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 needed 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.”