Babylon and Other Stories by Alix Ohlin Page A

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 frustrationsometimes 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