by Alix Ohlin
“Okay,” she said. “Maybe you should go.”
“Maybe I should. I'm sorry, Izabel. I really am.” His hand reached up to stroke her hair gently, twice, then he got up and left, closing the door behind him with a quiet, considerate click.
Shirelle invited Izabel home for Christmas. Her family lived in the country on a ranch, and she promised hay rides and dances. She had four older brothers and made life at her house sound like an episode of The Waltons.
“It'll be a nice, traditional American Christmas,” she said. “We leave milk and cookies out for Santa.”
“Really?” said Izabel in her French accent. “Are zey not wasted? Santa does not eat zem, does he?”
“Izabel,” Shirelle said patiently, “Santa is my dad.”
“Ah, mais non! Zen you are very lucky. You must get zee most presents of anyone in zee world.”
“Girl,” said Shirelle, “sometimes I think you're putting me on.”
But Izabel did not go to Texas for Christmas. Her mother called, her voice trembling with the accomplishment, to say that she had brokered a peace with Iz's father, who had agreed to a double major of economics and art, so Iz could continue her classes. She didn't mention to her mother that she hadn't yet finished the first semester. There were presents waiting for her under the tree, if she would only come home to claim them.
“I went to the mall, Izzy,” said her mother, “and it was so beautiful!” Her voice was firm and happy. “All the decorations and the music, you just have to see it.”
Izabel could see it. She could see her mother moving alone through their house like some sad, ancient heroine, Demeter in Newton, decorating the tree, wrapping gifts. She could see her calling her daughter on the phone, picking out a tie for her husband at the mall, each day an act of small bravery. Izabel could see everything. She could see it because it was all inside her, hanging on to her like snow dissolving over their roof into a border of icicles. She could see it as clearly as she could see the children of the neighborhood bringing their toboggans to the park, where Iz would paint them over the holidays, watching from her bedroom window as they climbed through the snow, spots of color bundled thickly by their mothers into snowsuits, dragging their heavy loads behind them.
A Theory of Entropy
What could reach them here was the mail, and Claire took the boat across the lake to Bob's store to pick it up. The first of the summer people were in, browsing through the aisles, stocking up on canned goods and batteries. From behind the counter Bob nodded and passed her a rubberbanded stack, her bills and Car-son's heavy magazines—Science, Journal of Organic Chemistry— saying, as he did each time, “A little light reading for you, Claire?”
“Puts me to sleep,” she said. Around her children tugged their parents' sleeves, begging for candy and to be taken fishing.
“Hold on a minute. Something for you in the back,” Bob said. He came back with a bundle in his arms, a padded envelope nearly as square as a box. She didn't have to look at the return address to know that it was Carson's book.
She piled the bills and magazines on top, then slid it off the counter and pressed it to her chest for balance. Bob was frowning at a boy handling a box of fishing lures with larcenous fingers; when she left, he raised his hand briefly without looking away from the boy.
The dock was not ten yards from the store. She threw a tarp over the mail and, gunning the engine, glanced back at it. She never opened his mail, although he sometimes asked her to, and anyway he opened it in front of her, showed or told her everything—he had no secrets, he always said. But these were her scruples. The boat skittered a little as she maneuvered around driftwood. On the other side of the lake a motorboat roared and circled. Underneath it and closer in, a smaller sound almost evaporated as it reached her: the hoot of a loon.
Carson came into the kitchen, where she was snapping beans. He dipped his hand into the bowl and sat down at the table with a handful. “She wants to come here,” he said.
“Here? Why?”
“Because she knows I won't go to the city.”
She turned. His legs under the table stretched the length of it: he was over six feet tall, strong-shouldered, rangy. Long fingers with thick knuckles, like knots on wood. To relax he built furniture, including this table.
“To work on the book,” he said.
“I thought she already did.” Claire set the bowl in the sink and ran water over the beans. “Isn't that what came today, the edits?”
“She says we have a lot more to do. That the book isn't quite coming across. She thinks a few days of hammering it out in person could do it. So, can she come?”
“You're asking me?”
“It's your place,” he said.
She looked at him. She loosed a clove of garlic from its paper and set it, along with an onion, on the table for him to chop.
Carson studied entropy. Claire didn't understand his work and had given up trying. It was entirely theoretical, divorced from the data sets and experimental designs on which he had built his early career in chemistry. He produced it, as far as she could tell, whole and unprecedented, a rabbit from the black hat of his mind. Sitting in his office at the back of the cottage, he wrote page after page of thoughts with a blue marker on lined yellow pads. What she knew of entropy came from a college textbook that she'd bought, in a vain effort to educate herself, after they met. Entropy is a thermodynamic function measuring the disorder of a system. The greater the disorder of a system, the higher its entropy. Disorder equals randomness.
Or it used to, until Carson came along. He developed a new way of looking at entropy, of evaluating the whole idea of order and equilibrium. He charted the paths of molecules through systems and began to wonder if entropy veered toward simplicity, if there was order within disorder, whether disorder had a quality of inevitability to it and was, in fact, the lawful tendency of a non-equilibrial universe. Possibly, Claire thought, entropy was a scientific term for fate. But she never said so to Carson, who would tell her gently that science was science, not metaphor.
At the beginning, in the city, he'd tried to explain the model to her, defining its basic elements, then moving on and almost immediately losing her, his logic twisting along a corridor she could not follow. He drew outlines, equations, the universe in boxes and arrows. The blanker she looked, the faster he talked, reaching into his brain for examples to teach her by, striving to share his clarity. He stretched his hands wide, carving the air: his words a map to show her where he was. Claire was no scientist at all—simply a freelance designer who'd failed math in high school. Instead of listening to his words she became distracted by the passion in his voice, the shaking timbre of it, by how he peered under the surface of things to discover some elusive knowledge of the world. She forgot to pay attention, and attraction overruled. Eventually, they both gave up on explanations.
She had known Carson for a year when he published the first diagram of his model in Science and was suddenly acclaimed in the nonscientific press. Scientists made pilgrimages to his office at the university, besieged him with letters, never stopped calling. Some of the letters and calls came from Jocelyn Gates, who acquired manuscripts for a popular publisher. She wanted him to write an account of his work for the general reader, which she said could be the biggest scientific best-seller since the Origin of Species.
The other members of his department assumed that he signed this contract for the usual reasons, the temptations of money and self-inflation. But he had been seduced, Claire thought, by different riches, the only treasure he really craved: time away from the university, from grant writing and the company of difficult colleagues, from the obligations to students and administrators. Time to think. He could take leave from the university, write the manuscript, and meanwhile chase the magnets of his own ideas. In interviews he always said, “There is so much left to be done.”
When he decided to write the book, Claire offered him her cottage on the lake, and her presence with it. They had
been here two years.
Even in May, the nights were cold. Under the blankets she moved closer to Carson, whose body gave off heat constantly, no matter the season, as if it were electric. She turned her back to him and brought his arm around her. From where she was lying she could see out the window to a clutch of birches on a rise behind the house, the bark silver in the light from stars.
“How old is this woman?” she asked.
“Claire,” he said, his tone a reminder that he hated any sign of insecurity. Carson was generally even-tempered, but frustration sometimes sparked from him in angry fits. What he liked best about her, she knew, was the idea he had of her strength. He liked being indebted to her for the favor of this house, and it was important for him to think she didn't need him.
“Old?” she said. “Or young?”
“She's not much younger than you are. Twenty-nine.”
“How do you know? I mean so specifically.”
“She told me. She took one of my classes at one point, apparently, and mentioned what year she graduated.” His hand twining hers began to sweat, and he unclasped and moved it to her shoulder. His cheek scratched her face. “Don't be jealous,” he said in her ear. “I hate it.”
She flipped onto her back and looked at him. His eyes were open, colorlessly glinting in the darkness. “All right,” she said.
Jocelyn Gates arrived on the noon bus. She wasn't what Claire was expecting, although she hadn't realized she'd been expecting anything at all. Her long, wavy hair had been dyed an unnatural brownish red that looked like dried blood. Behind thick brown frames her eyes were blue. When she stepped off the bus she flung her backpack over her shoulder, like a student, and her eyes found Claire's immediately.
“Are you Claire Tremble?” she said. “I'm Jocelyn.”
Claire stepped forward and shook her hand. “Is that all you have?” she said, nodding at the backpack.
“Dear God, no,” Jocelyn said as the bus driver lugged a large suitcase in their direction.
Claire looked at it.
“It's mostly manuscripts, I swear,” Jocelyn said. “Carson said there'd be a boat. There is a boat, isn't there?”
“That's the boat,” Claire said, pointing.
“Oh. Should I—”
“It's fine. But you might have to sit on it, that's all.”
“I can do that,” Jocelyn said.
Claire reached for the suitcase, but Jocelyn shook her head firmly, hefted it up, and gestured for Claire to walk on ahead. When they reached the boat, Jocelyn lowered the case down on its side then got in and straddled it. With the extra weight they sat heavily in the water, but Claire judged it would be all right. Jocelyn sat precariously, her white hands clutching the gunwale, spray from the lake misting her glasses. After a minute or so the boat seemed to adjust itself and moved slowly but smoothly through the branches of spruce trees clearly mirrored in the water.
Jocelyn leaned over to trail her fingers through their rippling needles. “It's beautiful here,” she said.
“I know.”
“What a wonderful place to write a book,” she said, and inhaled with deep satisfaction, as if catching the scent of unborn books in the wind. She caught Claire's eye. “Thank you for letting me come.”
Carson was waiting for them on the dock, a surprise, since he regularly worked every day until five and would brook no interruption, which habit had led Claire to offer to pick up the girl in the first place. Yet here he was, reaching out a long arm to catch the prow and rope it to the dock. Then he grabbed Jocelyn Gates's hand and pulled her up. The two of them laughed and moved from handclasp to shake. Jocelyn would not permit her suitcase to be carried for her, so she trudged after Carson up the hill to the house. Halfway there she paused to readjust her grip and said again to Claire, who was behind her, “It's so beautiful here.”
“Yes.”
“A refuge,” she said, her eyes glowing, blue coals. “I hope I won't disturb your peace.”
“Don't mention it,” Claire said.
Because the desk in Carson's office was small, the two of them settled on the kitchen table, where they could spread the manuscript out in stacks. Claire shut the door to her office and tried to work, but on a trip to the washroom she heard them already arguing. She couldn't make out the specific words, only the general grievance in Carson's voice, and from this tone she suddenly heard her own name rising and realized he was calling her.
She stood in the doorway.
“This woman,” Carson sputtered. His face was flushed but Jocelyn's was not. “She wants me to tell my story. She wants me to sell the material. Would you tell her, please, that science is not a story? Will you please agree with me on this so I'll know I'm not insane?”
Claire looked at Jocelyn, who smiled politely.
“I think I'm the wrong person to ask,” Claire said, and Carson groaned. “I mean, you know I'm no scientist.”
“So? You still know that a scientific theory is a model, not some fairy tale.”
“Well, yes, and I'm not saying that it's fiction. But I do kind of think—sorry, Carson—that science is a story we tell ourselves about the world. In a way.”
Carson said, tight-lipped, “It's not just any story.”
“The important thing here, Carson,” Jocelyn said, “is that we tell it well.”
Over the next three days Carson and Jocelyn worked on the book. They fought often and loudly while Claire, in her office, didn't even pretend to work and just listened. For some time it seemed they couldn't even agree on terms or the meanings of words. She heard Carson's voice, strained and hoarse through the walls. “Order and disorder are only categories. They don't hold up, statistically.” Jocelyn's voice flowed quietly under his. She was trying to simplify Carson's theories, to put his arguments into the plainest terms. They could be expanded later, she told him. The book was a pyramid requiring a foundation, a wide and basic layer.
Claire thought of the phrase Carson, quoting Jocelyn, had used to describe this process: hammering it out. This was certainly what it sounded like, voices striking hard as metal, Car-son's strident, hers relentless, pounding his science into flatness like nails into wood. Claire was afraid for him to see his work— so famously abstract—popularized and, inevitably, reduced. Moreover, for him to cooperate in the reduction. And she was surprised by Jocelyn's persistence, her conviction that his ideas could be explained to the average reader. She kept on hammering.
“So all things tend naturally toward a simpler state,” Claire heard her say.
“Where do you get this naturally?” Carson sounded anguished by her lack of precision. “Where? You're creating some kind of animism that isn't inherent in the work.” Claire pictured him spreading his palms, trying to explain. “There is no naturally. Things can only happen according to the physical laws of the universe.”
“So explain those laws to me.”
“Look, miss, I didn't realize that you came up here for a scientific education. I thought you came here to work on my book.”
“I'm your reader,” Jocelyn said without a pause. “Explain it to me.”
“Maybe you're not my reader,” he said. “Maybe I have no readers. The kind of people you're talking about don't want to know about my work. Couldn't understand it even if they did.”
“They want to.”
Other times, as Claire passed through the kitchen, she saw them working smoothly, heads together, one nodding, the other speaking, in a low and constant and rhythmic tone, like two birds on a branch. In the evenings she and Carson cooked dinner for their guest. By tacit agreement they all three avoided the subject of science, instead discussing politics or weather, the natural beauty of the region, the improvements Claire and Carson had made to the cottage in order to live in it year-round. Conversation stayed polite and almost distant, with none of the contention or excitement that echoed through the rooms during the day.
Claire took the boat across to Bob's, and Jocelyn asked to go with her. She need
ed to use the phone to check in at the office.
“Although I'd rather not,” she said at the dock, hands on her hips, looking out at the water. “The office seems a bit unreal at this point.”
“It'll seem real enough once you get back,” Claire said.
She raised an eyebrow. “I guess,” she said.
“Whenever I go back to the city,” Claire said, “I feel like I could take up my old life again in a minute, and this is the place that seems unreal.”
Jocelyn nodded. “Do you ever miss it there?” she asked.
Claire wasn't sure whether this question was sincere or merely conversational. Possibly it was an editor's technique, a way of seducing writers, giving them the sense that she was curious about them, or about the knowledge they could provide. Claire took a breath and looked out over the lake. A string of starlings lassoed themselves into a circle, twisted, formed into a symbol that looked, for a second, like infinity. “Sometimes,” she said.
“You grew up here?”
“In the city. This was our summer place.”
Jocelyn reached over and touched the water. “Can you get across the lake in the winter?”
“Usually,” Claire said. “If not, well, we have a lot of food stored.”
“Must be a long winter.” When Claire didn't answer, Jocelyn added, “But beautiful.”
Inwardly, Claire rolled her eyes. Of course it was beautiful, but beauty had little to do with it. She had come here not just to be with Carson but to prove she could live here. Putting up food, trying to get Bob and the rest of the village not to look at her as one of the “summer people,” insulating the cottage, chopping wood, all the other chores—the chores had everything to do with it. “My parents built the house,” she finally said. “We were always working on it. They never intended it to be lived in year-round. But Carson needed a quiet place to work. And I can work from anywhere.”
“Lucky for him,” Jocelyn said.
“Not lucky. Just something I was able to do,” Claire said. She felt Jocelyn's gaze on her. “I was glad to be able to offer it.” She was speaking unwillingly but couldn't stop, the words being reeled from her as if the other woman held a line. She felt she had to explain, to give Jocelyn the correct impression of her life, the necessity of it bearing down on her with a pressure like physical weight. “This isn't a sacrifice for me,” she said. “I like living here. I don't just see to Carson's needs. It's not like he's the, you know, reclusive man of genius and I'm the handmaiden.”