Grey zone, p.4
Grey Zone, page 4
‘While Ms McCorkle began the semester slightly deficient in the core canon, she has been both enthusiastic and aggressive in her remedial work and is quickly filling in the gaps in the American side of her reading.’ The woman had attacked Henry James and the other Anglophiles like they were toffee pudding, she could have added. Particularly because she had recently discovered that she and her large-framed student shared a sweet tooth. Not that this was any of Martin Thorpe’s business.
‘And in her own area, the novels of Smollett, Sterne, and Fielding, she’s completely on top of the material. In addition, she’s taken on some tutoring of the younger students in her house.’ Raising a hand for silence before Thorpe could object, Dulcie kept on talking. ‘As her tutor, I was suspicious at first, but accepted that this showed her willingness to become involved with the complete university experience. In addition, neither this additional work, nor her other commitments, seem to be holding her back in any way. I’d say that the semester off did Corkie a world of good. Corkie – Ms McCorkle – may not graduate with her class next year, but unless I’m highly mistaken, she’s going to graduate with honors, possibly with high honors, in both the department and in her area of concentration.’
‘Good save,’ Trista whispered as Dulcie pulled her notes together. Thorpe had already moved on to one of their less troublesome colleagues and so missed Dulcie’s deep, dramatic sigh.
‘Man, with everything else going on, I totally forgot about the midterm reports, Tris.’ She leaned toward her friend, hoping not to be observed. ‘I don’t think I told you what my own research has turned up.’
‘Tell!’ Trista leaned in, her silver fingernails on Dulcie’s forearm. But Thorpe had turned their way again, and, lesson learned, Dulcie kept mum.
‘So, no matter what Chelowski says, I’m thinking that lack of material isn’t just because papers have gotten lost.’ Dulcie had meant to ask about the missing girl, but as soon as the meeting had broken up, Trista had jumped in, demanding to hear about Dulcie’s meeting with her adviser. With one thing and another – mostly, Trista’s righteous anger on her friend’s part – she ended up talking about her thesis topic. Or what would be her thesis topic if she ever did end up writing it.
Trista had been a friend for long enough to know about Dulcie’s research, including her breakthrough with The Ravages. Walking toward the Yard, Dulcie summed up her theory about the work’s anonymous author. ‘And I think that’s a big deal. A huge deal. He says I’m wasting my time, but think about it. The Ravages was pubbed in ’91 or ’92, latest. And I’ve found a score of other essays that I am pretty sure are hers from the years before and for about two years after: she’s got some very distinctive catchphrases. These appear pretty steadily going up to 1794, and then – nothing. What, did she just disappear?’
Trista bit her lip. ‘Could have, though. Couldn’t she? We wouldn’t know. I mean, she published anonymously, right?’
‘She published anonymously, and we don’t know her name. But nobody writes – or gets a book published – in a vacuum. People have reasons for not using their names, maybe this woman especially. But after her death?’ Dulcie shook her head. ‘People would talk about it. There’d have been a notice of some kind.’
‘If only this had all happened a hundred years later – you’d have been golden, Dulce.’ As a Victorian, Trista had an easier time with research. ‘My people saved everything.’
‘But then there might not have been anything left for me to discover.’ No matter what the challenges were, Dulcie wouldn’t trade. ‘And, I mean, it’s not like we’re talking pre-Revolution. Nobody was burning papers, not usually. Unless, I don’t know, they were seen as a threat for some reason.’ She paused; her train of thought followed the hypothetical pages. A flick of a tail – silver gray, probably another squirrel – brought her back. ‘Anyway, my author writes these essays, and then, for some reason, she gives up on them. Maybe they’re not having any effect. So she writes The Ravages. Then a few more essays, but bolder. Like, she’s really sick of people not getting it. For a strong woman, the 1790s were not an easy time.’
‘Wollstonecraft.’ Trista didn’t have to say more.
‘Yes, but these days everyone looks at the Rights of Woman like it was some marvelous piece of writing. Which it is,’ Dulcie added quickly. ‘But it wasn’t entirely original. There was so much going on then. The Romantics were coming in. Science. Industrialization. Women’s rights were just one more cause – and not a popular one. I mean, when did women get the vote?’
Trista started to answer, but Dulcie kept talking.
‘What I mean is, we tend to look at that era with feminist hindsight. To be an actual independent woman back then, a woman writing about these new ideas, must have been hard. Dangerous, even. And so here’s my author, speaking out – and suddenly, nothing.’ She stopped short, and Trista turned.
‘What?’ Trista waited.
‘Oh, dear Goddess, Chris was right.’ Dulcie smiled. ‘He didn’t mean to be, but he was.’
Trista looked at her, not even sure what to ask.
‘My author? The woman who used her so-called radical theories to bring The Ravages of Umbria to life?’ Dulcie posed the question for her. ‘There is one good reason she might have disappeared without notice. One thing her family would not have wanted known. She really might have been murdered.’
SIX
Trista might have been more sympathetic than Chelowski had been, but not by much. By the time the two reached Memorial Hall, she’d listed a half dozen reasons why Dulcie’s theory was, at the very least, premature. It was with some relief, then, that Dulcie waved her friend off toward Emerson, where Trista had a section to teach. She hadn’t even gotten around to telling Trista about the odd confrontation outside of Widener. But she knew she’d probably see her friend later – pub nights at the People’s Republik had become one of the few times the harried grad students got to hang, though even these congenial evenings were becoming more sporadic as the term ground on. The week before, Dulcie recalled, Trista hadn’t even made it to the Republik, and Chris had spent the evening dissecting the Sox pitching prospects with her boyfriend, Jerry. Well, it wasn’t like Tris would have anything to add to what Suze had said, and Dulcie had no time to file a report about something that she might have misunderstood anyway. She had a student waiting, and so she descended into the subterranean warren of offices that she shared with most of the department’s grad students, and particularly with Lloyd Pruitt.
‘Hey, Lloyd.’ She opened the door to the sight of Lloyd’s balding pate. Only twenty-four, Lloyd had the face of a teenager – but the scalp of a fifty-year-old. Unlike Chelowski, Lloyd didn’t resort to a comb-over. He didn’t need to: despite his unprepossessing looks, he had managed to secure the heart of Raleigh Hall, Dulcie’s senior tutee. It was a blatant breach of university rules, but it seemed to be working. Perhaps, thought Dulcie, because Lloyd was such a genuinely nice guy.
‘’Scuse me?’ Dulcie said. Lloyd had muttered something, but since he hadn’t lifted his face from the blue book in front of him, Dulcie had no idea what it was.
‘Your student – big girl? – came by. Philomena?’ Lloyd looked up, his pale face drawn. ‘She came by. I told her you’d be here in a few, but she said she couldn’t wait. Couldn’t stay for her tutorial even if you were here, she said. She was going to leave a note.’
‘Great.’ She didn’t mean it, nor did she mean to cause the look of distress that passed over her office-mate’s face as she slumped into her desk chair. ‘Sorry, I just sort of winged it in a report about her and was hoping to actually catch up. It’s just been that kind of morning. You know that poster? The one about the missing girl?’
‘Uh huh.’ He made a few more marks on the student exam book. ‘Carrie Mines? Not one of ours.’
‘You knew her?’ Dulcie looked over a little surprised. So she had looked familiar.
‘So did you. She was supposed to be in your English 10 section, remember? Last fall? We were all taking on extra students, but you lucked out.’ That was because she’d been given Raleigh as a senior honors student. A fact that must have hit them both at once. ‘I mean, I’m glad you did. And so are your students.’ He still avoided saying his girlfriend’s name in public. ‘But Carrie was sort of a troublemaker. Flighty, at least. I forget the details, but she ended up changing her concentration, I believe. Wanted to spend more time on some extracurricular or something. At any rate, I think she dropped the course.’
‘Did any of us talk to her?’ Dulcie was afraid to ask. ‘I mean, ask her what was wrong?’
‘Not unless you did.’ Lloyd didn’t sound concerned as he reached for a second blue book. Students dropped out, changed majors, all the time, but grading was eternal. ‘I mean, she would have been your responsibility.’
‘My responsibility.’ The words carried a horrible chill. ‘And now she’s missing.’
‘Dulcie, what’s wrong?’ Something must have carried on her voice. ‘We don’t know what’s going on, and whatever it is, it probably has nothing to do with the department or last year’s course. She was a frosh, then. A baby. They cruise concentrations like . . . like . . . mayflies.’
It wasn’t like Lloyd to mix a metaphor. ‘Lloyd, you know something else, don’t you?’ The sense of dread had settled into her stomach, cold and hard. ‘Tell.’
‘It’s probably nothing.’
‘Lloyd . . .’
‘OK, like I said, it’s probably nothing. But I think there might be a connection to our own little mystery.’
‘Lloyd!’
‘Dimitri.’ Lloyd said their colleague’s name like it was obvious. ‘I mean, he went absent today, too. And I think he may have been tutoring her.’
‘In English?’ Dimitri had only transferred to the department the past year. But her confusion was a small price to pay for the wave of relief that washed over her.
‘Hey, even non-concentrators have got to take a few classes, right? Chaucer?’
‘Actually not,’ Dulcie admitted. Lloyd had come from Yale, and, in comparison, Dulcie was a little embarrassed for her Alma Mater. Besides, Dimitri’s area of expertise – the hard-boiled detective fiction of the 1920s and ’30s – barely overlapped with the basic canon. ‘But, maybe she took something for fun. His noir seminar or something. At any rate, are you sure?’
‘No, I’m not. But I seem to recall him saying her name. And he’d just arrived. Maybe he got saddled with her somehow.’
‘Could you find out?’
‘Yeah, sure. I think I’ve still got those assignments in my email.’ He reached for his laptop and, in the process, knocked over a travel mug. ‘Damn!’
Dulcie leaped up and reached for the pile of blue books. Lloyd, meanwhile, pulled a cache of paper napkins from a drawer and began mopping his desk.
‘I’m sorry, Lloyd. I shouldn’t distract you.’ Dulcie placed the blue books on the dry side of the desk. ‘Besides, you’ve given me an idea.’
As Lloyd left the office to fetch some paper towels, Dulcie powered up her own laptop. Email – of course – the modern equivalent of the telegram. In general, Dulcie tried to avoid contacting students electronically. Not because of the illusion of accessibility it created, although Dulcie had heard enough grumbling to know that some undergrads did think their tutors should be available 24/7. No, for her, it was the strange lack of affect in an email. However, in this case . . .
Or was she copping out? Even a phone message had more emotion in it. A few clicks settled it. The university directory listed an email for a Carrie A. Mines, but no phone. Off-campus students weren’t on the university exchange. Just as well, Dulcie told herself. The police would have tried to call. And in truth, she admitted as she opened a new window, she didn’t want to phone the girl. What would she say to a student she hadn’t seen in a year? Email would be perfect.
Hi Carrie, she typed. Don’t know if you remember me, but I wanted to touch base. Is everything OK? As Lloyd came back, a wad of damp towel in his hand, she hit send, and then opened another note.
Corkie – Sorry to have missed you. We have midterm reports due! Let’s resched? Simple, sweet, and to the point. But no blinking reply came, and she was still staring at the screen when Lloyd, with a loud sigh, dumped the coffee-colored towels in the wastebasket. He looked harried, and although she had grading of her own, Dulcie sensed he’d be happier by himself. Besides, sending those emails had freed her.
‘So, Corkie isn’t coming back, right?’ He nodded, distracted.
‘Great!’ She jumped up and grabbed her bag. This time, she meant it.
Halfway up the stairs, she paused to thumb in the digits. Corkie was a good student – not as brilliant as Raleigh, perhaps, but bright and amenable to hard work. If anything, Dulcie thought, the fresh-faced student had been a little too enthusiastic. The previous year, she’d told Dulcie, she’d let herself get overextended; it was easy, with so many extracurricular competing for attention. And fresh off academic probation, Corkie couldn’t really afford to miss their weekly tutorials. Dulcie would have to keep after her. But since the errant junior had canceled and wasn’t responding to her tutor, Dulcie was going to seize the moment.
‘Sweetie? It’s me.’ She wasn’t being grammatical, but Chris wouldn’t care. ‘My day just opened up. Wanna have lunch?’ She paused. ‘Breakfast?’ With Chris’s crazy schedule, it was always possible that he had gone back to sleep. But when they’d talked earlier, he’d made some noise about being free, hadn’t he?
That had been before Dulcie had brought up her latest theory, and before he’d dashed it to the ground, leaving her a little too miffed to want to make plans. But he’d been tired, and even with his new tutoring gig he’d been stressed about money recently, too. And she, Dulcie could now see, had been a little overzealous. After all, Chris had been right. Dulcie had been through a couple of run-ins with the police recently. The last one, which had resulted in the retirement of her first thesis adviser, Professor William Alfred Bullock, had nearly taken her life. Now that she had a little distance on the morning’s conversation, she could see how maybe she had gone too far. Well, that was fine. As soon as she saw Chris, she’d explain. Or, no, she’d apologize. As soon as he called her back.
She’d reached the top of the stairs as the church bells sounded the hour, and she stood to the side, letting the rush of students pass by. A steady stream flowed into the Science Center, its glass and chrome livened by the variety of their late-winter attire. Ahead of her, dozens of students took to the paths across the Yard, funneled on to the pavement by the mud and last patches of melting snow. One student, either braver or running farther behind than his colleagues, took off across what would soon be lawn, splashing up brown water as he ran. Over by University Hall, a young woman waved as he made it back to solid ground and took her in his arms. The campus was alive, and Dulcie loved it.
The sound of an old-fashioned telephone ringer broke her reverie, and Dulcie put the phone up to her ear. ‘Chris?’
‘Why? Is he in trouble?’ The voice on the other end rose in concern.
‘Hi, Lucy.’ Dulcie rarely called her mother by anything but her first name, but that didn’t stop her mother from worrying about her only child. ‘No, everything’s fine.’
‘And you two?’ Lucy paused, and Dulcie imagined she could hear the wind through the trees. In truth, Lucy would probably be calling from the commune’s kitchen, since the eco-friendly yurt they had shared didn’t have a phone. But whenever Dulcie thought of her home, she thought of the great, stately pines that had served as her first study hall.
‘We’re fine.’ Dulcie paused. Knowing her mother wanted her to ask didn’t make it any easier. ‘Why? What’s up?’
‘Nothing, dear.’ Dulcie could hear her mother fussing with something. Had she called while cooking? ‘Nothing important.’
‘Mom . . .’ Lucy Schwartz undoubtedly missed her daughter, but her means of expressing her empty-nest loneliness could be annoying at times. ‘Did you have another dream? Did Karma see something in the I Ching?’ Another silence. ‘Were you two doing peyote again?’
‘It’s a vision quest, dear. When you say it like that, it sounds somewhat tawdry.’
Dulcie waited. If Chris was trying to reach her, she’d hear the call-waiting tone and cut her mother short.
‘I think of it as assisted dreaming, really. Castaneda wrote quite a bit about it back in the seventies, Dulcie. Don’t you remember any of your early reading? I could send you his books.’
‘Lucy, I’m waiting for a call from Chris.’ Also, she realized as her stomach growled, she was hungry. ‘And this must be costing you a fortune. Was there something you needed to tell me? I can call you back tonight—’
‘No, no, tonight we’ve got our circle. It’s the full moon, you know.’ Dulcie didn’t. In the city, she tended to lose track of the lunar calendar. ‘And now that I have Merlin, I want to make sure I observe the correct ceremonies.’
‘Merlin?’ Dulcie hesitated. Her mother hadn’t had a boyfriend for years. She supposed she ought to be happy for her. ‘Is he new to the community?’
‘Oh, Jane – Moonthrush – couldn’t handle him any more. He hissed and spit at her.’
‘Merlin’s a cat.’ Dulcie found herself smiling. Her mother had a pet!
‘In this life.’ Lucy was back on solid ground. ‘I’m quite sure he’s an old soul, though. He has so much to teach me, you know. I’ve been dreaming, and I’m even thinking of taking out my tarot cards again, which I’m sure came from him. In another century, the authorities would have said he was my familiar. Did you know that as many cats were burned as witches as women were, both in Colonial times and back in England?’
‘Yes, actually I did.’ Lucy’s predilection for books on magic had overlapped with the basic English department curriculum on Puritan New England. ‘Let me guess. Is Merlin a black cat?’
‘I knew you had the gift! I had my first visions at a much younger age, of course. But your father—’
