Authors: Clea Simon
‘Great.’ Luke’s eyes lit up when he smiled. ‘But let’s arm you properly for battle. I want to find out a little more about these computer worms and how they work. I want you to be able to march right in there and explain how you couldn’t have done whatever they’re saying you’re falsely accused of.’ Dulcie had a brief urge to correct his phrasing, but she was enjoying his enthusiasm – and his attention – too much to give in to it. ‘You know who you should talk to about this?’ He was rummaging in his canvas briefcase now, obviously looking for a phone book or cell. ‘Stacia – Alana’s friend.’
Dulcie was grateful that he couldn’t see her face fall.
‘She may look like an airhead, but she actually knows quite a lot about computers.’ He continued rooting around in the bag. ‘She’s really sharp.’
Great, so she’s not only beautiful, she’s smart, too, Dulcie thought as she worked on composing her face. By the time Luke had surfaced with his cell phone, she believed she looked cool as a cucumber, or an unencumbered client.
‘Here’s her number.’ He scribbled on the bottom of the page and tore it off. ‘Have we covered everything?’
As much as she now hated Stacia, Dulcie remembered her promise to look for the compromising photos. Despite Stacia’s movie-star looks, she was human, too; they were both single women, trying to make their way in a rough world – and Stacia was only trying to look out for her friend. ‘Actually, there’s something else, Luke. I really would like to look at Tim’s laptop, if you don’t mind. I think he used my computer and messed up a file, and I’d like to take a peek at it.’ Considering what might be on it, she didn’t want to be any more specific.
‘Yeah, sorry, I know you’d mentioned it before. I’ll bring it over when I pick up the rest of Tim’s stuff, if that’s OK. It’s funny, Stacia asking about it was how I found out she’s into computers.’
Dulcie almost told him not to bother. If Stacia had already seen the laptop, maybe she had already found – and deleted – any compromising files. But then she remembered her own compromised file – and her lost photo. Maybe there was a virus on Tim’s computer that he’d put on hers, and maybe she had sent it to Priority without knowing about it. At least, if she could trace it to her late room-mate’s computer, she wouldn’t be liable, would she? Was Typhoid Mary ever cleared of evil intent?
Luke was scribbling on a form and seemed unaware of the shift in his erstwhile client’s mood. When he looked up, he was still grinning.
‘OK, so, forty-five minutes. That’ll be $750.’
Dulcie blanched.
‘Bad joke! Bad joke, sorry. But you do have to sign, so they know I’m not just sitting in here flirting with you. And, well, you don’t have to, but I would like the chance to take you to dinner. Maybe after I finish packing up Tim’s stuff?’
‘Maybe.’ She signed her name and stood to go. Just what she needed, another dinner date with another man who wanted another woman. ‘But I’ve got to take care of this business first. Thanks for this, though. You’ve really helped me figure out where I stand legally.’ And with you, she almost added, as she hurried away.
Sixteen
The day had returned to its first promise: breezy, not too hot, the deep-blue sky holding a hint of autumn to come. The walk back into Harvard Square was a pleasure, the dream summer day. But Dulcie had too much on her mind to enjoy the obvious comparisons. If she wanted her interior landscape to be this beautiful, there was only one place to go. Sliding her ID through the silver gate, she smiled at the guard and ducked into the tiny back entrance of the library. Nothing could get to her here.
The cool hush of the library greeted her like an old friend, as did some of her actual old friends. Mona, at the circulation desk, nodded and smiled as she walked past. Frank, who had been working on his dissertation since the Paleozoic, looked up as her flip-flops slapped softly on the marble steps. In minutes, she was deep in the stacks, descending below ground level to where the British history books were stored. Context, that’s what she needed. If she could immerse herself more fully in the time frame of
The Ravages of Umbria
, maybe she would find a clue about why it mattered so to her. How many ‘she-authors’ were writing then, exactly? How many of their works had been lost to the ravages of time, if not to evil monks and critics? Research, not gut instinct, was the key.
She’d use this time to catch up on her colleagues. Maybe she’d become so involved in her primary sources that she’d lost track of what other scholars were doing, what they were thinking and writing about.
Not that Dulcie wanted anybody else’s ideas. This wasn’t just Lucy’s DIY ethos, ingrained into her daughter through years of making her own everything, from clothes to candles. Coming, as she did, from a decidedly non-traditional background, Dulcie also knew she’d be more open to accusations of plagiarism, if she wrote a line that echoed another, published paper. The spectre of such accusations hovered over the entire department, like its own jealous ghost. Trista had confessed that she had nightmares which Dickens scholars from the past 150 years began pounding on her door, demanding co-bylines. She woke up sweating, she’d told Dulcie, shaking with the uncontrollable urge to footnote everything.
But sometimes reading academic works could snap Dulcie into
thinking
more like an academic. Mr Grey had told her to look carefully at relationships. She recalled that charming photo, cat inverted, one fang exposed. Well, maybe she wasn’t looking from the right angle.
But halfway through a journal article, ‘Exemplary Characters in the Middle Gothic Novel’,
Dulcie wanted to throw up her hands. Yes, Demetria, Hermetria’s attendant, was a bit too perfect. So what? Did Dulcie care that she was a stereotype, a flat cut-out of a character, particularly compared to the full-blooded Hermetria? She let the book fall flat and shut her eyes. So much of this had been written about, the character types analyzed to death. Yes, the supernatural themes were a reaction to increasing industrialization, valuing emotion over pure intellect. Yes, the Gothic novel was a response to the Enlightenment; the beginning of Romanticism, with all the connotations that entailed. But the work to which she had decided to devote her academic career was more than what she was finding in these papers, wasn’t it?
Dulcie thought of all the books she loved and tried to take some notes. It would help if she could figure out
why
she so adored these ghost stories and horror tales. It wasn’t just . . . she paused, afraid of continuing. It wasn’t just because they were
fun
, was it? Folding her arms on the study carrel in front of her, she let her head sink down. Had she wasted two years of her postgrad life, not to mention all those undergrad semesters, trying to justify a simple diversion?
There had to be more in her attraction to the genre. There had to be. She went back to reading. Two hours later, she was more lost than ever. She was also famished. Breakfast had been a long time ago. But the extra time had paid off, and rather than wait for the elevator she hit the stairwell to mull it over. It was barely a thought, more of a whim. But, some vague, half-starved brainwaves were coming together. As she climbed the stairs, she looked around. The roots of her beloved Widener reached back to the eighteenth century. Libraries weren’t public places then, or even well organized. But the books she adored had launched the system she knew so well. Even with the rise of chapbooks, the 1700s’ equivalent of mass-market paperbacks, novels were expensive. And so readers, largely women, had gathered to share and circulate the newest adventures. Maybe those gatherings – those early book groups – were the key, the basis for that almost sisterly relationship. Life hadn’t been easy in those days, before antibiotics, painkillers, or the widespread use of flush toilets; but then, as today, the thrill of sinking into a good book had offered an escape, and something to share, for those who could read.
And that hadn’t included too many people, she admitted to herself, as she faced the final flight of stairs. In some ways, access to literature was as narrow as, well, Widener. Not just in the sense of limited access to the university either. Because of the cavernous library’s strange layout only two elevators serviced all ten levels, and Dulcie rarely bothered to wait. She’d forgotten what a drag this could be though, particularly in flip-flops. Ah, well, what she had found had been worth the slog. If she could think of a way to tie in the early Goths to the rise of literacy among the middle classes, or simply among women, she might just have a thesis yet. Could Hermetria be a stand-in for the average reader? Or, more likely, the mealy-mouthed Demetria? Dulcie mulled the idea over as she emerged from the stairwell into the small entrance chamber that separated the stacks from the Circulation room.
Maybe she was too much in the past, she thought as she walked, not taking any notice of the three marble steps that led down to Circulation. Maybe – she caught herself as she began to slip, her flip-flop taking off ahead of her like a small rubber glider. Those marble steps, few as they were, were worn to a concave polish, and they would be the death of her if she wasn’t careful. Hoping nobody had noticed, Dulcie slipped the other sandal off and stepped carefully down the remaining slick stones, retrieving the errant flip-flop and donning both again, as she stepped into Circulation. No, nobody had noticed. The big room was a buzz of activity, but all of it focused around the checkout desk where Mona, the queen bee, reigned supreme. Half a dozen people – unusual for a summer day – had clustered around her friend’s computer terminal, and even their lowered voices made an audible buzz.
‘What’s going on?’ She turned toward Frank, who was craning his neck to see.
‘I’m not sure. Something with the system.’ They both turned as one of the hovering men pulled out a cell phone and started talking.
‘Wow . . .’ Frank was whispering and Dulcie didn’t need to ask why: a cell phone in use and nobody challenging it? This must be official, and it must be serious.
‘I’m so glad I don’t have anything to check out,’ Dulcie whispered back. ‘But still . . .’ She walked up to Mona’s desk and waited until she could catch the librarian’s eye. ‘What’s up?’
‘I’ve been invaded!’ Mona, a large woman, had a flair for the dramatic. ‘By aliens!’ Her bright-red lipstick exaggerated her grimace of disgust. Perhaps to show off her bejeweled nails, she also raised both hands in the air in exasperation. ‘It’s crazy.’
‘Bookworms?’ Dulcie said with a smile. While the paper-eating pests had been the scourge of libraries in the past, she doubted they’d survive in such a well-kept library.
But Mona opened her mouth with a look of shock and horror. Her voice, when it came back, was appalled. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘It was a joke. Sorry.’ Dulcie tried to explain. ‘You know, bookworms in a library?’
‘That’s not very funny right now.’ Mona glared, but then motioned to her friend. ‘Come over here.’ With a glance at the two officials, the flamboyant librarian walked to the end of the circulation counter unnoticed, gesturing for Dulcie to follow. ‘Seriously, Dulcie, do you know anything?’
‘About what? What’s going on?’ This was more baffling by the minute.
‘I’m sorry,’ Mona said to nobody in particular – and rather more loudly than was usual for a career librarian, ‘we cannot check out materials just at present.’ She looked back toward her terminal. Nobody was paying attention. ‘I can’t . . . I’m not supposed to say anything. But what you said . . .’
‘What?’ Dulcie was bursting.
‘We’re being hacked, Dulcie. Someone has been trying to feed a bug into the university computer system!’
Mona wouldn’t tell Dulcie any more details – ‘I can’t, Dulcie, I’ve been told it’s worth my job!’ – but that didn’t stop Dulcie’s imagination from filling in the details. Computers were going nuts all over town: at Priority, a computer worm or virus program had allowed someone in the system to embezzle funds; and now this. But what would anyone gain from hacking into the university library? Reduction of overdue fines? Dulcie recalled a scandal from years before. A student had been smuggling out rare books, selling them on eBay for huge amounts. But that had been old-fashioned stealing, involving backpacks with false bottoms, not technical expertise.
She thought again of her own corrupted computer file. Maybe it hadn’t come from something Tim had typed in or from Priority. Chris had mentioned that the university had a clear path into her own system. Maybe whatever was eating away at the library computer had messed up her picture of Mr Grey. It seemed unlikely though; her system was still working, after all. But she made a mental note to call Chris as soon as she got home. She couldn’t afford to take her laptop to a professional repair place, certainly not until she got another job. But he’d said if she found anything he’d come by.
She could always call Stacia, she thought with a grimace. Luke had seemed truly impressed with the sleek brunette’s computer expertise. She rejected the idea immediately. No, that woman and her clique had humiliated Dulcie enough for one summer. Chris it was. She could sweeten the deal with talk about Suze, too. Her old friend was spending too much time in the library, even for a law student. It was only healthy for one of them to have a love life.
The phone was ringing as Dulcie unlocked her front door. By the time she had raced up the stairs, the answering machine had kicked in. The male voice speaking didn’t sound like anyone she knew.
‘Ms Schwartz, I’m calling from Priority Insurance.’ Oh, great. She sank on to the sofa and waited for her fate to be pronounced into a cheap answering machine. ‘We’d like you to come into work tomorrow. We need to speak with you first, and would like you to report to Conference Room B at nine a.m. But there is no reason for you not to continue your clerical duties at Priority, and we’d appreciate it if you were able to resume these duties tomorrow, after our meeting.’ That was it. No name, no number to call back. No waiting to see if she still
wanted
their stupid job. But then again, she didn’t need to threaten them with legal action, either. It was a stupid job, but it sounded like it was
her
stupid job, if she wanted it.