True Grey (8 page)

‘S
o, like, is Professor Rutledge saying that “Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God” is, like, a joke or something?'

Dulcie took a deep breath to keep from rolling her eyes. Not even the sun shining in from the courtyard could pierce Didi Givency's foggy thought process.

‘What the professor is trying to do, Didi,' Dulcie spoke slowly, hoping that some of her words would get through the freshman's perfect bob, ‘is to try to show the line of influence, through the use of metaphor and hyperbole.'

‘Which one is metaphor again?' The shellacked freshman turned and asked her neighbor, as if Dulcie weren't sitting at the head of the table, five feet away. Of course, her neighbor was Andrew Geisner. Six-foot-two and handsome enough that most of the women in the class would take any opportunity to turn toward him. ‘The “as if” one?'

Dulcie sighed. She knew that she shouldn't, and that she should hide her frustration. To his credit, Andrew looked a bit abashed at the attention, ducking those marvelous cheekbones down as if he could hide behind his surfer-blond hair. The poor girl didn't stand a chance. With so much else going on, however, Dulcie was having trouble summoning the patience to deal.

‘A metaphor is a figure of speech . . .' Thalia, the sophomore across the table, took up the gauntlet, answering the question in her usual pedantic manner. Slightly too loud, definitely condescending, but right now, a life saver, Dulcie thought. She smiled and nodded for the skinny sophomore to continue. ‘A description that's not literally applicable – do we all understand “literally”?'

This was going too far. Dulcie was about to interrupt her, when she realized that several of her students were staring at the bespectacled student with rapt attention. Very well, she not only had been outmanoeuvred as a scholar, now she was being shown up as a teacher. Maybe if Thalia kept rambling on, they'd actually learn something. Besides, she thought as she glanced at the clock, the section had only ten more minutes to go.

‘But what about the whole “as” and “like” thing?' Didi really shouldn't talk and chew gum at the same time, Dulcie thought. How did a girl like Didi get into university?

‘
Dulcie.
' She didn't need the feline reminder to make her realize just how uncharitable her thoughts had become. Maybe the girl was a chemistry whizz. Maybe that perfectly done hair sheltered the brain of a mathematician, one who had chosen to broaden her education with a literature survey course.

Maybe, the morning's interaction coming back to her, she didn't know her role. What did Esmé mean, anyway? And what was the relationship between her new pet and Mr Grey? The voices in the room faded into the background as Dulcie pondered her feline messengers. She had wondered why Mr Grey had not warned her about this Sloane Harquist person. Now she had to ask what part Esmé played in everything.

‘Ms Schwartz?' She came back to life to find everyone staring at her.

‘Sorry.' She ducked her head. ‘Is everything clear now, Didi?'

The freshman shrugged. From the smug look on Thalia's face, she'd probably fielded several other questions from her classmates while Dulcie daydreamed. Dulcie couldn't help it. The sophomore annoyed her.

‘Great. So, Thalia?' She turned toward the sophomore, trying to keep her voice level. ‘Why don't you share your thoughts on the burgeoning anti-American strain in the country's first century?'

The skinny girl opened her mouth, and then closed it, and Dulcie immediately felt a pang of guilt. Here, sitting around the table in what was supposed to be a collegial gathering, she had intentionally tripped one of her students up. This week's lecture had dealt with the new republic's growing pride in itself, its sense of itself as something fresh and new. Something very different from the Old World.

As the color rose to Thalia's thick-framed glasses, Dulcie decided to bail her out. ‘Our class has only touched on it, but try to recall what we read of Thomas Paine's writings. In the wake of war in Europe, the United States fell into political turmoil. France, after all, had been our ally – and England our enemy. But some of the émigré writers who came here looking for a fresh start found something very different.'

Around the table, twelve pairs of eyes were watching her, when it hit her. She couldn't talk about the discrimination that the author of
The Ravages
had faced. She couldn't discuss the persecution that led her to disguise her writing, perhaps write in hiding. She had no verified literary examples to offer them – no proof. But she was Dulcinea Schwartz, fifth-year doctoral candidate. She was not going to be daunted by an English 10 section.

‘Sophie.' The ponytailed sophomore was always reliable. ‘Does this spark any ideas?'

‘Actually, it does.'

Dulcie smiled. Sophie was one of her best students, the kind Dulcie liked to encourage, but between her weight and a tendency toward acne, she usually hid behind her long, thick hair. Maybe the ponytail was a sign that she was becoming more sure of herself, Dulcie mused, happy for an opportunity to coax the chubby girl out of her shell.

‘If you compare the political essays of the early eighteen hundreds with those from only a few years earlier . . .' Sophie was nailing it, drawing on some of the same raw material Dulcie had read. For a moment, Dulcie felt a twinge of jealousy. Once her skin cleared up, would this girl be threatening her too? Making her own name in Dulcie's area of expertise?

No, she shook her head slightly. To think like that was madness. That would be like . . . well, maybe a little bit like Mr Grey feeling defensive about Esmé. Though, to hear the young cat tell it, some tension had developed. Something like the tension that now ran up her back, raking the small hairs on her neck as if claws had been drawn over them.

Dulcie felt her color rising and turned away from the table, ever so slightly. From here, she could see the left side of the courtyard. Not far from the hour, already students were crossing – heading from their rooms to class or over to the dining hall. A tall, dark-haired man wandered into view and paused, as if enjoying the sun. Rafe? Yes, it looked like the senior tutor. He must be taking a breather from cleaning the suite. Having such an important guest might be trying – especially when that VIP was your own ex.

Moments later, the black girl – Darlene – appeared from the same direction. They must have made up after all. The girl – young woman, she corrected herself – was too far away for Dulcie to see her face. And she was still walking quickly, her long legs crossing the courtyard with the minimum strides necessary. There was something different about her, though. Maybe it was the way she was carrying herself, upright and confident. Maybe it was the way her arms swung by her sides. Dulcie had a strong sense that the young woman wasn't crying any more.

If the couple had been enjoying a make-up tryst, they'd finished just in time. Moments after Darlene had disappeared from the courtyard, she saw another figure crossing the courtyard. Short and solid, the human version of the brick walls that surrounded them, assistant dean Robert Haitner huffed and puffed as he strode, head down and purposeful, toward the dining hall. He was wearing a trench coat, way too warm for this weather even if it hung open and loose, making Dulcie wonder if this was his attempt at fashion. Despite his suspiciously thick, dark hair, the dean was no longer a young man. Surely, at his age – from here, she guessed he was forty-five or fifty – he didn't have to try so hard. Then again, maybe being only an associate dean meant he had to try harder.

‘Ms Schwartz?' She was called back to herself. Once again, all eyes were on her.

‘I'm sorry, folks.' She wasn't going to make the same mistake. These were young scholars, her students. ‘I've been caught up in issues in my own thesis, and I guess I've been distracted.' She paused, considering how to make amends. ‘Does anyone have a specific question for me?' As if on cue, the clock started chiming. The hour was over. ‘I'd be happy to stay later, if anyone would like my undivided attention.'

For a moment, Sophie looked like she was about to say something, and Dulcie smiled at the girl in what she hoped was an encouraging manner. Then the bell chimed again, and as one her students stood, gathering books and notebooks together. Saturdays were hard that way, and Dulcie kicked herself for her lapses. This was her job, what she needed to be focusing on. She was good at it.

‘Was that odd or what?' She heard one of her students ask, his identity masked as they funneled into the doorway. ‘I guess somebody had a hangover today.'

L
unch. That was probably what she needed, Dulcie decided. Lunch or a nap. But the thought that she was going to be confronting Melinda Sloane Harquist in only a few hours was turning what might be incipient hunger pangs into mild queasiness. And as for a nap, well, while Mr Grey might approve, the thought of getting home and relaxing enough to snooze seemed unlikely.

Gathering her own papers together in the quiet of the empty room, Dulcie thought about Darlene and Rafe – and about calling Chris. Her boyfriend hadn't gotten home before she left, but there was the chance that he was puttering around now. Then again, he may very well have gone to sleep in the last hour and a half. Over the past year, they'd gotten into a routine: when he worked nights, he'd call her when he awoke. Better to get back into that habit, Dulcie told herself. As much as she wanted to make sure they had made up, she should let the poor guy rest.

On any other day, she would head to the library. Even with the Mildon closed to her, she could lose herself, deep in the subterranean stacks. The quiet, the books, that was what she'd lived for. Today, however, whenever she thought of her thesis – of
The Ravages of Umbria –
all she could think of was what might have been.

‘Dulcie Schwartz, you're acting like a clueless kitten,' she said to herself finally, heaving her bag on to her shoulder. And with a determination that Esmé would have been proud of, she decided to head into the Square and get some lunch.

The moment she stepped out of Dardley, Dulcie felt better. The September day had warmed into perfection, the first hint of autumn color adding a golden accent to a startlingly blue sky. As she walked, Dulcie shed the sweater she'd been wearing – a rough oatmeal-colored cardigan Lucy had knit – and spread her arms. The day was warm, almost unnaturally so. Her mother was, at the very least, well intentioned. Everything would work out.

‘Dulcie! There you are.'

At the sound of her name, Dulcie looked up to see Lloyd barreling down the walkway, waving his arms. She waved back and waited until he reached her, panting.

‘I've been trying to call you.' Lloyd wiped a hand over his sweaty forehead. ‘I'm just glad I remembered your section.'

‘Why? What's going on?' As she talked, Dulcie reached into her bag. She'd turned her phone off before the section started. As it booted up, she saw that she had four messages waiting, all from Lloyd. ‘Is it Chris?' Suddenly the day seemed cold. ‘Is anyone hurt?'

‘No, no. Nothing like that.' Lloyd leaned over, with his hands on his thighs. Dulcie had never seen her pudgy office mate out of breath before. Then again, she'd never seen him run. ‘Didn't mean to scare you.'

Dulcie exhaled, suddenly aware that she had been holding her breath, and waited while Lloyd caught his.

‘It's Rafe Hutchins,' he said finally. ‘There's been, well, I guess there have been some problems.'

‘Rafe?' She had spoken to the senior tutor barely an hour ago. ‘But I was just talking to him.'

Lloyd shook his head. ‘I don't know, Dulcie. Something's come up, and he called me about fifteen minutes ago. I think it's got to do with the dean – Dean Haitner.'

‘I just saw him go by, too.' Dulcie felt a twinge of remorse. Rafe had agreed to do her a favor, because of his friendship with Lloyd. Had the dean somehow found out about it and decided to punish the tutor? Dulcie didn't know the man, but she'd heard about his ego. She wouldn't want to cross him, and she certainly didn't want to be the cause of someone else getting stuck in the doghouse. ‘I didn't introduce myself though.'

Lloyd stopped her before she could continue. ‘It's not you. It's this Melinda. I gather she's been getting threats. Rafe said he didn't know the details. “Nobody tells me anything,” is what he said. But the dean is up in arms about her safety and adamant that she not be “bothered”. So, well, I know that Rafe said he'd sneak you in . . .'

‘No, I understand.' Suddenly the day wasn't quite so fine. Still, she managed to force her face back into a smile. ‘I appreciate you asking for me in the first place.'

‘It shouldn't have been a big deal.' Lloyd looked as bothered as she felt, the color coming back into his face as his breathing settled. ‘I mean, come on, you've published already. And she's just another postgrad.'

‘Not quite.' The smile faded. ‘She's got friends – or at least
a
friend – in the dean's office. And, well, she's got everything in the Mildon on lockdown. At least, everything I care about.'

‘This isn't right.' Lloyd looked past her, toward Dardley. ‘Look, I've got an idea.'

Dulcie nodded, waiting.

‘We're here. Why don't we both go over there now? I'll talk to Rafe, and if you're there – well, nobody is going to see you as a threat. For starters, you're a member of the university community. You're my office mate, and we're visiting Rafe. And, well, maybe she's already arrived, in which case, popping in to say hi would be the most natural thing in the world.'

‘Lloyd, you're positively devious.' Dulcie felt her high spirits returning. ‘Raleigh is one lucky girl.'