Grey Zone (5 page)

‘Oh, Corkie's doing fine too.' Across the table, Lloyd sank a little lower in his chair. A sharp kick from Trista brought Dulcie back to reality. ‘I mean, I have found Ms McCorkle, Philomena McCorkle, to be an engaged and enthusiastic student.' She kept talking, piling on the jargon while quickly looking through her notes. Somewhere she had an actual report on the junior honors candidate, not that the dry departmentalese would do her student justice. Corkie had been assigned to her in January, after returning from a semester's leave. While Dulcie wasn't sure of the details about why the cheery Midwesterner had taken time off, she suspected it had done her student good. The junior, who would be writing a junior paper – a kind of pre-thesis – under Dulcie's guidance, was both smart and directed. ‘While she has some notable gaps in her knowledge of the core canon— Ah, here we are.' She paused and looked up. Lloyd had his hand over his face, but she could have sworn he was laughing.

‘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

T
rista 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.