Icy Clutches

'I'm not trying to do anything, Miz Yount—'

'Will you call me Shirley, for Christ's sake?” Her increase in self-assertion over the last several days had not made her personality any the more attractive.

'—Shirley, except to tell the story as I saw it unfold. Sometimes, I'm afraid, it's necessary to put aside our personal feelings in the interest—'

'My sister was not amoral, Jack! My s—'

'The hell she wasn't!'

This ringing corroboration came, amazingly, from Elliott Fisk—Elliott, who had been eleven in 1960.

Shirley rounded on him, her face reddening. “What the hell do you know about it, you little turd?'

'I know what I know,” Fisk said mysteriously, uncowed by Shirley's toothy hostility. “I know she was ruining my uncle's life.'

'She was ruining Steve's life? Ha-HAH! Really! Jesus!'

'Oh, yes?” Fisk's thin voice rose spitefully. “Oh, yes? Well, I hate to tell you this—Miz Yount—but it's all in his diary. All the one-night stands she had with anybody who—'

'What are you talking about? What are you talking about?” Shirley tore her big glasses off and jabbed them at Fisk. “You listen to me, you slimy, sick-minded...slimy...'

'That's enough now,” Tremaine said, employing a trick he had of relaxing his vocal cords so that his voice seemed to swell. His voice of authority. “Organlike,” Television Radio Age had once called it. “I fully understand,” he said, tempering command with compassion. “In a difficult situation like this our emotions sometimes—'

He stopped with Fisk's words still echoing in his mind. He looked directly at the dentist.

'Ah, diary?'

'Well, journal.'

'Journal? Steven kept a journal?” Why had Tremaine not known of this?

'To the last morning of his life,” Fisk said, with every appearance of satisfaction. “They found it in his room back in Gustavus. It went to my father with the rest of his things.” He paused to study Tremaine's face and smiled meanly. “I didn't think you knew about it. Oh, it's just filled with information. On all sorts of things.'

Tremaine shifted his feet. Just what was being driven at here? He didn't care for this journal business at all. Or the tone of Fisk's voice. Or that smirk.

'And you've seen this journal?” he asked.

Fisk wordlessly held up a flat blue-bound notebook.

'I think we better get a few things straight here.” This from Shirley, who had gotten her second wind. “First, I'm not going to sit still while my sister gets bad-mouthed by anybody.” She glowered at Tremaine, at Fisk, at Anna. “Second,” and here the baleful gaze returned to impale Fisk again, “Jocelyn didn't ruin Steve's life; it was the other way around. From the day she was stupid enough to fall in love with that pretentious, self-righteous creep—'

'Oh, now, just a—just a minute.” Fisk, blinking rapidly, pushed his wire-rimmed glasses up on his nose. “I won't have this. When your sister met Steve she was just a lousy waitress, and you know it. Had she even finished college? Was she headed anywhere? It was Steve who—'

'Now, now,” began Tremaine, organlike. “I believe we're getting off the sub—'

'Ha-HAH!” It was not a sound that even Tremaine could talk through.

'It was Steve who what?” Shirley cried. “Who told her that the great Steven Fisk couldn't waste his time on a lousy waitress? Who made her finish up her stupid degree and then go to graduate school on top of it? So she was killing herself taking classes full time and still working in a goddamn Chinese restaurant, humping dishes every night to support herself, while he sat around on his ass, on a scholarship? Tell me, did he ever try to help her out—'

'This is ridiculous!” Fisk burst out, his arms spread. By now they were making their cases to the rest of the group, as if pleading before a jury. “Somebody tell me, is there supposed to be something wrong with motivating a person to go back to school? I mean, here's somebody who was a waitress since she was fifteen, right? No motivation, no drive. She drops out of college after three years and goes back to being a waitress. What kind of life was she headed for? But then she meets Steve—'

'Just what the hell is wrong with being a waitress?” Shirley interrupted, her coarse cheeks pink. “I want to know. She was happy, she didn't want to be a scientist—a botanist, for Christ's sake —'

At a movement near the top of the stairs to the right of the fireplace, Tremaine turned his head. “Ah, Dr. Oliver,” he said hurriedly. “Thank you for coming.'

Gideon hesitated. “Uh, if this isn't a good time...'

'No, no, come in. We were just waiting for you. There's a chair over there for you.” He smiled. “Try not to trip over Dr. Judd's legs.'

* * * *

Gideon came in reluctantly, feeling like an intruder. He'd inadvertently overheard the argument and had been in the act of trying to back inconspicuously down the stairs when Tremaine had spotted him.

He was welcomed by the botanist with smooth assurance and introduced all around. Chairs scraped on the wooden floor as the six people rearranged themselves to fit him into the semicircle in front of the hearth. The movement seemed to clear the air. Eyes shifted to the large paper bag he'd brought with him and placed on one of the low, round side tables.