Grey Howl

by Clea Simon

  ‘Huh.’ This time, the voice sounded in her head, even as Esmé circled and lay down. ‘Like you’d listen to anyone right now. You don’t even listen to yourself.’

  ‘What do you—’ Dulcie stopped herself. She knew what her pet meant. For starters, she had set herself up to fall asleep on the sofa, working well past the point of exhaustion. In truth, she’d gotten used to Chris being there. When he wasn’t, not even the presence of a cat or two could make the bed feel quite right.

  Was it that sense of unease that had caused the dream? From where she sat, Dulcie could see the sky through the window. It loomed grey, thick with clouds that seemed to presage snow. She’d experienced thunder snow, as odd as it was rare. And as for a lightning strike starting a fire? No, she would have heard sirens.

  It was a metaphor. It had to be. But with that dream in mind, she wasn’t going to get back to sleep. Maybe it was just as well. The conference guests would start arriving in – she checked her alarm clock – two hours, and it wouldn’t hurt to have an early start. In truth, she didn’t have to look any further to identify the huge undertaking, looming over her dream’s horizon. And as for the approaching traveler? Well, that could have been Chris, if in her sleep she’d been waiting for him to come home. Or it could have been Professor Showalter or any of the other dignitaries she would soon be greeting.

  ‘Excuse me, Esmé.’ Dulcie extracted her feet, earning a dirty look from the cat. That sense of foreboding, or warning, was her own internal clock, making sure she didn’t oversleep on the brink of what could be the most important weekend of her life.

  And the howl? Dulcie thought about that as she showered. She’d heard something, maybe, when she’d come in last night. Or had she? Toweling off, she tried to remember. She’d been thinking of so many other things: the conference, her paper. Paul Barnes.

  Maybe, she admitted silently, the sense of danger came from the handsome scholar. She wasn’t interested. She hadn’t even flirted. He’d been the one to approach her, appearing out of the night like that to save her from a potentially fatal, or, well, painful accident.

  But she’d enjoyed the attention, she had to be honest about that. Paul Barnes was a rising star in early American fiction, and he had recognized her. He’d read her work – and it sounded like he would attend her presentation. And, yes, she had found him attractive, grey-flecked hair and all.

  Maybe there was a reason for the conference’s reputation, she thought. And if so, it was just as well that Chris would be around tonight. At the very least, maybe he could fix their printer. For now, she shoved her laptop in her bag. She could print out a clean copy of the paper at the departmental offices. She could get coffee there, too, she knew. Chris would want to sleep once he got home, so there was no sense in making a pot here.

  ‘Ciao, Esmé!’ The twitch of an ear acknowledged her farewell. ‘Bye, Mr Grey!’ Clattering down the stairs, Dulcie realized her headache had evaporated, banished like the steam in the shower. Maybe that rumbling had been a purr after all. But, if so, why had it felt like a warning? And had she heard a howl for real, or only in her dream?

  She’d have to take it up with Chris tonight, she decided. For now, she had to get to work.

  THREE

  ‘Miss Schwartz, you’re early.’ Martin Thorpe made the statement sound like an accusation.

  ‘I thought I could help you get a head start on the day.’ Dulcie decided she might as well turn it into a credit. Behind her adviser, she could see Nancy, the departmental secretary, making coffee. ‘As soon as I’ve gotten caffeinated.’

  ‘How early did he get here?’ she asked the plump secretary once she’d joined her in the little room that served as both Nancy’s office and an informal grad students’ lounge. ‘How early did you?’ It wasn’t even nine, pre-dawn by the grad student clock, but Nancy only smiled.

  ‘Only a little earlier than usual, dear. I suspected he might be a bit tense today.’

  Dulcie raised her eyebrows at the understatement, but kept her mouth shut. Nancy was a staunch ally, and her maternal tendencies had made life easier for the graduate students as well as their irritable leader. Besides, she made great coffee.

  Filling her mug, Dulcie changed the subject. ‘Who’s coming in today?’ While Martin Thorpe was the titular head of the conference, Nancy handled most of the actual organizing.

  ‘Hold on.’ The secretary retreated to her desk, although Dulcie suspected she had the schedule memorized. ‘Stella Roebuck, from Tech. She should be here by noon. Marco Tesla from Cal—’

  ‘Marco Tesla?’ This was news. Marco Tesla was the rising star in postmodern criticism, which was the hot discipline. Then again, that was Stella Roebuck’s area of expertise, too. ‘Isn’t that, ah, a redundancy?’

  Nancy nodded. ‘Yes, we didn’t expect him. I gather he’s had some trouble recently with his work. But he got in touch and, well, he is a prestigious name and so Mr Thorpe insisted that we make room for him.’ Nancy went back to her notes, and Dulcie saw her jot something down. She didn’t have to ask: scheduling Marco Tesla and Stella Roebuck so that they appeared complementary and not competitive might be tricky.

  ‘And they are all candidates for the job,’ she said, half to herself. ‘Poor Thorpe.’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ said Nancy, finishing her notes. ‘We also have Paul Barnes coming in.’

  Dulcie couldn’t tell if that was a non sequitur or the result of the secretary giving her papers a last once over. What she did notice was that even Nancy used hushed tones on his name.

  ‘He’s here already,’ said Dulcie, trying not to sound too excited. ‘I met him last night. In the Square.’

  ‘Really?’ Nancy looked up at her, then back down at her notes. ‘He didn’t check in with us yesterday. Though I gather he has friends in the area …’

  ‘It was late. Maybe he just went to the hotel.’ Dulcie felt a bit odd, like she’d ratted the academic star out. ‘He was probably tired.’

  ‘Maybe.’ Nancy was still staring at the schedule. ‘Oh, dear. This must be a mistake.’ After looking back and forth between two sets of papers, she reached for the phone.

  ‘What?’ Nancy’s raised hand shushed her, and Dulcie listened, drinking her coffee as the secretary asked to be put through to the conference hotel.

  ‘Miss Schwartz? If you really are here to help out, I could use you.’ She turned. Martin Thorpe was standing on the stairs. With his head turned sideways to see into the little office, he looked like nothing so much as a worried vulture.

  ‘Sorry, Mr Thorpe.’ She turned to top off her mug. ‘I’m coming.’

  ‘No, I understand about the block of rooms, Ms Swift.’ Nancy was seated now, and seemingly engaged in negotiation. ‘But there are extenuating circumstances. Don’t you think you can find something?’

  Dulcie paused, waiting for a break. If she could help Nancy sort out a housing problem, she would. The older woman looked up, though, and waved her away. For once, her smile looked a bit forced, but Dulcie smiled back, in support, as she headed toward the stairs.

  ‘You have to find another room for the professor, Ms Swift.’ Nancy turned her attention back to the call. ‘You see, the two of them can’t be running into each other. The success of this conference depends upon it.’

  FOUR

  ‘For starters, you’ll need to check on the media techs.’ Thorpe hadn’t looked up from the papers on his desk since Dulcie had stepped into his office. Seeing the pile, she wasn’t surprised. It was a little awkward, however, addressing the bald spot on his head.

  ‘Mr Thorpe?’ She waited. He didn’t look up. ‘I kind of thought that as a presenter, I could fulfill other duties for the conference.’ Nothing. He seemed to be reading one of the papers. ‘Like, perhaps, I could go over to the conference hotel and greet the guests who are arriving today.’ It wasn’t just that she hoped to spend some time with Paul Barnes, Dulcie told herself. The other academics might need help, too. ‘Make sure their accommodations
are what they were expecting, and all.’

  ‘Oh.’ He looked up and blinked, his eyes wide behind his thick glasses. ‘No, I’ve got that covered. I was hoping, you know, because of your special connections …’

  Chris. Dulcie couldn’t regret that her adviser knew her boyfriend. They had met when they had helped Thorpe adopt a strange, stray kitten Dulcie had found. However, it did mean that her adviser now viewed her as having the inside track to anything technical. Even if he just wanted her to make sure the conference would have sound and computer connections; Chris’s work was far more advanced.

  ‘Of course.’ Dulcie wasn’t really in a position to refuse. She could, however, drive a bargain. ‘But since I’ll be working on the conference, I assume I can skip our meeting this afternoon?’

  ‘But … your presentation? Don’t you want to …’ He stopped himself and blinked, his eyes going wide as comprehension dawned. His top grad student was getting help from one of his top rivals. ‘Fine.’ He bent back over his papers.

  Dulcie knew she’d been dismissed, but she couldn’t go yet. Her preference for Renée Showalter wasn’t personal, or not entirely, and she had to let Thorpe know. ‘How’s Tigger doing?’ The marmalade kitten seemed like a safe subject.

  ‘Fine,’ Thorpe repeated. Then, as if he’d really heard the question, he looked up. ‘Though I have to say, he’s a strange little fellow. I thought dogs were the ones that howled at the moon. For the last few nights, as the moon has been waxing, he’s been sitting in the window and staring at it. I swear, after I go to sleep, I hear him making the strangest sounds.’ He paused and waited, but Dulcie didn’t venture a response. ‘I guess I’m just not that familiar with cats,’ he said, finally, bending back over his papers.

  Returning downstairs to the student lounge, Dulcie sent her paper to the printer. There was a queue, however. Someone’s spring syllabus was being spit out, page by page, and Dulcie found herself looking through the papers that had already piled up. A reading list: Hawthorne, Mather, Irving. And under that, more titles. ‘The Look of Love: Deconstructing Gender Attraction in the Romance Novel’. Surely that wasn’t part of the core curriculum? No, it had been spewed out earlier. She balanced her empty mug on the pile to read more.

  ‘Is that the end of the pot, Dulcie?’

  Dulcie looked up guiltily, grabbing at her mug. She’d thought Nancy was too preoccupied to notice her. ‘Do you want me to set up another?’

  ‘No, no.’ The older woman stood. ‘I can use the break.’

  Dulcie watched as she pulled a canister from the cupboard and counted out scoops. ‘And two for the pot,’ Nancy said, to herself.

  ‘So that’s the secret.’ The department’s coffee was legendary.

  ‘It’s not exactly rocket science, dear.’ Despite her words, she looked pleased as she added the water and set the machine to brew. ‘When I first came here, Professor Bullock told me that strong coffee was the key to holding the department together. Of course, things were a little less hectic in those days.’

  Dulcie nodded. Back then, it had been difficult to get the go-ahead to study a Gothic novel, never mind a romance. She’d considered herself lucky when Bullock had taken her on. Her original adviser, as well as the last actual chairman the department had had, he’d been a full university professor, too, with an endowed chair in eighteenth century literature, and a score of graduate students doing his work. But all the perks and all the supporters – and Dulcie counted herself among them – had only helped hide his precipitous decline into dementia, which had left the department in a bit of a mess.

  ‘Do you think that’s why the university hasn’t named a new chair yet?’

  Nancy shook her head, though she seemed to follow Dulcie’s train of thought. ‘I don’t know, dear. I do know that Mr Thorpe seems to be better these days.’ She leaned in. ‘Having a pet is good for him.’

  Dulcie smiled. Nancy had been instrumental in pairing the man and the kitten.

  ‘I only hope …’ Nancy cut herself off. ‘Well, we shall see. There, I believe it’s brewed.’

  ‘What?’ Dulcie ignored the coffee. ‘Have you heard something?’

  Nancy made a fuss about finding her own mug and wiping it out before turning back to Dulcie. ‘I don’t believe anything is certain, dear. I do know that several of the candidates are being given special treatment.’

  ‘I heard you on the phone.’ Dulcie reached for Nancy’s mug and filled it, while trying to think of a way to ask which candidates were being so demanding. ‘And I know how these conferences can be.’ It was the best she could come up with. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to eavesdrop.’

  If Nancy didn’t take the bait, at least she was too polite to call Dulcie out on a lie. ‘I’m afraid that was my fault, Dulcie. I must have overlooked some of the paperwork.’

  ‘Oh?’ Dulcie poured her own coffee and waited, but Nancy only shook her head.

  ‘I’ve gossiped enough.’ She walked back toward her desk, and the pile of forms that awaited her attention. ‘And I believe your paper finished printing several minutes ago.’

  FIVE

  With no other excuse to linger, Dulcie gathered her pages and headed out for the Science Center. Although the big, modern complex wasn’t her department’s usual turf, the Center had the university’s two largest lecture halls, as well as smaller classrooms that would work for presentations like hers. That made it perfect for the conference. From tomorrow’s opening keynote through Sunday, talks could run simultaneously. With one central location, scholars could gather, meeting and chatting in the center’s spacious lobby no matter what the New England winter threw at them. It might even mean more people would be likely to step in to hear her and the other junior speakers.

  At least, that had been the plan. It was reading period at the university, the time between classes and exams, and that had originally been seen as a plus. Dulcie, for example, only had a few study groups to monitor – she tried to avoid the word ‘babysit’ – rather than her regular, overfull teaching schedule. However, with most of the students already away on their holiday break, someone in facilities maintenance had decided these two weeks were optimal for renovating the modernist building’s less-than-modern plumbing. By the time the conflict had been pointed out, the work was already under way.

  Now construction crews were working at a frenzied pace, trying to get the lobby cleared out and the taps turned back on before attendees started to arrive. In a supreme act of faith, Thorpe had decided to trust that they would. Faith or, Dulcie realized, desperation. Not only would it look bad for the conference to have to deviate much from its published schedule, it would create a logistical nightmare. The Center, with its jumbo lecture halls, had had everything. Moving it anywhere else meant lost time, lost opportunities, and, undoubtedly, lost academics, wandering through the wilds of wintry Cambridge.

  It didn’t bear thinking about, Dulcie decided, unconsciously siding with her adviser. Better to hope for the best, and as Dulcie skirted a canvas drop cloth, she made herself do just that. Besides, the building hadn’t been entirely shut down by the work. Down in the basement, the university media services and the computer lab were still at full power, unaffected by the construction and plumbing crews. Not even facilities maintenance would dare mess with those, she thought as she descended the stairs. After locating the building’s one working bathroom, she went in search of Chris’s office, which opened off the lab.

  ‘Knock, knock.’ Her boyfriend’s door was open, but she suspected he was asleep in his chair. The way he jumped up confirmed it.

  ‘Dulcie!’ He turned toward her, pale but smiling. ‘My God, what time is it?’

  ‘After ten.’ She shook her head. ‘You must have been really out. I wasn’t even sure if you’d still be here. Why don’t you go home, get into bed?’

  The smile faded. ‘I don’t know. I’ve got to be back here at one for my section.’

  ‘Poor dear.’ She closed the door behind her and came
over to put an oversized blueberry muffin on his desk. ‘I didn’t think the café was functioning, so I picked this up on my way over. But I’m sorry I woke you. Was it a crazy night?’

  ‘I–I don’t know.’ He ran his hand through his hair, pushing his long bangs off his face. ‘It’s the craziest thing. I feel like it was hectic, but I don’t really remember.’

  ‘Maybe you slept more than you realize.’ She hoped that was true. ‘Unless,’ she took in his waxy complexion, the purple rings around his eyes – and the fact that he hadn’t yet inhaled the muffin – ‘you’re coming down with something.’

  ‘No, it’s been wonderful to be down here without hearing someone clanging on a pipe. I feel great.’ He stood and yawned, before looking down at the plate. ‘I’m not even hungry.’

  ‘Chris Sorenson, you are sick.’ She tried to sound like she was joking, but this was worrisome. She broke off a piece of the muffin top for herself, and – out of habit, she suspected – he reached for the rest. ‘What happened to your hand?’

  ‘My hand?’ He held up the one with the muffin and turned it over, so they could both see the scratches that broke the skin. ‘Wow, I don’t know.’

  ‘Were you playing rough with Esmé again?’ She took his hand in hers. The scratches looked too deep – and too widely spaced – for the little cat’s claws. ‘Or did someone bring a dog in?’

  ‘A dog …’ He seemed lost in thought. ‘Maybe that was it. I thought I heard something last night. Howling …’

  ‘Down here?’ Dulcie couldn’t even hear the construction down here, only the quiet whirr of machinery.

  ‘I think so.’ He put the muffin back on the plate. ‘Maybe it was a dream. Maybe that’s why I feel so rested.’