THE RATLIFFE HOUSE – Chapter Six
THE RATLIFFE HOUSE – Chapter Six
I rolled my suitcase over to the side of the lobby and sank onto one of the worn sofas. They didn’t let you turn on phones on the plane, of course, I hadn’t even bothered pulling the new cell phone out of the box. After a glance at the directions and a couple of attempts dialing correct sequence of country and area codes, I got through to Mom. I calculated the time difference in my head while it rang. 6:30 a.m. Chicago time. She would just be getting up.
But when she answered, her voice was clear as day, no hint of drowsiness. Great. She’s been waiting for me to call. I quickly ruled out any idea of telling her my dorm troubles while I answered the requisite questions about my flight and my ride from the airport.
“Yep, everything’s fine, Mom. Hey listen, I’ve got to go check into my room now, okay?”
Luckily the call was short because we both knew the minutes were expensive and she had to get ready for work anyway. We said goodbye and I got out my itinerary to search for the name of my study abroad advisor.
Dr. Charles Mosely, Professor of English Literature. Taylor Hall, Room 6E.
Now for Lucy versus Desk Guy: Round Two. I rolled my giant suitcase back over to the front desk. The clerk pretended to ignore me. I waved my hand again, this time plastering on a pretty smile and doe eyes. He liked sweets. I’d go for saccharine.
“Hi! Me again,” I said in a soft, honeyed voice. “I found the name of my advisor … Dr. Charles Mosely, in the Taylor Building? Could you help me find where that is?”
He looked at me, sighed heavily, and set down his book. Yes! It’s working. I began to relax as I followed his movements. He pulled over a white folder and slid out a colorful paper, laying it in front of me. Grabbing a pen, he circled a tiny rectangle. “This is where you are.” He drew a long line across the page and circled another spot inside of the big main building I’d seen earlier. “This is Taylor Hall.”
“Thanks.” I started mentally measuring the distance by the scale of the buildings and realized what a long walk it was going to be. “So, can I just leave my luggage here?” I asked without thinking.
“Do I look like a porter?” he said sharply.
I recoiled. “Can I at least keep the map?”
He waved me away. “Please.”
I turned my neck so he wouldn’t see me roll my eyes. Sheesh. Some people. But at least I was getting somewhere. I shouldered my backpack and took the grip of my suitcase in one hand and the map in the other. Off to Taylor Hall. I was going to fix this.
###
My suitcase rattled loudly over the sidewalks and paths. Even though campus was pretty empty, I got strange looks from nearly everyone I passed. By the time I got to the courtyard within the main brick building, I had broken a sweat and had to stop for a minute to catch my breath. A broad-chinned man with dark wavy hair and a white box in his hand gave me an amused look as he walked by. I scowled back. Keep walking, mister. Even though I was still winded, I decided to get out of there and get to Dr. Mosely’s office as soon as I could—if for no other reason than to escape the ridicule outside.
I found my way to the building, and after a few wrong turns made it to 6E. “Dr. Charles Mosely,” the nameplate affirmed. I knocked.
“Come in,” a voice called.
I turned the brass handle and pushed open the heavy oak door. The room was larger than it looked from the outside, and the tall metal shelves that covered the walls from floor to ceiling were jam-packed with books. At an old-fashioned wooden desk by the window sat a white-haired elderly man, busy scribbling away. He was dressed in a modest but trim navy suit jacket and white shirt, accented with a red and gold bow tie, and once I stepped inside he looked up, adjusted a pair of black-rimmed eyeglasses on his well-formed nose, and asked “May I help you?”
“Uh, hi. I’m Lucy Steppenwolf. I’m a student with the summer abroad program?” I asked, hoping for some recognition.
“Ah, Miss Steppenwolf. From Chicago, I believe? Notably absent from orientation yesterday.” He said this matter-of-factly, and set down his pen to fold his hands together on top of his desk. I took it as a good sign.
“Yeah, I’m so sorry. The university … um, I mean my flight didn’t come in until this morning. And I went over to the residence hall first thing, but they said my room had been given away.”
“How unfortunate.”
I faltered a moment at the casual politeness of his response, a far cry from the sympathy and indignation I’d been expecting on my behalf. But knowing that Dr. Mosely was probably the only person who could help me, I pressed on.
“So… the guy at the front desk said I should come talk to you.”
“Me? Well, I don’t know that I can do very much about that. I suppose I might ring up someone in administration. Although I do have a lecture to deliver in about twenty minutes.” He looked at his watch, then at me. “You might as well come along for it. That is, if you’d like to remain enrolled in the program.”
“Yeah, definitely.”
“Very well then.” He opened a drawer and produced a white folder like I’d seen at the front desk. “I don’t suppose the ‘guy’ at the front desk gave you one of these?”
I shook my head. He handed the file over to me.
“This is your orientation packet. It contains a map, a schedule of coursework, and the itinerary for our excursions. You can receive your textbooks at the campus bookstore with the enclosed voucher. As for your dining pass, I’m afraid the residence hall was to dispense that with your room key. You have something on hand for the meantime?” he asked.
I assumed he meant money for meals. “Yeah, I’ve got some cash. It’s already been … uh, converted.”
He gave me a grandfatherly smile, like I’d just taken my first baby steps or something. “Good. Now, I’ll show you to the library.”
This time, I didn’t make the mistake of asking if I could leave my suitcase, but dutifully pulled it down the hall behind me as he led the way. The afternoon sun beamed down relentlessly, and by the time we got to the library I felt a wave of drowsiness washing over me. Five hours of airplane sleep and a pastry breakfast was not the recipe for alert problem solving. I stifled a yawn as the elevator took us up to the third floor.
When the elevator stopped, the doors opened to the Mezzanine floor, a green-carpeted landing adjacent to a large, wood-paneled wall. A brass plaque engraved with the words “Special Collections” hung by a set of double doors. Dr. Mosely led the way inside, and a curtain of cool, dry air descended over my head and bare arms as I followed.
Dr. Mosely indicated a corner to leave my suitcase and backpack. I tugged out a notepad and pencil and joined the group of other students who were gathering in the room. Too tired to try and make friendly chit chat, I lingered in the back of the crowd while Dr. Mosely and the librarian began explaining how to handle rare books.
I tried not to let my mind wander while the librarian droned on about putting foam bricks around the covers and turning pages at the side instead of the corner. Still, I kept thinking about the dorm situation. I mean, seriously … what was going to happen if they couldn’t find a place for me to sleep tonight? I had no idea if there was a hotel nearby or how much it would cost. Not to mention the blowback I’d get from Mom if she found out there was a hiccup. No doubt she’d demand I turn around and come right back home.
“And now, I’d like each of you to select a book from one of the archival boxes on the tables and examine the copyright page.” Dr. Mosely announced. “Please make a transcript and record the author, publisher, date and place of publication in your notes.”
The other students began milling around the room. I wandered over to a table in the back corner and set my backpack on the floor. A nondescript white box sat on the table and, as I tugged the little tabs on its sides, it pulled apart. I lifted the flaps to reveal a pinkish brown volume with the words “Charlotte Brontë: Jane Eyre” stamped into the cover in red ink. Sweet. Jane Eyre was one of my favorite books from my British Literature class last semester. I carefully placed the book onto the bookstand provided and began to lift the cover. The binding was a little stiff, so I pinned down the pages with my right hand and slowly peeled back the cover with my left, pushing it toward the foam wedge so it would stay open.
That’s when I heard a pop, and a crack.
Oh, no!
I froze, the cover floating in my hand, attached to the binding by only a few bare threads of the cover cloth. The librarian, who must’ve had ears like a bat, immediately flew over to my table. I looked up helplessly.
“What have you done?” he whispered, staring at the cover in shock. He pinched the hanging cover with one hand and waved me away with the other. “Let go!” he said hoarsely, and I scooted out of the way. He slowly laid the front cover back down over the book and ran a tentative finger along the place where it had cracked.
Dr. Mosely sauntered over. “Dear me, broken already,” he remarked, observing the damage with a casual glance at the cover. “Poor Jane. Always being severed, isn’t she?”
I gulped, too frightened to reply, my eyes darting between the bemused professor and the visibly distressed archivist. The librarian’s brow furrowed into deep folds as he lifted the volume and held it to the light, rotating and examining it from all sides. Meanwhile, Dr. Mosely picked up the white box and flipped it over, appearing to read from a label on the bottom. “From the Ratliffe collection,” he said, and turned to the librarian. “Had this one been inspected yet?”
“It arrived within the hour,” the librarian said, frowning as he carefully laid the book back on the stand. “Hand-delivered.”
“Well then, Miss Steppenwolf, you mustn’t be too worried. We’ll pop over and see the owner this afternoon.”
“Do I have to pay for it?” I asked, biting my lip.
“Now how should I know that? We’ll have to ask Mr. Ratliffe. But go on, find another book to examine. An accident doesn’t excuse you from completing the assignment.”
I decided against apologizing to the librarian, since it didn’t look like it would help, and instead wandered over to the next table, notebook in hand. “Hey, can I look at that when you’re done?” I asked the sandy blonde standing in front of a copy of Rime of the Ancient Mariner.
She sized me up and delivered a withering “I suppose” as she moved away.
Great. Making friends already, Lucy. Only the worst, most depressing start to summer vacation I’ve ever had. A little twinge of memory flicked me in the shoulder. Maybe not the actual worst. I pushed the thought away and concentrated on copying the title page. I was not going to top it all off with a walk down self-pity lane. Dr. Mosely didn’t seem too upset. I wouldn’t be either.
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