Grey Zone (14 page)

Again the purr, softer now. And while Dulcie had the strong feeling that Mr Grey knew exactly what she was thinking, she also sensed that he wanted her to acknowledge the problem that was eating away at her.

‘You were telling me about connections, Mr Grey. About responsibility. At least, I think you were. And, well, I think I may have let a student down. I think maybe I was too focused on my own work, on my own life. She was a freshman, and I . . . Well, she's in some kind of trouble now. And maybe I could have made a difference. Only, I didn't.'

The soft thud of a cat hitting the floor was followed up by a slight creak as her bedroom door opened ever so slightly. Mr Grey was gone, though Esmé was still sleeping at the foot of her bed.

‘Thank you, Mr Grey. You're right. Whatever I may have messed up in the past, it's not going to help me now if I don't get to work.'

EIGHTEEN

B
ut the scene that greeted her as she came down the stairs was not conducive to work. Sometime during the night, Esmé had gotten behind the metal screen that blocked off the apartment fireplace. And then, curious or just plain bored, she had proceeded to explore the kitchen, leaving dark, sooty footprints on the counters, around the sink, and on the kitchen table. Dulcie pulled over a chair to examine the top of the refrigerator. Yes, greasy paw-prints had made their way across the top and had circled the pile of takeout menus the room-mates kept there, too. Apparently, at night the kitten had taken the liberty of exploring everywhere that she was forbidden to go.

‘Esmé, it's no use hiding.' Dulcie called for the kitten. ‘The evidence is piled up against you.'

No wonder the kitten had been grooming so assiduously. Steeling herself, Dulcie started her own exploration. Sure enough, the paw prints were all over the kitchen and – yes – along every window sill. It was a wonder that Suze's remaining begonia had survived.

Then, as she approached the ground-floor bathroom, she gasped. The tiny half bath off the kitchen had its door ajar, and a trail of toilet paper emerged. Partly shredded, it led her to the roll, and to a pile of tissue that had been unspooled by the kitten's claws. Between the spill of paper and the tufts of shredded tissue that still floated in the air, the bathroom was a mess, and Dulcie shook her head. Mr Grey had never done anything like this. Mr Grey—

Dulcie caught herself. Mr Grey had been an adult cat, who had lived with two students. Esmé had been home alone most of the day. ‘I guess I'm not the only one who has been feeling abandoned, huh, Esmé?'

From the other side of the pile, the kitten pounced, and Dulcie couldn't help smiling. At least somebody had started the day on a productive note.

Dulcie looked over at her own mess: the pile of papers that formed a gentle, disorderly hillock on her desktop. Although she'd spent the better part of an hour cleaning up the apartment, she'd still gotten an earlier start than usual. And although she had half promised her friends that she would report the anonymous phone call, she couldn't resist stopping by the office first. She had the basement space to herself this morning, but the memory of Lloyd's diligence hovered. It wasn't that she was shirking her civic responsibility; she was just focusing on her primary tasks. Hadn't Mr Grey himself said something about the duties of a teacher?

It sounded weak, even to her own ears. But after a half hour, two blue-books and most of a student essay, she felt sure she was doing the right thing. What was she going to say to the police anyway? That someone knew the police were asking questions about Dimitri? For better or worse, they had him now.

That thought didn't help her peace of mind. She pulled the essay closer and straightened up in her seat. With the door closed, the small room was blissfully quiet, insulated from the hum of activity outside. Weak sunlight from the one high window warmed the overhead fluorescent, and Dulcie switched on her desk lamp as well. But the additional illumination didn't help; the paper lay in front of her, inert and only one of many. She had let too much work go too long.

Teaching was a serious obligation, as well as a big part of being a grad student. Not only did it provide real-world experience in what she'd be doing once she got her doctorate, it also gave the university something back – labor in return for all those grants. But recently the teaching had become the monster that ate her days. A giant looming presence; a shadow over the pure joy that was research.

It was hopeless, and Dulcie slumped back in her wooden chair, pushing the essay away as if she could clear her mind along with her desk. As she did, something fell off the other side of her desk with a small flutter, and she felt her eyes fill up in response. This was ridiculous. There was just too much to do. What Lucy had been saying, whether through her cat or not, made some sense. Her teaching was eating up an increasingly large part of her time. Eating into her work, in fact. And suddenly Mr Grey's words took on a new meaning. The idea of limits, of dreams and moving on. Maybe she was the woman at the desk, in the rain. Maybe she was the one desperate to write, frantically putting down words before it was too late.

‘So you think this is all about your thesis?' Trista hadn't quite dismissed the idea, and Dulcie could have kicked herself. Why was she talking about her dream when she needed to get back to work? But Trista was into it. ‘Could be stress related. Did I tell you I met this psych TA the other night? Sort of a surfer dude to look at, but we went over to the Harvest for drinks, and he was telling me about this study . . .'

The connection wasn't great, and, Dulcie had to admit, she didn't really want Trista to continue anyway. So she interrupted. ‘It's not about stress, Trista. I mean, it felt . . . strange.' She'd been about to say ‘real.' But that sounded too much like something Lucy would say.

Trista hadn't even heard her interruption. ‘I mean, dreaming about your thesis happens to everyone, and worrying that you'll never finish, well, I had one nightmare . . .'

At least she wasn't talking about some strange guy. Still, Dulcie had a hard time listening. Trista's dream was one of the more common ones: the long hallway. The test room with the door that wouldn't open. The questions printed in an unreadable mix of symbols and numbers. Dulcie had to smile as she heard her friend's particular take: a blue book already cluttered, like some Victorian novel, with illegible longhand, spidery and dense. But maybe her own dreams were as obvious, with the Gothic castle replacing the locked exam room, the quill and paper replacing the blue book.

If that was what her dream meant, she should get back to work. The papers before her weren't going anywhere. And if she could squeeze an hour in Widener into her schedule, then maybe she could get back on track.

Chelowski was wrong about her not wanting to finish her thesis. And he was wrong about her theory being a digression, too. Dulcie knew that she was on the trail of a literary mystery. The author of
The Ravages
had stopped writing for some reason, and Dulcie was going to find out why. The proof – as was always the case for her in all her years of study – had to be somewhere in the text.

She stood to go and looked down at her desk. All those midterm papers. Well, she could she read them at home, on the sofa tonight. Couldn't she? A brief flash of Esmé, diving into a pile of papers, made her smile. OK, such a scenario would have its challenges. Overall, however, the minor distractions of the little cat might make the work go more easily. And Mr Grey, she just knew, would approve.

Trista was still talking: something about how, in her dream, her pen never had ink. And so, with what she hoped was a supportive ‘huh,' Dulcie shoved the student papers into her bag, almost losing one over the side.

‘Gotcha!' She folded it in half.

‘What?' The disembodied voice almost made her drop the paper again.

‘Sorry, Tris.' She'd almost forgotten Trista was on the line. ‘Something fell off my desk.'

‘Your desk, yeah. I believe it. But be careful. I almost lost a very important contact that way, if you know what I mean.'

‘A note from Gullingham?' Trista's thesis adviser was almost as senior as Bullock had been.

‘Nope, something a lot more fun.' There was a warmth in Trista's voice that Dulcie hadn't heard before. Certainly not when she spoke about Jerry. Suddenly, Dulcie didn't want to hear any more.

‘Hey, Tris? I've got to run.'

‘Oh, well, do you want to meet us later?' Dulcie wasn't sure who ‘us' was any more and made some vague excuse as she ended the call. Tris and Jerry had started seeing each other about six months before she'd met Chris. Was this the natural life cycle of a grad school romance?

She couldn't think that way. It was too crazy. She needed to get to Widener. But as she stood to go out, she noticed a pink Post-it on the floor. It must have been buried in the mess of her desk until she'd accidentally pushed it off.

Ms Dulcie Schwartz!
The handwriting was immediately recognizable: Corkie still wrote with the loopy letters of the girl she had been not that long ago, and the use of the little sticky note only enforced its goofiness. The day before yesterday – was it really only two days ago? – Lloyd had said Corkie ‘was going to' leave a note. Either he hadn't noticed that she had, or Dulcie had misinterpreted his use of the past continuous as a dubious subjunctive. Well, she'd been distracted lately, and as she bent for the single Post-it, she felt a strong urge to just shove it in her bag and bolt. But it would get lost again, she knew, and so she unfolded it.

I'm sorry I have to cancel today. I know I'm behind, really!!!
Only an undergrad would use that many exclamation points, thought Dulcie with a smile. The next line wiped it off.
But this is an emergency, a real emergency! Can't explain – I'm not the only one involved – but please don't give up on me! Please!!!

NINETEEN

T
hat was it. Dulcie wasn't going to let another student down. Racing up the stairs, she dialed Corkie's cell number. ‘Corkie? It's Dulcie. I got your note. Call me?' She paused. Corkie might be girlish, but she was usually steady. This note sounded rattled. ‘Any time, day or night.'

Surfacing just at the hour, she found herself surrounded by students, most of whom towered over her. Even if she knew where to look for her beleaguered charge, she probably wouldn't be able to see her. There had to be a way. Lucy, she knew, would come up with some conjuring spell. Not that it would work, but it would pass the time while she waited. If only she had the girl's schedule.

Dulcie could have slapped herself. She might not have Corkie's schedule, but the department would. A quick call to Nancy would put her in touch with her elusive student.

‘I'm sorry, Dulcie.' Nancy sounded as disappointed as Dulcie felt: Corkie was not scheduled for any classes this morning. ‘I do remember her saying something about keeping Thursdays open. I believe she has a job.'

‘Thanks.' Nancy was trying to be helpful, but that could mean anything. More than half the students on campus worked, and Corkie could be doing anything from filing library books to waitressing at Lala's. No, although the thought of Lala's made her mouth water, Dulcie knew that going out for lunch at eleven would put her on the road to perdition. Besides, Nancy was still talking.

‘I'm glad to see you're out and about, but don't push yourself, Dulcie.' Her voice dropped a notch. ‘Personally, I think it was unconscionable for Mr Chelowski to call you in for anything less than an emergency. In fact, I was thinking of having one of the student counselors come in to talk about suicide and loss. That new peer counseling group has offered an outreach program.'

That was it! Corkie worked as a peer counselor. ‘That's a great idea, Nancy.' Dulcie didn't bother to explain. ‘Thanks!' And as Nancy began to ask her about possible times, she hung up. With a small twinge of guilt, Dulcie grabbed her bag and headed back into the yard. Below the Stairs had been a student-run space since her own undergrad years, but over the last few semesters, somebody had turned the basement coffee-house into an informal counseling center. Although the university health services kept a hand in – training interested students and providing leaflets about individual and group therapy – Below had become the first line of defense for many beleaguered undergrads. With its worn sofas, weekly rap sessions, and two private offices carved out of what used to be coffee house's kitchen, it was an unthreatening alternative. A place where the harried student could just drop in, no appointment necessary.

Corkie had drifted into working there when she'd come back to school, she'd told Dulcie. Accustomed by her rural Iowa upbringing to hard physical labor, she'd been thrown by the hustle and bustle, the politics, and the sheer press of urban life when she'd first arrived at the university, she'd said. She'd needed help to make the transition, and both before and during her semester off, the center had been there for her. Dulcie hadn't known her then, but the Corkie she had met upon her return seemed both focused and happy. Like a student who wanted to give something back. One who usually kept her appointments, come to think of it.

Something had broken up that new-found equilibrium, and Dulcie was determined to find out what. Head down, Dulcie made her way through the student swarm to the side of the brick administrative building and grabbed the iron rail of the stairs.

‘'Scuse me.' A young woman, eyes swollen from crying, was making her way up from the basement entrance. Well, maybe the tears had done her good. Dulcie stood aside as she passed, wiping one glove under her nose, then descended into the concrete stairwell that served as the center's front door. The private entrance – one that didn't force students by a security guard – was definitely one of Below the Stairs' selling points.