December 2, 1975: Tuesday

Spent the day reading, finishing d-spacings, and doing thin sections.

Cal and Kathy were out to Hogback Hill looking for dikes. Then the fog came in and they had to fly home by the road across the ice.

I would have very much liked the opportunity to talk to Kathy, alone, for five hours.

They returned after supper. We sat around the lab, eventually talking to CosRay Doug and drinking apple juice and vodka.

Dr. Treves called and wanted us to join him for mid-rats. Our puny portion of vodka over the hours was lost in that sea of inebriation that flocks to mid-rats.

Gene Valentine is a bit more talkative. The big black guy is a little less. Don Murray smiles a lot.

Some H&N guy reached down the table and asked me to get him a cup of coffee.

I said, “No, thanks. I don’t drink.”

That kind of stopped him for awhile.

Then he told Kathy, jest in the sound of his stumbling voice, “Get me some coffee, or I’ll have you pack-assed.”

I thought it was funny, even if the play on words was unintentional. I don’t think Kathy was offended.

But Dr. Treves blew up. He told the guy he’d had it with him, to get out, immediately. Get out or apologize at once. Or leave.

Of course, the stunned fellow just sat. After a lot of tension, Kathy got up and ran outside, crying. After a suitable interval, I picked up her tray, put it away, and Cal and I followed her. Dr. Treves remained inside to castigate the guy.

Kathy was whimpering that she didn’t want all that fuss. But Dr. Treves acted in the best interests of a lady. And she reacted like a lady, which is probably what upset her.

So I stood in front of her and said, softly concerned, “It’s the first time I’ve seen you act normally.”

It was her turn to blow up. “Sometimes, Sam McCormick, I think you fucking go too far,” she screamed as loud as she could in her hoarse, whispered voice.

Well, I miscalculated that one. Believe me when I say I never intend to offend anyone.

She moved away. I circled around and she circled the other way. I stood in front of her, but she wouldn’t look at me, eyes moist, looking left and right, but never at me.

We drove to the Chalet and parked the truck. I marched to the Hotel, wrote a note of apology, and delivered it to her in the lounge of her building, saying, “I write better than I speak.”

She said, “Good night,” finally, in a low controlled voice.

I wanted to say something, to show I meant no harm, but could not. So I replied, “Good night,” and departed, storming back to the Hotel.

I think she tore the note up.