Fear of Frying

even looking, Shelley caught her sleeve and said, “You don’t take cream in your coffee, Jane, dear. Sit down.“
    “Not even this once?“ Jane asked. So much for escaping.
    “No.“ Shelley looked straight at Liz. “Jane and I have realized that we were tragically mistaken in what we thought we saw last night. Although it would have been far more tragic if we had been correct in our perception. We are very... sorry to have upset everyone needlessly.”
    She said the words as if she were reading a press release.
    Liz’s eyes narrowed. “I see. And have you any idea how you made this mistake?“
    “None whatsoever,“ Shelley said.
    “Well, it certainly was upsetting,“ Eileen said. “Thinking Sam was dead. I guess that’s why I’m feeling a bit cranky today.“
    “We really are sorry,“ Jane said. “We were only doing what we thought necessary considering what we sa—thought we saw. What did happen to him? Where was he all that time he was missing?“
    “He’s not sure,“ Eileen said, more mollified by Jane’s apology than by Shelley’s. “He said the last thing he remembered was sitting by the fire, and then he found himself by the boat dock, all muddy and cold and wet. He has partial amnesia, the doctor said.“
    “So they took him to the hospital?“ Jane asked.
    “No, he kept insisting he was all right and wouldn’t leave here. So Benson Titus insisted that a doctor come to the camp and examine him.“
    “What did the doctor say?“ Shelley asked.
    “Just that he had a slight bump on the back of his head. Nothing serious. Didn’t even break the skin,“ Eileen said. “But he said sometimes even a very slight head injury can cause temporary mental blanks, especially before and during the injury. Sam might have just hit his head on a branch while he was on the way back to their cabin, gotten disoriented, and wandered off.“
    “If he ran into a branch, wouldn’t the injury be on the top or front of his head?“ Liz asked.
    “I guess so. It was just an example,“ Eileen said defensively. “Anyway, the doctor asked him a lot of questions like how old he was and where he lived and what he did for a living and what he had for dinner last night—that sort of thing—and he got most of the answers right. The doctor said the rest of his memory will come back sooner or later, mostly sooner. He wants him to have a skull X ray, but Sam says he’ll do it when he gets home.“
    “You mean they’re staying here?“ Liz asked. “Why is that?“
    “Oh, Sam’s terribly responsible,“ Eileen said. It was hard to tell if she was praising him or complaining.
    Jane realized that Liz was looking at her, not at Eileen. Jane forced her features to remain bland with a polite overlay of concern, but Liz’s diamond-edged gaze disconcerted her. What was the woman thinking?
    “I had an uncle who had that,“ the boating instructor put in. “He was in a car accident. Wasn’t hurt a bit, but couldn’t give the police his name.
    They thought he was drunk at first. I think it took him a month or two to finally get it together. But he never could remember the car accident. It was strange. That’s one of the reasons I’m studying psychology in college.”
    This was the opening of the verbal floodgates. He went on at some length about himself, his studies, his current and past academic and social accomplishments, apparently secure in his belief that they found him as endlessly interesting as he found himself. For once, Jane considered this youthful self-absorption welcome, as it turned the focus of the conversation away from Shelley and her.
    Liz, whose professional life was awash in young people, drifted away, claiming she was getting seconds, but reseated herself at another table. Al followed her example a moment later. The boating instructor droned on about himself. It was Eileen who reached the breaking point first. “Excuse me,“ she said to him. “Don’t you have work to do today?“
    “Oh, I guess I do,“ he said, unoffended. “Nice to meet you ladies.“
    “That boy needs to be smacked upside the head,“ Eileen said, watching him leave. “Reminds me of the year our son nearly talked us to death. Motor-mouth, John called him. Then he stopped talking to us and it was all we could do to get him to speak. Kids!“
    “Do you have other children?“
    “No, just the one. He’s twenty-three now,- living in Maine, of all places. Does something we’ve never understood with computers for