Grey Zone (25 page)

Neither of which she had. ‘Dulcie Schwartz,' she reprimanded herself softly, ‘for a grad student, you've been quite careless of documentation.'

It was time for a break. ‘At least, a change of scene,' she murmured to the dull air. Packing up her bag, she headed for the reading room, where she snagged one of the comfy chairs. Despite its purported purpose, the reading room was marginally noisier than the stacks. But it had the advantage of wireless Internet. If she no longer had the ambiguous notes, she could at least do some real-time research. Booting her laptop back up, she logged into the university system and typed in the words that really interested her: ‘sexual harassment' and ‘student/professor.'

The first references that came up were cases. Newspaper headlines screaming about one professor after another who had taken advantage of some student. Dulcie skimmed these, grateful that so few were here at the university and curious to see that a smattering of women in authority had been accused.

What interested her more were a series of pieces on the psychology of the crime. Sexual harassment, she read, had more to do with power and control than with sexual attraction or desire. It involved the subjugation of the victim, as the harasser asserted his – or her – will in the most intimate of ways.

Dulcie shuddered, reading this. She knew all too well how much control those in authority could have over their students. Even within the bounds of the accepted relationship, Chelowski had a frightening amount of power. One bad report from him could threaten her standing in the department. And from there, she could be overlooked for grants or teaching positions. It was terrifying, really. At least, as a grad student, she would have some recourse: as long as everything was above board, a student could object. File a grievance and have the chance to argue her side. But would it really help? Wouldn't the student be harmed simply by the accusation?

Dulcie tried to imagine filing a complaint. Despite years in the department, she could easily envision the result: overworked junior staff grumbling about the paperwork and the time required. A few other professors, probably junior staff, would have to make room in their schedules for a hearing, or to review her work. She'd be seen as ‘a bother,' as a student who ‘caused trouble,' even if she were cleared. Even if those feelings were never validated, they would weigh in on a thousand little choices: the assignment of students or offices. The selection to certain committees: the kinds of appointments that gave graduate students a chance to shine. The subtle shuffling that set some post-docs up for high-profile careers and relegated others to the boondocks – or drummed them out of academia forever. The future seemed suddenly clear: if she, if any student, angered those in authority, there was a good chance she would not only be tainted for the rest of her time here, but derailed professionally.

‘Today is the first day of the rest of your life,' she muttered, aware for the first time of the negative implications of the hackneyed slogan. ‘Ugh.'

The thought was disgusting, and Dulcie suddenly felt the need for air. She stood, pushing her chair back in the process – and bumping it into a standing form behind her.

‘Hey!'

She turned to see a pimply young man glaring at her. He had a bound volume in hand: the walls behind her held the last century's
Crimson
.

‘Oh, Ms Schwartz! I'm sorry. Excuse me.'

It had all happened so fast; she stumbled over her own words. ‘No, no, please,' she said. ‘It was my fault. I'm sorry.'

‘Well, I should have been more aware.' He was blushing now, the rising flush clashing badly with his acne.

‘No, really.' She smiled and tried to remember his name. English 10, a year or two before, she vaguely recalled. ‘Please, I'm sorry I disturbed you.' She pulled her chair forward to make more room, and with some more smiling and nodding, got back to her laptop.

But despite the deep cushions and the well-worn leather of the coveted club chair, Dulcie found it difficult to get comfortable. That student – Tom? Tim? – had unsettled her. Somehow, she had never really thought about her own status, her own position as a person in authority with power over someone else's life. Until now, teaching had been a part of her education. A necessary evil. A few of her students, like Raleigh, had been great – the experience of teaching adding both to her own understanding of the material and to her trove of friends. With Carrie, she'd had a belated awakening, becoming more aware of her responsibility to these younger students. But the flip side? That had escaped her until now. It was harrowing, really, to consider. How did one work with such inequalities? Tim – Tom? – had reacted so strongly. He had been startled and embarrassed, possibly, at his outburst. But had he been, just a little, afraid? She closed her eyes, unable to stop thinking along those lines.

When she opened them, it was with a new resolve. Maybe this was what Mr Grey had meant, when he had spoken about responsibilities and limits. Maybe she'd been meant to learn about this, not just for Carrie's sake – or to track down another erring teacher – but to prevent her from unconsciously overstepping. With a soft tick-tick-tick on the keyboard, Dulcie pulled up another article:
Signs of Abuse
,
What to Watch for – How to Tell
.

Skimming the article, Dulcie understood that it didn't exactly relate. Harassment did not always equate to abuse, but still, so many of the telltale traits were the same.
Often, those pressured into compromising situations will be overcome by a sense of guilt
, she read,
and a desire to hide
. Had that been why Carrie had taken off?
At the same time, victims will suffer the conflicting desire – to tell, to expose both the wrongdoer and her (or his) own presumed guilt
. The image of Carrie at the edge of the crowd as Dimitri was taken for questioning came to Dulcie, then. Of course, Carrie had also gone to Below the Stairs, Dulcie remembered.
Often this can lead to terrible conflicts. In extreme cases, the victim may find this burden unbearable, and may react violently.

That was what Corkie had been trying to tell her. Those clippings – that note – her confusion. It didn't even matter who was responsible, or what the department might do. Carrie Mines was in danger, and Dulcie had to help.

THIRTY-FIVE

‘
M
s Schwartz?' Dulcie didn't even realize she'd been staring into space until the quiet voice interrupted her. ‘May I interrupt you for a minute?'

She looked up into an earnest, round face. ‘Of course.' The response was automatic. At least, this time, the synapses clicked: Tranh, from the Early British Novel. Most undergrads stayed away from Widener, preferring the smaller, somewhat less threatening Lamont library for the majority of their work. Today must be her lucky day. ‘What's up?'

But if Dulcie was expecting a routine query, something about that week's reading, she was surprised.

‘I'm thinking about graduate school, and I wanted to talk to you about my senior thesis.'

No wonder she was in the Widener reading room on a weekend afternoon. Dulcie raised her eyebrows. ‘Excuse me, but aren't you a sophomore?'

‘Yes, but I figured it's not too early to start planning. If I can get a rough idea of a topic, then I can do preliminary research as part of my junior tutorial. Then I'll have the groundwork done and—'

It was Saturday. Didn't this student have an Ultimate Frisbee game to go to? But as the earnest young student rambled on, Dulcie found herself relaxing. This girl – young woman – was so serious, and the largest problem looming in her mind was competition for graduate programs. And though in the past Dulcie might have been concerned with the level of intensity in the young student, right now it seemed like a sign of health. How carefree the sweet-faced sophomore seemed in light of everything else going on. How innocent. How – Dulcie could almost feel the brush of plume-like tail around her ankles – like Dulcie herself, once upon a time.

‘I understand your concerns,' Dulcie finally broke in. ‘But, really, I don't think you have anything to worry about.' The look she got stopped her cold. Nobody wants to hear that their problems aren't serious; the perception hit her with the sharp bite of teeth. ‘I mean, your concerns are understandable, but you are doing all the right things.' She went on to talk about getting a broad base in the discipline. ‘I have one student who had to do so much remedial reading in the basic canon that she's barely caught up as a second-semester junior. And besides,' she concluded, determined to send her charge off on a positive note, ‘you're already an exemplary student.'

‘Thanks, Ms Schwartz.' She was rewarded with a beaming smile. ‘I should let you get back to your own work, I guess.'

‘Anytime,' Dulcie responded, meaning it. As she watched the student wander off – and take her place by a pile of large volumes on the central table – Dulcie found her thoughts drifting from Carrie to Corkie. She hadn't been exaggerating that much when she'd used her current student as an example just now. Corkie had had to read an awful lot very quickly in order to catch up with her major. She'd worked so hard. Was that all going to go down the drain? Dulcie didn't need Mr Grey to point out whose responsibility that was. The cops were already looking for Carrie. As far as Dulcie knew, they were clueless about Corkie's possible involvement. What were her obligations here, anyway? Who needed her most?

If she had any doubts about not calling Rogovoy, that question put them to rest. Carrie might be a woman in trouble, a regret Dulcie would have to live with. But Corkie was Dulcie's student now, and she was also a friend. Every reasonable instinct told her that Corkie wasn't a killer, and those same instincts added that it wasn't likely that she was threatening Carrie. Besides, Dulcie was Corkie's tutor. That might not be a privileged relationship legally, but it brought with it a certain sense of loyalty.

Suze wouldn't like it, but she wasn't going to tell Rogovoy about Corkie going to the Poche that day. That didn't mean she couldn't continue to pursue the truth. Something was amiss. If she could figure out what was up, maybe it would also help her get her errant student back on track.

Dulcie reached for her phone, and immediately thought better of it. Cell phone use was akin to singing out loud among reading room crimes. But the library's wireless provided another option:
Corkie
, she fired off in an email.
Let's talk.
She thought of the Poche, of the wall of clippings. Of what now, in retrospect, had been her student's growing distress.
Doesn't matter what happened, but I need to know before I do anything. I want to make sure you don't fall off the map
. She was trying for reassuring, but it sounded weak.
Email or call – or just drop by?
She paused.
Anytime
, she added, and hit ‘send.'

The little clock on her laptop told her that it wasn't even five yet. If she could get a few hours of work done, she really might have something to show Chelowski – or whoever his successor might be. And if Corkie or Chris, or any of her students, wanted to get in touch with her, she was certainly where she should be, hard at it among the books.

What she needed was focus. She would meet with Dimitri later, and she had reached out to Corkie. Now she had to take care of herself, or else she'd be in real trouble. Chelowski's snouty face appeared in her mind, causing her to shudder. But worrying about her adviser would do no good. Textual analysis, she'd kept reminding herself. That was key. And since she knew the remaining fragments of
The Ravages of Umbria
so well by now, it was easy to find them and to note the crucial phrases.

‘
The mind of a woman must be bent on her duties.
' That was Demetria, the heroine's deceitful attendant, speaking.
‘As I know full well, taking as my life's work the honor and obligation of attending upon you.'

Nice sentiments, but Demetria didn't mean them, Dulcie was sure. If all went well, Dulcie would make the case that the author had set this character up – giving her platitudes that her heroine could shoot down.

‘
The mind of a woman driven by spirits . . .
' As the heroine, Hermetria, answered, she stated a much more modern opinion, even as she couched it in tales of ghosts and spirits. It was ingenious, really. ‘
For are we not now haunted by the restless spirits of our home, even as we seek peace?
'

By now, Dulcie knew the supporting material almost as well, and with only a little browsing, she was able to find the same phrases in a stirring political essay published in 1790.

The mind of a woman shall not be so hampered by books and the like that she cannot perform the duties of wife and mother
. This essay had been published anonymously. But the author, ‘a woman concern'd,' was undoubtedly the same woman who had penned
The Ravages of Umbria
. In every line, Dulcie could hear the cadence of the novel, the flow of ideas.

Indeed, such roles must only be enhanc'd by her reading,
Dulcie continued
, as the ideas that stir her thoughts shall carry through, informing and enlightening any small child in her charge. And supposing she reject such domestic placements, the life duty, to seek a new life in the wilderness? Then what recourse should she have but books? In truth, what else would she require for herself or her bless'd offspring?

By today's lights, it wasn't much, but at the time, it would have been inflammatory, and Dulcie remembered her dream: the wild-haired woman at her desk, pen in hand, writing furiously. She'd found a few such essays as this – and then, nothing. Dulcie sighed and shook her own semi-wild curls. She would focus on the text. There was certainly enough in the
Ravages
to make her case, and the similarities between the novel fragment and these contemporaneous essays supported her idea that the author had used the fictional adventure to advance her views. If only Dulcie knew why she had stopped writing.