by Clea Simon
Showalter nodded, as if she weren’t surprised, and Dulcie felt another flush of pride. Maybe she did have a career in this field, after all. Then again, she realized, Showalter might be thinking that she, Dulcie, preferred the male academic. Which, of course, she definitely did not.
‘So anyway, helping Thorpe is no big deal, really,’ she said, to change the subject. ‘I’m happy to help.’
‘Of course you are, but …’ The older woman bit her lip. Another bout of hammering interrupted whatever she might have been about to say. ‘Well, it can be very easy to take advantage of grad students,’ she continued once it stopped. ‘Free labor and all.’
‘Thanks.’ Despite the noise – which had now turned to a strange whining – Dulcie really was thrilled to be here. Being recognized by Paul Barnes was an honor. But what she had with Renée Showalter was special. It wasn’t simply that the red-haired academic was actually interested in her specific field – the ‘she-authors’ who penned the majority of the great Gothic novels. And it wasn’t simply that she had uncovered a trove of letters that were already proving relevant to Dulcie’s thesis. It was that she had handed those letters over without conditions. Clearly, she still remembered what it was like to labor in the lower levels of academia.
‘Anyway, I’m here,’ Dulcie said once that whining – maybe it was a drill? – stopped. She had two hours free to spend with the scholar. She wouldn’t waste it in complaining. ‘And here’s the paper.’ With a flourish, she brought forth the printed pages. ‘The café is out of commission for the duration, but I know the best lunch place in the Square. I can go ahead, get us a table, if you want to find a quiet corner to take a quick look.’
Renée Showalter reached for the pages, but for a moment Dulcie was hesitant to hand them over. There was something about her. A look like she was trying to say something. Or would be, but for that drill.
‘I revised these after our last conversation,’ Dulcie jumped in at the next quiet moment, hoping to pre-empt whatever problem the professor was about to bring up. ‘And I got Mina’s input, too. She finished her edits last night. I mean, she didn’t have much to say about the actual drafts, but her biographical research might mean a lot.’
‘I’m sure it will, but Dulcie?’ A pained look flashed on her face. ‘I’m really sorry about this, but I’m not going to be able to do lunch. Something – well, some old personal business has reared its ugly head.’ She forced a smile on her face, but it was a sad smile. ‘I’m sure you understand. Maybe we can sneak in a quick chat tomorrow – before the conference starts?’
Dulcie felt her heart sink. The conference was only three days long, and the hours leading up to the opening address were going to be some of her busiest. Still, the professor was already being so generous. The return of the jackhammer gave her time to compose herself. ‘That will be great,’ she made herself say, once the noise subsided. ‘Maybe I can actually sneak in some library time.’
‘Thatta girl.’ Showalter’s smile looked more real. ‘But don’t forget to get something to eat, too.’
Somehow the idea of Lala’s three-bean burger had lost its appeal, so Dulcie ducked back into the cold and walked one block further, to the wrap place for a tuna roll-up. If she could talk the counter person into chopping some pickles up for a bit of crunch, it would still be a good lunch.
The problem, ultimately, wasn’t the pickles. Although the woman behind the counter had raised her eyebrows at the request, she had done a neat job with them, dicing some dill chips into matchsticks. However, once Dulcie had the sandwich she wasn’t sure what to do with it. The tiny storefront focused on takeout, but the day was too cold for eating alfresco. The few tables squeezed in like an afterthought seemed to have been commandeered by a seminar. From what she could hear, Dulcie guessed they were refugees from the Science Center, or else they simply liked discussing basic ASCII. When she finally spotted an empty chair, she made a beeline for it, thinking she could drag it away from the group, and just as quickly realized that in her current mood, any pleasure in her meal would be negated by the assembled crowd.
It wasn’t that they were geeks. She lived with one, quite happily. And the language was vaguely familiar, from too many overheard conversations between Chris and his friend Jerry. But as she had listened the tone had turned from the usual mellow nerdiness of ones and zeros to something more personal – and nastier.
‘As soon as there’s a girl in the story, it all goes bad.’ That was the line that had stopped her, just as she was reaching for a chair. The applied math department was still largely male, and that could breed misogyny – especially among the younger members.
‘I know he’s got a girlfriend now, but really …’ Jealousy, Dulcie knew, was largely to blame, and she snuck a peek over at the speaker, expecting to see a spotty face on a body either way too skinny or too round to attract its own mate. All she could see, however, was a thatch of dark hair, unfashionably long. ‘He should know better than to get involved with one of those high-maintenance chicks, is all I’m saying.’
‘Maybe there was an emergency?’ The equally shaggy friend – Dulcie guessed freshman – sounded somewhat more reasonable. ‘Maybe she was sick? Or he was?’
A third geek turned back toward the other two, nearly dislodging a pile of parkas with the move. He grabbed at them. ‘Did anyone get an explanation?’
Dulcie hung back as he re-stacked the coats, but the little café was small. Through a chorus of ‘nuh-uh’ and other assorted demurrals, she got a better look. Hoodies, jeans … no more spots than usual. As much as she’d wanted to dismiss these anti-girlfriend activists as complainers, she had to admit they looked like ninety percent of the male university population, down to their salt-stained sneakers.
Anyway, the direction of the complaint seemed to have changed, or at least softened. ‘I guess I shouldn’t blame the girl,’ the first speaker was saying, the whininess in his voice toned down, too. ‘He’s the one who made the commitment. He’s the one who let us down.’
‘Right.’ The sarcasm was unmistakable as yet a fourth student chimed in. ‘And he couldn’t leave a note. Or get someone to cover. I mean, hell, he was supposed to be the cover. No way. These grad students,’ the student continued. ‘They forget what it’s like to be an undergrad and flailing, especially during reading period. I mean, it’s not like they’re helping us for free.’
It was too close to home. She hadn’t missed a reading period help group – not yet – but as distracted as she had been recently, Dulcie could too easily imagine her own students complaining about her in this fashion. Although she was seized by the urge to grab the fourth student and yell at him – Quit saying ‘I mean!’ – Dulcie resisted. Better to eat elsewhere, and not let herself get drawn into someone else’s fight. First, she needed to nab some napkins: tuna could be drippy. But as she navigated around the crowd toward the condiment stand, she couldn’t resist eavesdropping further. Someone must have noticed her interest, however. Whether because she was an outsider, or because she was of the suspect gender, the voices had all dropped, and Dulcie found herself pretending to be oblivious, as she stuffed napkins in the sandwich bag.
Of course, she told herself. Some of them would recognize her. She’d come by when Chris was working often enough to meet some of his regular tutees. She’d even brought her own laptop by over the last few months, happy to work in Chris’s company, as he helped guide hapless undergrads over the basic programming hurdles. That had to be the reason they were now staring at her, she decided. Or, perhaps, she should not have taken quite so many napkins.
Well, too late now to do anything about that, she decided, rolling the top of her bag closed. It was their fault that she couldn’t sit here, anyway. They were the ones forcing her out into the cold. Besides, it was probably simple familiarity that caused them all to watch her as she made her way back around the chairs and out. After all, she was pretty sure she heard at least one of them say ‘Chris’.
EIGHT<
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Two minutes later, she was regretting her timidity. Better she should have stayed, meeting any barbed comments with a few piercing words of her own. At least she’d have been warm. Instead, she had left the warm storefront to find the pale sun gone, replaced by thin clouds and a biting wind that seemed determined to toss every bit of grit into Dulcie’s face.
Nothing for it, she decided, but to get back to the Science Center and to work. Thorpe, at least, would be grateful for her getting a jump on all the preparation. And maybe Paul Barnes would be early.
As she bent into the wind, Dulcie found herself wondering about the cold at the heart of the average undergraduate. All they cared about were their exams, their grades. Was it possible to make them understand what she and Chris loved about their fields? Was it possible even to make them care about their teachers as people?
‘We weren’t like that at their age. Were we?’ She didn’t expect an answer as she scurried through the Yard, her voice torn from her by the wind. It was comforting to address Mr Grey, however. It helped her feel that she had truly left that hostile crowd behind.
‘You needn’t have retreated, you know.’ The voice seemed to come from right behind her, perfectly audible through the din. Feeling its warmth, Dulcie turned. ‘Not all is as you perceive.’
‘Mr Grey!’ She couldn’t help it. She paused to look around. But as she could have predicted, the Yard was almost empty. Early afternoon, and only a few stragglers – reading period refugees like herself – braved the blustery weather. Bending once again as a particularly fierce gust blew her curls about, she hurried along, feeling more alone than before.
‘There, there, little one.’ As she reached up to push her hair out of her eyes, she felt his fur, as soft as his voice, brush against her ungloved hand. ‘You are among friends here, no matter that it appears otherwise.’
This confused her. ‘Mr Grey,’ she murmured. ‘Are you saying those students weren’t blaming some poor girl for, well, everything?’
A rumble, part chuckle, part purr, seemed to echo the roar of the wind. ‘We look for explanations when we do not understand, little one. When intellect and experience fail us.’
Dulcie waited. When no other words followed, she asked the obvious. ‘So, I just made up the misogyny? That first guy didn’t blame someone’s failing on his girlfriend?’
‘There’s more here than your natural philosophy can reveal.’ The voice was fading. ‘More for you to learn …’
Dulcie was alone again. While she couldn’t have explained how she knew that, she did, Mr Grey’s final words echoing in her ears as she ran the last few hundred yards to shelter. So there was more for her to learn here? She mulled that over. Did he mean about male undergrads? She hoped not. There was something unnerving about the scene she had just left. It wasn’t that they were that angry, and she certainly didn’t think they’d be dangerous. Just … something unsettling and almost, maybe, familiar. Something she couldn’t quite place.
Natural philosophy … that meant ‘science’, basically, Dulcie recalled, as she once again pushed open the big glass doors. Although the author of The Ravages was more concerned with tumult of the heart than of any alchemical experiments, Dulcie knew enough to recognize the older term, in use long before the disciplines separated so completely in the later nineteenth century.
‘Looking for explanations’ – well, that was what she was doing, wasn’t it? Was Mr Grey urging her to study science at this late a date? Looking around, she paused to consider the question. From that glass entranceway to the huge silver Möbius strip here in the lobby, everything about this place was alien to her. Even the flyers that lined those white walls, luring her colleagues to various talks, seemed to swim with numbers rather than words, unless you counted the occasional bit of Greek.
It was an odd place for the English department to hold a conference. And there was little chance, she realized with a sinking feeling, that the construction would be finished by tomorrow. Already, her relief at being out of the cold was giving way to a feeling of helplessness. How could they host international scholars with only one set of working bathrooms? As if on cue, Dulcie felt something splash on her foot, and looked up, worried. But no pipes were running overhead, dripping or not. Wrapped only in wax paper, her sandwich had begun to leak. Maybe this was her cue. Maybe she was supposed to go back into that café and face down those undergrads. But that could wait until after lunch, couldn’t it?
Holding the sodden bag away from her body, Dulcie glanced around for options. ‘Kelly!’ The media tech had come out of Lecture Hall A, leaving the door swinging behind her. ‘Kelly!’ Dulcie called again. Some female company would be welcome right about now.
Her voice was drowned out, however, by the squeal of something mechanical, and the media tech disappeared down the stairs. The computer center – the one place Dulcie most certainly did not want to follow. Well, she could wait.
Still being careful with her sandwich, Dulcie walked over to the lecture hall. Yes, the door was unlocked, and as Dulcie let her eyes acclimate, she saw that not everything was dark. To her right, she could see through the open door to the sound booth. Inside, the sound board glowed as multiple screens seemed to wait with bated breath. To her left, down the steep slope of seats, was the stage area. One spotlight picked out a podium, obviously set up for the conference speakers who would be arriving soon. The house lights were down, but Dulcie didn’t need to see to eat. Careful not to trip – or to get more mayonnaise on herself – Dulcie found her way to the back row. It was pleasant in the dark. Maybe, she thought, here in the quiet Mr Grey would come visit again.
By the time Dulcie was halfway through her sandwich, she’d given up on Mr Grey. He’d been in a riddling mood, but he’d clearly wanted to cheer her up – and he had. She might have felt better anyway: the sandwich was good, and coffee alone was not enough to sustain one. With some food inside her, even the scene at the café began to seem less ominous. Sure, some undergrads were peeved at a section leader or something. That wasn’t a big deal. Dulcie couldn’t imagine missing a meeting, but she’d occasionally shorted her office hours – getting there late or sneaking out a bit early. She’d have to ask Chris about how applied science handled such things. Maybe his department was much stricter, being as how they were all into numbers and precision and all that. Of course, he was such a straight arrow that he probably wouldn’t know if any of his colleagues were bending the rules.
Like she was, sitting here. Eating. Students were allowed in the hall. Food wasn’t. Well, she’d clean up after herself, she resolved, and took another bite, dropping one of her napkins in the process. Down below, stage right, a door opened. Kelly, the media tech, entered and walked to the podium. Dulcie watched, her mouth full, as the other woman attached a microphone to the podium’s stand. Dulcie chewed faster, watching as Kelly unspooled a long cord. She should announce herself. Wave hi, at the very least, before she startled the boyish tech.
Tucking the last third of the roll-up back in its bag, she looked around for a trash can. Another napkin would have been helpful too, she realized, as she wiped the back of her hand across her mouth. Well, people probably brought their meals in during classes all the time, rules or no. She stood, ready to hail Kelly, when she realized that the tech had ducked back into the wings.
Maybe she should just descend to the stage. Only, just then, Dulcie felt something. A soft brush – something moving – right by her leg. She looked down and didn’t see anything. Only that lone napkin, white against the dark, and she remembered: claw marks. Like an animal had been trapped inside, desperate to get out.
The lack of a trash receptacle took on a darker meaning, as did the prohibition against food. Rats, thought Dulcie. Or, no, a rat couldn’t reach the door lock, could it? Something bigger: feral cats. Feral dogs? The memory of that howl popped into her mind. That couldn’t be what Mr Grey had wanted her to find out about, could it?
She really hoped not, and suddenly the idea o
f finishing her lunch – even of socializing with Kelly – was a lot less appealing. Not that she’d risk leaving anything here for any … thing to eat. Conscious of all the mayo on that napkin, she ducked down to retrieve it.
‘Hello!’ A woman’s voice, stretching the single word out like a melody. By the time she stood up, the woman had already passed by. ‘Anyone there?’
Dulcie was about to respond when Kelly appeared.
‘Ms Roebuck?’ The slim tech shaded her eyes from the stage light, peering up into the dark.
‘I know I’m a bit late,’ said the newcomer. ‘Personal things …’ She waved her tardiness away with one hand and stepped into the light. ‘But I’m here now.’
Dulcie leaned back on her seat, watching. So this was Stella Roebuck. The scholar, a rising star in postmodern circles, looked the part in a tight, tailored suit that might have been designed for an anorexic man. Gender roles: Dulcie flashed back to what she’d seen in Nancy’s office. Something about ‘deconstructing attraction in gender roles’. ‘The Look of Love’, that was it – the title of her talk. Seeing Stella Roebuck, Dulcie had to admit it was perfect: the academic intentionally mirroring the subject and simultaneously throwing it into disarray, or something. It was stagy, but maybe she had to be – teaching English at Tech. Still, at this rate, Dulcie mused, she’d end up dressing like a Georgian noblewoman. At least the big wigs would give her some height.
Stella Roebuck, however, had chosen her look – if not her subject – wisely. As she ascended to the stage, the lights caught her dark, short hair, throwing blue reflections off of what were obviously carefully crafted angles, and the hands that now turned in to rest on slim hips ended in black nails.
‘Well, this is something.’ She turned to look out at the seating area, and Dulcie shrank back. It wasn’t Roebuck’s work per se. As much as Dulcie disagreed with the current fad for deconstructing everything down to its vowels and consonants, she’d pretty much conceded that fight. Academia had its trends, just like everything else, and she held on to the thought that at some point, if she persevered in her career, people would get back to reading for its own sake again. And although Stella Roebuck – ‘the beautiful Stella’, she’d heard her called – was probably within a year or two of Dulcie’s age and already such a big deal, it wasn’t professional jealousy. Roebuck focused on criticism. That was a world unto itself.
