But Glick was not listening… awash in his barrel, sunning himself in brine.
Fender had triumphed over himself, he had managed not to look, so that now, while the engine of his car was warming, he was able to enjoy the icicles thoroughly, and he thought it was perhaps this righteousness that had driven out the sense, always present and dominant before, that icicles were, after all, well, icicles; yet he could not help noticing that his were longer than any of his neighbors’—they were grander in every way — and since the weather had been considerate enough to remain fine, they would certainly continue growing, they might even double themselves during the day — it was purely a question of how much weight their stems would bear. He tried to remember when he’d last paid icicles any mind — in his childhood sometime, surely — but his memory failed him, he was left with a blank. There was a house, doubtless, somewhere, he’d lived in, but he’d lost the address. Even now his life slid swiftly by and was soon out of sight like a stick on a river. It vanished so completely, in fact, that at a party once, when he was asked as a part of a game to compose his autobiography, he’d had to answer that he couldn’t tell the story of his life because he couldn’t in the least remember it. At this confession everyone laughed strenuously, warming him with shame and pleasure, but it was not a joke, the remark was true, even if he’d recognized its truth himself only at the moment he was making it, and the idea frightened him a bit, though he forgot about it finally along with everything else: the party, his unmeant wit, its small surprise, the anxiety that was a consequence of it, and his smoothly disappearing life. He did remember that at first he’d had the same fear of the icicles he’d had from time to time of sharpened pencils — that one might pierce his eye. There was no discomfort in his gaze now, however, only pride, and when he felt the cool mass of the tape measure against his thigh, he had to triumph over himself again. What would people think if they saw him… anyone passing… Pearson conceivably? He wished his icicles were growing on the other side — within — where he might measure them in private, examine them in any way he liked. But if one broke off… The thought was dismaying. Really — good heavens — look here, he exclaimed quite aloud, ducking into his car, you’re not right, Fender, old fellow and friend, one of these days they’ll be taking you away… and he backed in reckless bursts out the snowy drive.
Glick was holding a ballpoint pen between his teeth like a pirate. It was a green pen and it made Fender think: pickle. Glick nodded briefly at Fender who was feeling his way now through an office unnaturally dark and full of lurking obstacles. Goodness but it’s bright outside, he said, his voice false as a wig, which both surprised and annoyed him, since it was a small thing to have said, and he’d certainly meant it. The typewriter was repeating a letter — likely x. Glick nodded again and sucked noisily on his saliva. Fender, in his turn, blinked hard to unmuddy his eyes. Prospects. They made him think dirt. They made him think rags, snakes, picks, and the murder of companions. With difficulty he wriggled out of his coat, found he was angry, and began impatiently stuffing his scarf in a sleeve. Glick’s flowers were rustling like ghosts behind him. The coat hanger swayed and clinked. The typewriter continued to drum and rattle. Isabelle… Ah, Isabelle — but unfortunately…
At his desk he opened drawers. Glick was saluting him, wasn’t he? with a flower. These are new, Glick said, removing the pickle to speak. New, Fender wondered, how, new? I just brought them in this morning, a change, Glick said, and time for it too, the others were dusty. Fender grew watchful. It was a joke perhaps. And he realized he’d given voice to his thoughts. But… I mean… why, he finally said, why these… well… these old dead flowers? Dried, they’re dried, Glick said, it’s a hobby of mine, strawflowers are easy—Helichrysum, Helichrysum monstrosum; then there’s Statice, sea lavender, Statice sinuata; and Angel’s Breath, of course, Gypsophila; Xeranthemum; Rhodanthe, Swan River… Why was Glick going on like this just now? He’d been in the office over a year and there’d never been any occasion for — any need to mention — to go into that strange foolishness of his. Fender squeezed his head in the corner of his arm and thought of his icicles growing in long carroty lines. Ah, they should be careful…. Slowly the room began to sort itself. Glick had a heap of leaves and other withered things on a newspaper. He kept thrusting stems in a vase, then yanking their heads. Grasses, he was saying. Pampas grass grows anywhere from ten to twenty feet high. Grasses, said Fender blankly. Hare’s-tail grass and foxtail millet, that’s Setaria italica. Quaking grass, which is Briza maxima. Fender’s anger suddenly flared. He bent and rummaged through his file drawer. That ass, that ass, he thought, just like him too — ten to twenty feet indeed, what a liar — just think, how could he compare… I saw a good many icicles this morning, he said, his tongue thick. He hated that foreign language. Glick was standing back, tipping his head from side to side, winking absurdly. They’re all over, he said. All over? Well, I suppose they are. All over, eh? Everywhere, Glick said, like weeds; you should have seen the bunch I kicked off my car. I can bet, said Fender, hardly able to speak. His head was filled to bursting. When I think of you, Glick, he said to himself, I think: pickle! Have you ever really looked at an icicle, Glick? really looked? Sure, Glick said, straightening, sure I have, why? But Glick wasn’t listening and there was no need for Fender to reply. He slid back deeply in himself, into the threatening heat, his heart and the typewriter thumping, while fear for his icicles passed like a cloud across his stomach. I’ve a fever, Fender decided, shivering as though to verify the diagnosis. So Glick had a hobby. Think of that. Where were the figures on the Ringley house? A hobby. Imagine. No, his mind drew back, he couldn’t picture it. Where was that colored card? He always put those figures on a colored card. Glick was folding and removing the newspaper from his desk whose surface, gleaming, seemed to leap beneath it. He’d put it — he’d put it somewhere — where?… oh he was in a fury, a fury. He glared at Glick to be rude. Blue suit this morning, by george. Desk rubbed. Tightly knotted dark tie lit by metallic threads. What was the reason? And then these carefully collected old weeds. Dried, dead, what was the difference? Left to sweat in the sun like prunes and raisins. Latin, was it? Latin, of course. Hoo. Mummification. He’d written down that couple’s name — he had — he knew he had. It was an attack on him, all of it, everything…. And Pearson would come in a bit. Ah, now Glick was busy. His french cuffs slid from his coat sleeves. Bizz-bizz-bizz. Well, Pearson would come in a bit. Shatteringly. Nothing up with those numbers, Mr. Pearson, I’m afraid, no, nothing up. His icicles now — they ought to increase themselves carefully. If he had time he’d just drive by during lunch — see how they were doing. Strawflowers, did he say? Aaah. They were perfectly turned, that’s how nature did it. Drops gathering at the tip, then falling away. Of course icicles were all over. Who’d said otherwise? Climate general, conditions everywhere the same, consequences similar, very natural, who — Fender drew a deep shuddery breath. My my my, old fellow, friend, what a way really, what a way, take hold now, get a grip. When I think of you, Glick… monstrosum? is that what he said? it had the right sound. Lord. The show-off. The fake. But such a shame. They were so fragile. Such a shame.