’s office hours would not begin until noon. Dulcie had, of course, turned her phone off before entering the library, but now she powered it up. Twenty to. She turned it back off with a sigh. Twenty minutes. No wonder Fenderby wasn’t answering. Most likely, he was reading or desperately trying to finish up some project of his own before he had to deal with students.

  Dulcie knew well enough how time-consuming teaching could be, and how it distracted one from research. This semester, she had managed to shed all but two sections, one for English 10 and one a seminar, and mentoring duties for all but two students, and only one – the lovely Alyson – was working on a thesis, if in a somewhat desultory manner, which made her an easy, if uninspiring, charge. Still, between grading mid-terms and weekly meetings, Dulcie had found her days eaten up, her nights consumed with papers that were not her own. Out of respect, she wouldn’t do the same to a fellow academic, no matter how he had treated her.

  Ten minutes passed. Dulcie was sitting on the floor by then, her back against the wall. It would have helped if Fenderby’s office were in a part of the library where she could do some work. Before slumping to the floor, she had tried to find something to read, pulling a journal on mid-century semiotics and then another on chaos theory as applied to linguistics from the cart. Neither held her interest. Neither, she realized, even belonged in this section, with its focus on nineteenth-century politics. As well trained as she was, Dulcie resisted the urge to reshelve the two volumes. Books got lost that way, hopelessly misfiled through the best intentions. And so she had returned both to the cart, leaving them as evidence of her failed – she wouldn’t use the word ‘dilettantish’ – browsing. The clerk returning them wouldn’t know how quickly they had been discarded.

  Ten of. Dulcie was tempted to duck out, just for those remaining minutes. One floor down was her carrel, as well as the books that she had made her own over the last five years. The Ravages of Umbria, the fragments of it that had survived, could be found there in several editions. Although parts of it were lost to time, Dulcie still found the Gothic tale of a smart and resourceful young woman thrilling. In fact, the adventures of Hermetria, as the protagonist was named, often inspired Dulcie. Unlike Hermetria, Dulcie never had to deal with a mad monk or an unfaithful attendant. But she had her own struggles. Add in that one of Dulcie’s more recent discoveries, pages she believed came from a lost, later novel by the same author, introduced a mysterious stranger dressed in grey, and Dulcie found even more reason to relate to the work. Even re-reading the best-known fragments gave her ideas sometimes. At the very least,
they gave her pleasure.

  But she shouldn’t leave. Dulcie knew too well what office hours could be like. The way her luck was running, she’d step away only to come back to a line of anxious undergrads, all holding some form or an unfinished paper that needed saving. No, she’d wait.

  Still, that door wasn’t closed. With a deep breath, Dulcie resolved to act. Standing, she knocked gently on the glass, careful not to touch even the black outlines of the gilt letters.

  ‘Professor Fenderby?’ she called again. Surely, at five of noon, he could at least acknowledge her.

  Nothing, not even a rustle to betray a presence inside, and another thought hit her. Maybe, after all, the professor wasn’t here. Maybe he was out having lunch, or working in another part of the library. In which case, maybe he didn’t know his door was open. Over spring break, the library had been victimized by a gang of well-organized thieves. Since their arrest, Dulcie would have thought everyone alerted to the dangers of leaving doors unsecured. But although routines had changed for a while – with IDs required and bags rigorously searched – before the month was out, she and other regulars were being waved through again, so it made sense that a professor would revert to long-held habits. The university mentality bred complacency, especially among old-timers, who may have forgotten that not everyone lived the life of the mind. She thought of old Will, at the front desk, who always waved her in. Surely, that was different. He knew her, or at least recognized her as a regular. It wasn’t like she wanted to wait in line.

  ‘Professor Fenderby,’ she called louder, pushing thoughts of her own privilege aside. ‘Your door is ajar.’

  No answer. What’s more, Dulcie got no sense of movement inside – not even the quiet sounds of someone avoiding a visitor. What she did get was a flash of green – light from that inside window, perhaps. Or the reflection off a glossy book jacket, as bright as cat’s eyes. ‘Don’t go in …’ No, that was a memory. Something that had happened years before.