Epilogue

Thursday, 7:45 p.m., April 25, 1996
New York City

   The game to eleven was tied at ten apiece. The rules dictated a win by two, so a one-point layup wouldn’t clinch it but a long two-pointer would. This was in the back of Jack’s mind as he dribbled upcourt. He was being mercilessly hounded by an aggressive player by the name of Flash whom Jack knew was faster than he.
   The competition was fierce. Players on the sidelines waiting to play were loudly supporting the other team, a sharp contrast to their typical studied indifference. The reason for the change was the fact that Jack’s team had been winning all night, mainly because Jack was teamed up with a particularly good mix of players that included Warren and Spit.
   Jack normally didn’t bring the ball downcourt. That was Warren’s job. But on the previous play, to Jack’s chagrin, Flash had made a driving layup to tie the game, and after the ball had passed through the basket it had ended up in Jack’s hands. In order to get the ball downcourt as fast as possible, Spit had stepped out. When Jack gave him the ball, Spit gave it right back.
   As Jack pulled up at the top of the key, Warren faked one direction and then made a rush for the basket. Jack saw this maneuver out of the corner of his eye and cocked his arm with the intent of passing the ball to Warren.
   Flash anticipated the pass and dropped back in hopes of intercepting it. All at once Jack was in the clear, and he changed his mind about passing. Instead he let fly one of his normally reliable jumpers. Unfortunately the ball hit the back of the rim and bounced directly into Flash’s waiting hands.
   The tide then swept back in the other direction, to the glee of the onlookers.
   Flash brought the ball rapidly downcourt. Jack was intent on denying him the opportunity of repeating his driving layup, but inadvertently gave him too much room. To Jack’s surprise, since Flash was not an outside shooter, Flash pulled up and from “downtown” let fly his own jumper.
   To Jack’s horror it was “nothing-but-net” as the shot passed through the basket. A cheer rose up from the sidelines. The game had been won by the underdogs.
   Flash high-stepped around the court holding his arms straight and stiffly to his sides with his palms out. All his teammates slapped his palms in a congratulatory ritual, as did some of the onlookers.
   Warren drifted over to Jack with a disgusted look on his face.
   “You should have passed the friggin’ ball,” Warren said.
   “My bad,” Jack said. He was embarrassed. He’d made three mistakes in a row.
   “Shit,” Warren said. “With these new kicks of mine I didn’t think I could lose.”
   Jack looked down at the spanking-new pair of Nikes Warren was referring to and then at his own scuffed and scarred Filas. “Maybe I need some new kicks myself.”
   “Jack! Hey, Jack!” a female voice called out. “Hello!”
   Jack looked through the chain-link fence separating the playground from the sidewalk. It was Laurie.
   “Hey, kid!” Warren said to Jack. “Looks like your shortie has decided to pay the courts a visit.”
   The game-winning celebration stopped. All eyes turned to Laurie. Girlfriends and wives didn’t come to the courts. Whether they weren’t inclined or whether they were actively excluded, Jack didn’t know. But the infraction of Laurie’s unexpected arrival made him feel uncomfortable. He’d always tried to play by the playground’s mostly unspoken rules.
   “I think she wants to rap,” Warren said. Laurie was waving Jack over.
   “I didn’t invite her,” Jack said. “We were supposed to meet later.”
   “No problem,” Warren said. “She’s a looker. You must be a better lover than you are a b-ball player.”
   Jack laughed in spite of himself, then walked over to Laurie. Behind him he heard the celebration recommence, and he relaxed a degree.
   “Now I know the stories are all true,” Laurie said. “You really do play basketball.”
   “I hope you didn’t see the last three plays,” Jack said. “You wouldn’t have guessed I played much if you had.”
   “I know we weren’t supposed to meet until nine, but I couldn’t wait to talk to you,” Laurie said.
   “What’s happened?” Jack asked.
   “You got a call from a Nicole Marquette from the CDC,” Laurie said. “Apparently she was so disappointed not to get you that Marjorie, the operator, put her through to me. Nicole asked me to relay a message to you.”
   “Well?” Jack questioned.
   “The CDC is officially putting the crash vaccine program on hold,” Laurie said. “There hasn’t been a new case of the Alaska-strain influenza for two weeks. The quarantine efforts have worked. Apparently the outbreak has been contained just the way the seventy-six swine flu was.”
   “That’s great news!” Jack said. Over the past week he’d been praying that this would happen, and Laurie knew it. After fifty-two cases with thirty-four deaths there had been a lull. Everyone involved was holding his breath.
   “Did she offer any explanations as to why they think this has occurred?” Jack asked.
   “She did,” Laurie said. “Their studies have shown that the virus is unusually unstable outside of a host. They believe that the temperature must have varied in the buried Eskimo hut and might have even approached thawing on occasion. That’s a far cry from the usual minus fifty degrees at which viruses are typically stored.”
   “Too bad it didn’t affect its pathogenicity as well,” Jack said.
   “But at least it made the CDC-engineered quarantine effective,” Laurie said, “which everyone knows isn’t the usual case with influenza. Apparently with the Alaska strain, contacts had to have relatively sustained close contact with an infected individual for transmission to occur.”
   “I think we were all very lucky,” Jack said. “The pharmaceutical industry deserves a lot of credit too. They came through with all the rimantadine needed in record time.”
   “Are you finished playing basketball?” Laurie asked. She looked over Jack’s shoulder and could see that another game had commenced.
   “I’m afraid so,” Jack said. “My team lost, thanks to me.”
   “Is that man you were talking with when I arrived Warren?” Laurie asked.
   “That’s right,” Jack said.
   “He’s just as you described,” Laurie said. “He looks impressive. But there’s one thing I don’t understand. How do those shorts of his stay on? They are so oversized and he has such narrow hips.”
   Jack let out a laugh. He looked back at Warren casually shooting foul shots like a machine. The funny thing was that Laurie was right: Warren’s shorts defied Newton’s law of gravity. Jack was just so accustomed to the hip-hop gear, he’d never questioned it.
   “I guess it’s a mystery to me too,” Jack said. “You’ll have to ask him yourself.”
   “Okay,” Laurie said agreeably. “I’d like to meet him anyway.”
   Jack turned back to her with a quizzical look.
   “I’m serious,” she said. “I’d like to meet this man you are in awe of and who saved your life.”
   “Don’t ask him about his drawers,” Jack cautioned. He had no idea how that would go over.
   “Please!” Laurie said. “I do have some social sense.”
   Jack called out to Warren and waved him over. Warren sauntered to the fence, dribbling his basketball. Jack was unsure of the situation and didn’t know what to expect. He introduced the two people, and to his surprise they got along well.
   “It’s probably not my place to say this…” Laurie began after they had spoken for a while. “And Jack might wish I didn’t, but…”
   Jack cringed. He had no idea what Laurie was about to say.
   “… I’d like to thank you personally for what you did for Jack.”
   Warren shrugged. “I might not have taken my ride all the way up there if I knew he wasn’t going to pass me the ball tonight.”
   Jack formed his hand into a semi-fist and cuffed the top of Warren’s head.
   Warren flinched and ducked out of the way. “Nice meeting you, Laurie,” he said. “I’m glad you stopped by. Me and some of the other brothers have been a bit worried about the old man here. We’re glad to see that he has a shortie after all.”
   “What’s a shortie?” Laurie asked.
   “Girlfriend,” Jack translated.
   “Come anytime, Laurie,” Warren said. “You sure are better-looking than this kid.” He took a swipe at Jack and then dribbled back to where he’d been shooting foul shots.
   “ ‘Shortie’ for girlfriend?” Laurie questioned.
   “It’s just rap-talk,” Jack said. “Shortie is a lot more flattering than some of the terms. But you’re not supposed to take any of it literally.”
   “Don’t get me wrong! I wasn’t offended,” Laurie said. “In fact, why don’t you ask him and his ‘shortie’ to come to dinner with us. I’d like to get to know him better.”
   Jack shrugged and looked back at Warren. “That’s an idea,” he said. “I wonder if he’d come.”
   “You’ll never know unless you ask,” Laurie said.
   “I can’t argue with you there,” Jack said.
   “I assume he has a girlfriend,” Laurie said.
   “To tell you the truth, I don’t know,” Jack said.
   “You mean to tell me you were quarantined with the man for a week and you don’t even know if he has a girlfriend?” Laurie said. “What did you men talk about all that time?”
   “I can’t remember,” Jack said. “Hold on. I’ll be right back.”
   Jack walked over to Warren and asked him if he’d come to dinner with them and bring his “shortie.”
   “That is, if you have one,” Jack added.
   “Of course I have one,” Warren said. He stared at Jack for a beat, then looked over at Laurie. “Was it her idea?”
   “Yeah,” Jack admitted. “But I think it’s a good one. The reason I never asked in the past is because I never thought you’d come.”
   “Where?”
   “A restaurant called Elios on the East Side,” Jack said. “At nine. It’s my treat.”
   “Cool,” Warren said. “How you getting over there?”
   “I suppose we’ll take a taxi from my place,” Jack said.
   “No need,” Warren said. “My ride’s handy. I’ll pick you up at quarter of nine.”
   “See you then,” Jack said. He turned and started back toward Laurie.
   “This doesn’t mean I’m not still pissed that you didn’t pass me the ball on that last run,” Warren called out.
   Jack smiled and waved over his shoulder. When he got back to Laurie he told her that Warren was coming.
   “Wonderful,” Laurie said.
   “I agree,” Jack said. “I’ll be dining with two of the four people who saved my life.”
   “Where are the other two?” Laurie asked.
   “Unfortunately, Slam is no longer with us,” Jack said regretfully. “That’s a story I have yet to tell you. Spit is the fellow over on the sidelines in the bright red sweatshirt.”
   “Why not ask him to dinner too,” Laurie suggested.
   “Another night,” Jack said. “I’d rather this not be a party. I’m looking forward to the conversation. You learned more about Warren in two minutes than I’ve learned in months.”
   “I’ll never understand what you men talk about,” Laurie said.
   “Listen, I’ve got to shower and dress,” Jack said. “Do you mind coming up to my place?”
   “Not at all,” Laurie said. “I’m kind of curious, the way you’ve described it.”
   “It’s not pretty,” Jack warned.
   “Lead on!” Laurie commanded.
   Jack was pleased there were no homeless people asleep in the hall of his tenement, but to make up for that blessing the endless argument on the second floor was as loud as ever. Nevertheless, Laurie didn’t seem to mind and had no comment until they were safely inside Jack’s apartment. There she glanced around and said it looked warm and comfortable, like an oasis.
   “It’ll only take me a few minutes to get ready,” Jack said. “Can I offer you something? Actually I don’t have much. How about a beer?”
   Laurie declined and told Jack to go ahead and shower. He tried to give her something to read, but she declined that as well.
   “I don’t have a TV,” Jack said apologetically.
   “I noticed,” Laurie said.
   “In this building a TV is too much of a temptation,” Jack said. “It would walk out of here too fast.”
   “Talking about TV,” Laurie said, “have you seen those National Health commercials everyone is talking about, the ‘no wait’ ones?”
   “No, I haven’t,” Jack said.
   “You should,” Laurie said. “They’re amazingly effective. One of them has become an overnight classic. It’s the one with the tag line ‘We wait for you, you don’t wait for us.’ It’s very clever. If you can believe it, it’s even caused National Health’s stock to go up.”
   “Could we talk about something else?” Jack said.
   “Of course,” Laurie said. She cocked her head to the side. “What’s the matter? Did I say something wrong?”
   “No, it’s not you, it’s me,” Jack said. “Sometimes I’m overly sensitive. Medical advertising has always been a pet peeve of mine, and lately I feel even more strongly about it. But don’t worry; I’ll explain it later.”

Fever

Robin Cook

Prologue
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Epilogue

Fever
by Robin Cook

   To the joy of my family—it began with my parents, now shared with my wife

Prologue

   The poisonous molecules of benzene arrived in the bone marrow in a crescendo. The foreign chemical surged with the blood and was carried between the narrow spicules of supporting bone into the farthest reaches of the delicate tissue. It was like a frenzied horde of barbarians descending into Rome. And the result was equally as disastrous. The complicated nature of the marrow, designed to make most of the cellular content of the blood, succumbed to the invaders.
   Every cell exposed to the benzene was assaulted. The nature of the chemical was such that it knifed through the cell membranes like steel through butter. Red cells or white, young or mature, it made no difference. Within some lucky cells where only a few molecules of benzene entered, enzymes were able to inactivate the chemical. In most others the destruction of the interior membranes was immediate.
   Within minutes the concentration of the benzene had soared to the point that thousands of the poisonous molecules had reached the very heart of the marrow, the primitive, finely structured stem cells. These were the actively dividing units, serving as the source of the circulating blood cells, and their activity bore witness to hundreds of millions of years of evolution. Here, being played out moment by moment, was the incredible mystery of life, an organization more fantastic than the wildest scientific dream. The benzene molecules indiscriminately penetrated these busily reproducing cells, interrupting the orderly replication of the DNA molecules. Most of these cells either halted the life processes in a sudden agonal heave or, having been released from the mysterious central control, tumbled off in frenzied undirected activity like rabid animals until death intervened.
   After the benzene molecules had been washed away by repeated surges of clean blood, the marrow could have recovered except for one stem cell. This cell had been busy for years turning out an impressive progeny of white blood cells whose function, ironically enough, was to help the body fight against foreign invaders. When the benzene penetrated this cell’s nucleus, it damaged a very specific part of the DNA but did not kill the cell. It would have been better if the cell had died because the benzene destroyed the fine balance between reproduction and maturation. The cell instantly divided and the resulting daughter cells had the same defect. No longer did they listen to the mysterious central control and mature into normal white blood cells. Instead they responded to an unfettered urge to reproduce their altered selves. Although they appeared to be relatively normal within the marrow, they were different from other young white blood cells. The usual surface stickiness was absent, and they absorbed nutrients at an alarmingly selfish rate. They had become parasites within their own house.
   After only twenty divisions there were over one million of these lawless cells. By twenty-seven divisions there were over one billion; they then began to break free from the mass. First a trickle of sick cells entered the circulation, then a steady stream, finally a flood. These cells charged out into the body eager to establish fertile colonies. By forty divisions they numbered over a trillion.
   It was the beginning of an aggressive, acute myeloblastic leukemia in the body of a pubescent girl, starting December 28, two days after her twelfth birthday. Her name was Michelle Martel and she had no idea except for a single symptom: she had a fever!

One

   A cold January morning tentatively fingered its way over the frigid landscape of Shaftesbury, New Hampshire. Reluctantly the shadows began to pale as the winter sky slowly lightened, revealing a featureless gray cloud cover. It was going to snow and despite the cold, there was a damp sting to the air; a sharp reminder that off to the east lay the Atlantic.
   The red brick buildings of old Shaftesbury huddled along the Pawtomack River like a ghost town. The river had been the support, the lifeblood of the town; it sprang from the snow-laden White Mountains in the north and ran to the sea in the southeast. As the river coursed past the town, its smooth flow was interrupted by a crumbling dam and a large waterwheel that no longer turned. Lining the riverbanks were block after block of empty factories, reminders of a more prosperous age when New England mills were the center of the textile industry. At the extreme southern end of town, at the foot of Main Street, the last brick mill building was occupied by a chemical operation called Recycle, Ltd., a rubber, plastic, and vinyl recycling plant. A wisp of acrid, gray smoke rose from a large phallic smokestack and merged with the clouds. Over the whole area hung a foul, choking odor of burnt rubber and plastic. Surrounding the building were enormous piles of discarded rubber tires, like the droppings of a gigantic monster.
   South of the town the river ran through rolling, wooded hills, interspersed by snow-covered meadows and bordered by fieldstone fences erected by settlers three hundred years before. Six miles south of the town the river took a lazy curve to the east and formed an idyllic six-acre peninsula of land. In the center was a shallow pond connected to the river by an inlet. Behind the pond rose a hill capped by a white-framed Victorian farmhouse with gabled roofs and gingerbread trim. A long winding driveway bordered with oaks and sugar maples led down to the Interstate 301 heading south toward Massachusetts. Twenty-five yards north of the house was a weather-beaten barn nestled in a copse of evergreens. Built on piles at the edge of the pond was a miniature copy of the main house; it was a shed turned playhouse.
   It was a beautiful New England landscape, like a January calendar scene, except for a slight macabre detail: there were no fish in the pond and no encircling vegetation within six feet.
   Inside the picturesque white house, the pale morning light diffused through lace curtains. By degrees the gathering dawn gently nudged Charles Martel from the depths of a satisfying sleep. He rolled over onto his left side, enjoying a contentment he’d been afraid to acknowledge for the past two years. There was a sense of order and security in his life now; Charles had never expected to experience this again after his first wife had been diagnosed with lymphoma. She had died nine years ago, leaving Charles with three children to raise. Life had become something to endure.
   But that was now in the past, and the awful wound had slowly healed. And then to Charles’s surprise, even the void had been filled. Two years ago he had remarried, but he still was afraid to admit how much his life had changed for the better. It was safer and easier to concentrate on his work and the day-to-day necessities of family life than to acknowledge his newly regained contentment and thereby admit to the ultimate vulnerability, happiness. But Cathryn, his new wife, made this denial difficult because she was a joyous and giving person. Charles had fallen in love with her the day he met her and had married her five months later. The last two years had only increased his affection for her.
   As the darkness receded, Charles could see the placid profile of his sleeping wife. She was on her back with her right arm casually draped on the pillow above her head. She looked much younger than her thirty-two years, a fact that initially had emphasized the thirteen years’ difference in their ages. Charles was forty-five and he acknowledged that he looked it. But Cathryn looked like twenty-five. Resting on his elbow, Charles stared at her delicate features. He traced the frame of her provocative widow’s peak, down the length of the soft brown hair to her shoulder. Her face, lit by the early morning light, seemed radiant to Charles and his eyes followed the slightly curved line of her nose, noticing the flare of her nostrils as she breathed. Watching her he felt a reflex stirring deep within him.
   He looked over at the clock; another twenty minutes before the alarm. Thankfully he lowered himself back into the warm nest made by the down coverlet and spooned against his wife, marveling at his sense of well-being. He even looked forward to his days at the institute. Work was progressing at an ever-increasing pace. He felt a twinge of excitement. What if he, Charles Martel, the boy from Teaneck, New Jersey, made the first real step in unraveling the mystery of cancer? Charles knew that it was becoming increasingly possible, and the irony was that he was not a formally trained research scientist. He’d been an internist specializing in allergy when Elizabeth, his first wife, had become ill. After she died he gave up his lucrative practice to become a full-time researcher at the Weinburger Research Institute. It had been a reaction against her death, and although some of his colleagues had told him that a career change was an unhealthy way to work out such a problem, he had flourished in the new environment.
   Cathryn, sensing her husband was awake, turned over and found herself in an enveloping hug. Wiping the sleep from her eyes, she looked at Charles and laughed. He looked so uncharacteristically impish.
   “What’s going on in that little mind of yours?” she asked, smiling.
   “I’ve just been watching you.”
   “Wonderful! I’m sure I look my best,” said Cathryn.
   “You look devastating,” teased Charles, pushing her thick hair back from her forehead.
   Cathryn, now more awake, realized the urgency of his arousal. Running her hand down her husband’s body, she encountered an erect penis. “And what is this?” she asked.
   “I accept no responsibility,” said Charles. “That part of my anatomy has a mind of its own.”
   “Our Polish Pope says a man should not lust after his wife.”
   “I haven’t been. I’ve been thinking about work,” Charles teased.
   As the first snowflakes settled on the gabled roofs, they came together with a depth of passion and tenderness that never failed to overwhelm Charles. Then the alarm went off. The day began.

   Michelle could hear Cathryn calling from far away, interrupting her dream; she and her father were crossing a field. Michelle tried to ignore the call but it came again. She felt a hand on her shoulder, and when she turned over, she looked up into Cathryn’s smiling face.
   “Time to get up,” her stepmother said brightly.
   Michelle took a deep breath and nodded her head, acknowledging that she was awake. She’d had a bad night, full of disturbing dreams which left her soaked with perspiration. She’d felt hot beneath the covers and cold out of them. Several times during the night she thought about going in to Charles. She would have if her father had been alone.
   “My goodness, you look flushed,” said Cathryn, as she opened the drapes. She reached down and touched Michelle’s forehead. It felt hot.
   “I think you have a fever again,” said Cathryn sympathetically. “Do you feel sick?”
   “No,” said Michelle quickly. She didn’t want to be sick again. She did not want to stay home from school. She wanted to get up and make the orange juice, which had always been her job.
   “We’d better take your temperature anyway,” said Cathryn, going into the connecting bath. She reappeared, alternately flicking and examining the thermometer. “It will only take a minute, then we’ll know for sure.” She stuck the thermometer into Michelle’s mouth. “Under the tongue. I’ll be back after I get the boys up.”
   The door closed and Michelle pulled the thermometer from her mouth. Even in that short a time, the mercury had risen to ninety-nine. She had a fever and she knew it. Her legs ached and there was a tenderness in the pit of her stomach. She put the thermometer back into her mouth. From where she lay she could look out the window and see her playhouse that Charles had made out of an ice shed. The roof was covered with new-fallen snow and she shivered at the cold scene. She longed for spring and those lazy days that she spent in that fantasy house. Just she and her father.

   When the door opened, Jean Paul, age fifteen, was already awake, propped up in bed with his physics book. Behind his head the small clock radio played a soft rock and roll. He was wearing dark red flannel pajamas with blue piping, a Christmas gift from Cathryn.
   “You’ve got twenty minutes,” Cathryn said cheerfully.
   “Thanks, Mom,” said Jean Paul with a smile.
   Cathryn paused, looking down at the boy, and her heart melted. She felt like rushing in and swooping him into her arms. But she resisted the temptation. She’d learned that all the Martels were somewhat chary about direct physical contact, a fact that initially had been a little hard for her to deal with. Cathryn came from Boston’s Italian North End where touching and hugging was a constant. Although her father had been Latvian, he’d left when Cathryn was twelve, and Cathryn had grown up without his influence. She felt 100 percent Italian. “See you at breakfast,” she said.
   Jean Paul knew that Cathryn loved to hear him call her Mom and gladly obliged. It was such a low price to pay for the warmth and attention that she showered on him. Jean Paul had been conditioned by a very busy father and seen himself eclipsed by his older brother, Chuck, and his irresistible baby sister, Michelle. Then came Cathryn, and the excitement of the marriage, followed by Cathryn’s legal adoption of Chuck, Jean Paul, and Michelle. Jean Paul would have called her “grandmother” if she wanted. He thought he loved Cathryn as much as his real mother; at least what he could remember of her. He’d been six when she died.
   Chuck’s eyes blinked open at the first touch of Cathryn’s hand but he pretended sleep, keeping his head under his pillow. He knew that if he waited she’d touch him again, only a little more forcibly. And he was right, only this time he felt two hands shake his shoulder before the pillow was lifted. Chuck was eighteen years old and in the middle of his first year at Northeastern University. He wasn’t doing that well and he dreaded his upcoming semester finals. It was going to be a disaster. At least for everything but psychology.
   “Fifteen minutes,” said Cathryn. She tousled his long hair. “Your father wants to get to the lab early.”
   “Shit,” said Chuck under his breath.
   “Charles, Jr.!” said Cathryn, pretending to be shocked.
   “I’m not getting up.” Chuck grabbed the pillow from Cathryn’s hands and buried himself.
   “Oh, yes you are,” said Cathryn, as she yanked the covers back.
   Chuck’s body, clad only in his undershorts, was exposed to the morning chill. He leaped up, pulling the blankets around him. “I told you never to do that,” he snapped.
   “And I told you to leave your locker-room language in the locker room,” said Cathryn, ignoring the nastiness in Chuck’s voice. “Fifteen minutes!”
   Cathryn spun on her heel and walked out. Chuck’s face flushed in frustration. He watched her go down the hall to Michelle’s room. She was wearing an antique silk nightgown that she’d bought at a flea market. It was a deep peach color, not too different from her skin. With very little difficulty, Chuck could imagine Cathryn naked. She wasn’t old enough to be his mother.
   He reached out, hooked his hand around the edge of his door, and slammed it. Just because his father liked to get to his lab before eight, Chuck had to get up at the crack of dawn like some goddamn farmer. The big deal scientist! Chuck rubbed his face and noticed the open book at his beside. Crime and Punishment. He’d spent most of the previous evening reading it. It wasn’t for any of his courses, which was probably why he was enjoying it. He should have studied chemistry because he was in danger of flunking. God, what would Charles say if he did! There had already been a huge blowup when Chuck had not been able to get into Charles’s alma mater, Harvard. Now if he flunked chemistry… Chemistry had been Charles’s major.
   “I don’t want to be a goddamn doctor anyway,” Chuck snapped, as he stood up and pulled on dirty Levi’s. He was proud of the fact that they’d never been washed. In the bathroom he decided not to shave. He thought maybe he’d grow a beard.

   Clad in a terrycloth lava-lava, which, unfortunately, emphasized the fifteen pounds he’d gained in the last ten years, Charles lathered his chin. He was trying to sort through the myriad facts associated with his current research project. The immunology of living forms involved a complexity which never failed to amaze and exhilarate him, especially now that he thought he was coming very close to some real answers about cancer. Charles had been excited before and wrong before. He knew that. But now his ideas were based on years of painstaking experimentation and supported by easily reproducible facts.
   Charles began to chart the schedule for the day. He wanted to start work with the new HR7 strain of mice that carried hereditary mammary cancer. He hoped to make the animals “allergic” to their own tumors, a goal which Charles felt was coming closer and closer.
   Cathryn opened the door and pushed past him. Pulling her gown over her head, she slipped into the shower. The water and steam billowed the shower curtain. After a moment she pulled back the curtain and called to Charles.
   “I think I’ve got to take Michelle to see a real doctor,” she said before disappearing back behind the curtain.
   Charles paused in his shaving, trying not to be annoyed by her sarcastic reference to a “real” doctor. It was a sensitive issue between them.
   “I really thought that marrying a doctor would at least guarantee good medical attention for my family,” shouted Cathryn over the din of the shower. “Was I wrong!”
   Charles busied himself, examining his half-shaved face, noticing in the process that his eyelids were a little puffy. He was trying to avoid a fight. The fact that the family’s “medical problems” spontaneously solved themselves within twenty-four hours was lost on Cathryn. Her newly awakened mother instincts demanded specialists for every sniffle, ache, or bout of diarrhea.
   “Michelle still feeling lousy?” asked Charles. It was better to talk about specifics.
   “I shouldn’t have to tell you. The child’s been feeling sick for some time.”
   With exasperation, Charles reached out and pulled back the edge of the shower curtain. “Cathryn, I’m a cancer researcher, not a pediatrician.”
   “Oh, excuse me,” said Cathryn, lifting her face to the water. “I thought you were a doctor.”
   “I’m not going to let you bait me into an argument,” said Charles testily. “The flu has been going around. Michelle has a touch of it. People feel lousy for a week and then it’s over.”
   Pulling her head from beneath the shower, Cathryn looked directly at Charles. “The point is, she’s been feeling lousy for four weeks.”
   “Four weeks?” he asked. Time had a way of dissolving in the face of his work.
   “Four weeks,” repeated Cathryn. “I don’t think I’m panicking at the first sign of a cold. I think I’d better take Michelle into Pediatric Hospital and see Dr. Wiley. Besides, I can visit the Schonhauser boy.”
   “All right, I’ll take a look at Michelle,” agreed Charles, turning back to the sink. Four weeks was a long time to have the flu. Perhaps Cathryn was exaggerating, but he knew better than to question. In fact, it was better to change the subject. “What’s wrong with the Schonhauser boy?” The Schonhausers were neighbors who lived about a mile up the river. Henry Schonhauser was a chemist at M.I.T. and one of the few people with whom Charles enjoyed socializing. The Schonhauser boy, Tad, was a year older than Michelle, but because of the way their birthdays fell, they were in the same class.
   Cathryn stepped out of the shower, pleased that her tactic to get Charles to look at Michelle had worked so perfectly. “Tad’s been in the hospital for three weeks. I hear he’s very sick but I haven’t spoken with Marge since he went in.”
   “What’s the diagnosis?” Charles poised the razor below his left sideburn.
   “Something I’ve never heard of before. Elastic anemia or something,” said Cathryn, toweling herself off.
   “Aplastic anemia?” asked Charles with disbelief.
   “Something like that.”
   “My God,” said Charles, leaning on the sink. “That’s awful.”
   “What is it?” Cathryn experienced a reflex jolt of panic.
   “It’s a disease where the bone marrow stops producing blood cells.”
   “Is it serious?”
   “It’s always serious and often fatal.”
   Cathryn’s arms hung limply at her sides, her wet hair like an unwrung mop. She could feel a mixture of sympathy and fear. “Is it catching?”
   “No,” said Charles absently. He was trying to remember what he knew of the affliction. It was not a common illness.
   “Michelle and Tad have spent quite a bit of time together,” said Cathryn. Her voice was hesitant.
   Charles looked at her, realizing that she was pleading for reassurance. “Wait a minute. You’re not thinking that Michelle might have aplastic anemia, are you?”
   “Could she?”
   “No. My God, you’re like a med student. You hear of a new disease and five minutes later either you or the kids have it. Aplastic anemia is as rare as hell. It’s usually associated with some drug or chemical. It’s either a poisoning or an allergic reaction. Although most of the time the actual cause is never found. Anyway, it’s not catching; but that poor kid.”
   “And to think I haven’t even called Marge,” said Cathryn. She leaned forward and looked at her face in the mirror. She tried to imagine the emotional strain Marge was under and decided she’d better go back to making lists like she did before getting married. There was no excuse for such thoughtlessness.
   Charles shaved the left side of his face wondering if aplastic anemia was the kind of disease he should look into. Could it possibly shed some clue on the organization of life? Where was the control that shut the marrow down? That was a cogent question because, after all, it was the control issue which Charles felt was key to understanding cancer.

   With the knuckle of his first finger, Charles knocked softly on Michelle’s door. Listening, he heard only the sound of the shower coming from the connecting bathroom. Quietly he opened the door. Michelle was lying in bed, facing away from him. Abruptly she turned over and their eyes met. A line of tears which sparkled in the morning light ran down her flushed cheeks. Charles’s heart melted.
   Sitting on the edge of her eyelet-covered bed, he bent down and kissed her forehead. With his lips he could tell she had a fever. Straightening up, Charles looked at his little girl. He could so easily see Elizabeth, his first wife, in Michelle’s face. There was the same thick, black hair, the same high cheekbones and full lips, the same flawless olive skin. From Charles, Michelle had inherited intensely blue eyes, straight white teeth, and unfortunately a somewhat wide nose. Charles believed she was the most beautiful twelve-year-old in the world.
   With the back of his hand he wiped the wetness from her cheeks.
   “I’m sorry, Daddy,” said Michelle through her tears.
   “What do you mean, sorry?” asked Charles softly.
   “I’m sorry I’m sick again. I don’t like to be a bother.”
   Charles hugged her. She felt fragile in his arms. “You’re not a bother. I don’t want to even hear you say such a thing. Let me look at you.”
   Embarrassed by her tears, Michelle kept her face averted as Charles pulled away to examine her. He cradled her chin in the palm of his hand and lifted her face to his. “Tell me how you feel. What is bothering you?”
   “I just feel a little weak, that’s all. I can go to school. Really I can.”
   “Sore throat?”
   “A little. Not much. Cathryn said I couldn’t go to school.”
   “Anything else? Headache?”
   “A little but it’s better.”
   “Ears?”
   “Fine.”
   “Stomach?”
   “Maybe a little sore.”
   Charles depressed Michelle’s lower lids. The conjunctiva was pale. In fact, her whole face was pale. “Let me see your tongue.” Charles realized how long it had been since he’d done clinical medicine. Michelle stuck out her tongue and watched her father’s eyes for the slightest sign of concern. Charles felt under the angle of her jaw and she pulled her tongue back in. “Tender?” asked Charles as his fingers felt some small lymph nodes.
   “No,” said Michelle.
   Charles had her sit on the edge of the bed, facing away from him, and he began to draw up her nightgown. Jean Paul’s head came into the room from the connecting bathroom to tell her the shower was free.
   “Get out of here,” yelled Michelle. “Dad, tell Jean Paul to get out.”
   “Out!” said Charles. Jean Paul disappeared. He could be heard laughing with Chuck.
   Charles percussed Michelle’s back somewhat clumsily but well enough to be convinced that her lungs were clear. Then he had her lie back on her bed, and he drew her nightgown up to just below her nascent breasts. Her thin abdomen rose and fell rhythmically. She was thin enough for him to see the recoil of her heart after each beat. With his right hand, Charles began to palpate her abdomen. “Try to relax. If I hurt you, just say so.”
   Michelle attempted to remain still but she squirmed beneath Charles’s cold hand. Then it hurt.
   “Where?” asked Charles. Michelle pointed and Charles felt very carefully, determining that Michelle’s abdomen was tender at the midline. Putting his fingers just beneath the right ribs he asked her to breathe in. When she did, he could feel the blunt edge of her liver pass under his fingers. She said that hurt a little. Then with his left hand under her for support, he felt for her spleen. To his surprise he had no trouble palpating it. He’d always had trouble with that maneuver when he was in practice and he wondered if Michelle’s spleen wasn’t enlarged.
   Standing up, he looked at Michelle. She seemed thin, but she’d always been slender. Charles started to run his hand down her legs to feel the muscle tone, then stopped, noticing a series of bruises. “Where’d you get all these black-and-blue marks?”
   Michelle shrugged.
   “Do your legs bother you?”
   “A little. Mostly my knees and ankles after gym. But I don’t have to go to gym if I have a note.”
   Straightening up again, Charles surveyed his daughter. She was pale, had minor aches and pains, a few lymph nodes, and a fever. That could be just about any minor viral illness. But four weeks! Maybe Cathryn was right. Maybe she should be seen by a “real” doctor.
   “Please, Dad,” said Michelle. “I can’t miss any more school if I’m going to be a research doctor like you.”
   Charles smiled. Michelle had always been a precocious child and this indirect flattery was a good example. “Missing a few days of school in the sixth grade is not going to hurt your career,” said Charles. “Cathryn is going to take you to Pediatric Hospital today to see Dr. Wiley.”
   “He’s a baby doctor!” said Michelle defiantly.
   “He’s a pediatrician and he sees patients up to eighteen, smarty pants.”
   “I want you to take me.”
   “I can’t, dear. I’ve got to go to the lab. Why don’t you get dressed and come down for some breakfast?”
   “I’m not hungry.”
   “Michelle, don’t be difficult.”
   “I’m not being difficult. I’m just not hungry.”
   “Then come down for some juice.” Charles lightly pinched Michelle’s cheek.
   Michelle watched her father leave her room. Her tears welled up anew. She felt horrid and did not want to go to the hospital but worst of all, she felt lonely. She wanted her father to love her more than anything in the world and she knew that Charles was impatient when any of the kids got sick. She struggled up to a sitting position and braced herself against a wave of dizziness.

   “My God, Chuck,” said Charles with disgust. “You look like a pig.”
   Chuck ignored his father. He got some cold cereal, poured milk over it, then sat down to eat. The rule for breakfast was that everyone fended for themselves, except for the orange juice which Michelle usually made. Cathryn had made it this morning.
   Chuck was wearing a stained sweater and dirty jeans, which he wore so long that he walked on the frayed bottoms. His hair was uncombed and the fact that he hadn’t shaved was painfully apparent.
   “Do you really have to be so sloppy?” continued Charles. “I thought that the hippie look was passé now and that college kids were becoming respectable again.”
   “You’re right. Hippie is out,” said Jean Paul, coming into the kitchen and pouring orange juice. “Punk is in now.”
   “Punk?” questioned Charles. “Is Chuck punk?”
   “No,” laughed Jean Paul. “Chuck is just Chuck.”
   Chuck looked up from his cereal box to mouth some obscenities at his younger brother. Jean Paul ignored him and opened his physics book. It occurred to him that his father never noticed what he wore. It was always Chuck.
   “Really, Chuck,” Charles was saying. “Do you honestly feel you have to look that bad?” Chuck ignored the question. Charles watched the boy eat with growing exasperation. “Chuck, I’m speaking to you.”
   Cathryn reached over and put her hand on Charles’s arm. “Let’s not get into this discussion at breakfast. You know how college kids are. Leave him be.”
   “I think I at least deserve an answer,” persisted Charles.
   Taking in a deep breath and blowing it out noisily through his nose to punctuate his annoyance, Chuck looked into his father’s face. “I’m not a doctor,” he said. “I don’t have to adhere to a dress code.”
   The eyes of the father and the older son met. Chuck said to himself: “Take that, you smart-ass son-of-a-bitch, just because you got good grades in chemistry you think you know everything, but you don’t.” Charles examined the face of this son of his, marveling how much arrogance the boy could manufacture with so little basis. He was intelligent enough but hopelessly lazy. His performance in high school had been such that Harvard had rejected him, and Charles had a feeling that he wasn’t doing well at Northeastern. Charles wondered where he, as a father, might have gone wrong. But such musing was made difficult by the personality of Jean Paul. Charles glanced at his other son: neat, easygoing, studious. It was hard to believe that both boys had sprung from the same genetic pool and grown up together. Charles’s attention returned to Chuck. The boy’s defiance had not altered, but Charles felt his interest in the issue wane. He had more important things to think about.
   “I hope,” said Charles evenly, “your appearance and your grades have nothing in common. I trust you are doing all right at college. We haven’t heard much about that.”
   “I’m doing all right,” said Chuck, finally dropping his eyes back to his cereal. Standing up to his father was something new for Chuck. Before he’d gone to college, he had avoided any confrontation. Now he looked forward to it. Chuck was sure that Cathryn noticed and approved. After all, Charles was a tyrant with Cathryn as well.
   “If I’m going to drive the station wagon into Boston, I’m going to need some extra cash,” said Cathryn, hoping to change the subject. “And speaking of money, the oil people called and said they won’t deliver until the account is settled.”
   “Remind me tonight,” said Charles quickly. He didn’t want to discuss money.
   “Also my semester tuition has never been paid,” said Chuck.
   Cathryn looked up from her food and glanced at Charles, hoping he would refute Chuck’s allegation. Semester tuition amounted to a lot of money.
   “I got a note yesterday,” said Chuck, “saying that the tuition was way overdue and that I wouldn’t get credits for my courses if it weren’t paid.”
   “But the money was taken out of the account,” said Cathryn.
   “I used the money in the lab,” explained Charles.
   “What?” Cathryn was aghast.
   “We’ll get it back. I needed a new strain of mice and there was no more grant money until March.”
   “You bought rats with Chuck’s tuition money?” asked Cathryn.
   “Mice,” corrected Charles.
   With a delicious sense of voyeurism Chuck watched the discussion unfold. He’d been getting notes from the bursar for months, but he’d not brought them home, hoping for a time when he could bring it up without his performance being at issue. It couldn’t have worked out better.
   “That’s just wonderful,” said Cathryn. “And how do you expect we are to eat from now until March after Chuck’s bill is paid?”
   “I’ll take care of it,” Charles snapped. His defensiveness was coming out as anger.
   “I think maybe I should get a job,” said Cathryn. “Do they need extra typing at the institute?”
   “For Christ’s sake. It’s not a crisis!” said Charles. “Everything’s under control. What you should do is finish that Ph.D. thesis of yours so that you can get a job that uses your training.” Cathryn had been trying to finish her thesis in literature for almost three years.
   “So now it’s because I haven’t gotten my Ph.D. that Chuck’s tuition isn’t paid,” said Cathryn sarcastically.
   Michelle stepped into the kitchen. Both Cathryn and Charles looked up, their conversation momentarily forgotten. She’d dressed herself in a pink monogrammed sweater over a white cotton turtleneck, making her look older than her twelve years. Her face, framed by her jet-black hair, seemed extraordinarily pale. She went over to the counter and poured herself some orange juice. “Ugh,” said Michelle, taking a taste. “I hate it when the juice is filled with bubbles.”
   “Well, well,” said Jean Paul. “If it isn’t the little princess playing sick to stay home from school.”
   “Don’t tease your sister,” commanded Charles.
   Suddenly, Michelle’s head snapped forward with a violent sneeze, sloshing juice from her glass to the floor. She felt a surge of liquid come from her nose and she automatically leaned forward, catching the stream in an open palm. To her horror, it was blood. “Dad!” she cried, as the blood filled her cupped hand and splattered to the floor.
   In unison, Charles and Cathryn jumped up. Cathryn snatched a dish towel while Charles picked Michelle up and carried her into the living room.
   The two boys looked at the small pool of blood, then at their food, trying to decide what effect the episode had on their appetites. Cathryn came running back, pulled a tray of ice cubes from the freezer, then rushed back to the living room.
   “Ugh,” said Chuck. “You couldn’t get me to be a doctor if you paid me a million dollars. I can’t stand blood.”
   “Michelle always manages to be the center of attention,” said Jean Paul.
   “You can say that again.”
   “Michelle always manages to…” repeated Jean Paul. It was easy and fun to ride Chuck.
   “Shut up, stupid.” Chuck got up and threw the remains of his Grape-Nuts down the disposal. Then, skirting the blood on the floor, he headed up to his room.
   After four mouthfuls, Jean Paul finished his cereal and put his dish in the sink. With a paper towel, he wiped up Michelle’s blood.

   “Good gravy,” said Charles as he went outside through the kitchen door. The storm had brought a northeast wind, and with it the stench of burnt rubber from the recycling plant. “What a stink.”
   “What a shit hole of a place to live,” said Chuck.
   Charles’s frayed emotions bristled at the impudence, but he refrained from saying anything. It had already been a bad enough morning. Setting his jaw, he tucked his chin into his sheepskin jacket to keep out the blowing snow and trudged toward the barn.
   “As soon as I can, I’m going to head for California,” said Chuck, following in Charles’s footsteps. There was about an inch of new snow.
   “Dressed the way you are, you’ll fit in perfectly,” said Charles.
   Jean Paul, bringing up the rear, laughed, his breath coming in concentrated puffs of vapor. Chuck spun and shoved Jean Paul off the shoveled pathway, into the deeper snow. There were some angry words but Charles ignored them. It was too cold to pause. The little gusts of wind felt abrasive and the smell was awful. It hadn’t always been that way. The rubber plant had opened in ’71, a year after he and Elizabeth had bought the house. The move had really been Elizabeth’s idea. She wanted her children to grow up in clear, crisp air of the country. What an irony, thought Charles, as he unlocked the barn. But it wasn’t too bad. They could only smell the plant when the wind came from the northeast and, thankfully, that wasn’t very often.
   “Damn,” said Jean Paul, staring down at the pond. “With this new snow, I’m going to have to shovel my hockey rink all over again. Hey, Dad, how come the water never freezes around Michelle’s playhouse?”
   Leaving the piece of pipe against the door to keep it open, Charles looked out over the pond. “I don’t know. I never thought about it. Must be something to do with the current because the area of open water connects with the inlet from the river, and the inlet isn’t frozen either.”
   “Ugh,” said Chuck, pointing beyond the playhouse. There on the apron of frozen mud surrounding the pond was a dead mallard. “Another dead duck. I guess they can’t stand the smell, either.”
   “That’s strange,” said Charles. “We haven’t seen ducks for several years. When we first moved here I used to hunt them from Michelle’s playhouse. Then they disappeared.”
   “There’s another one,” cried Jean Paul. “But he’s not dead. It’s flopping around.”
   “Looks drunk,” said Chuck.
   “Come on, let’s go help it.”
   “We haven’t much time,” cautioned Charles.
   “Oh, come on.” Jean Paul took off over the crusted snow.
   Neither Charles nor Chuck shared Jean Paul’s enthusiasm, but they followed just the same. When they reached him, he was bending over the poor creature who was in the throes of a seizure.
   “God, it’s got epilepsy!” said Chuck.
   “What’s wrong with him, Dad?” asked Jean Paul.
   “I haven’t the faintest idea. Avian medicine is not one of my strongest subjects.”
   Jean Paul bent down to try to restrain the bird’s pitiful spasms and jerks.
   “I’m not sure you should touch it,” said Charles. “I don’t know if psittacosis is carried by ducks.”
   “I think we should just kill it and put it out of its misery,” said Chuck.
   Charles glanced at his older son, whose eyes were glued to the sick bird. For some reason Chuck’s suggestion struck Charles as cruel even though it was probably correct.
   “Can I put it in the barn for the day?” pleaded Jean Paul.
   “I’ll get my air rifle and put it out of its misery,” said Chuck. It was his turn to get back at Jean Paul.
   “No!” commanded Jean Paul. “Can I put it in the barn, Dad? Please?”
   “All right,” said Charles, “but don’t touch it. Run up and get a box or something.”
   Jean Paul took off like a rabbit. Charles and Chuck faced each other over the sick bird. “Don’t you feel any compassion?” asked Charles.
   “Compassion? You’re asking me about compassion after what you do to all those animals in the lab? What a joke!”
   Charles studied his son. He thought he saw more than disrespect. He thought he saw hatred. Chuck had been a mystery to Charles from the day he reached puberty. With some difficulty he suppressed the urge to slap the boy.
   With his usual resourcefulness, Jean Paul had found a large cardboard box as well as an old pillow. He’d cut open the pillow and filled the box with the feathers. Using the collapsed pillow as a protective rag, he picked up the duck and put it into the box. As he explained it to Charles, the feathers would both protect the duck from injuring himself if he had another seizure and keep it warm. Charles nodded his approval and they all climbed into the car.
   The five-year-old red, rusted Pinto complained as Charles turned the key. Because of a series of holes in the muffler the Pinto sounded like an AMX tank when it finally started. Charles backed out of the garage, slid down the drive, and turned north on Interstate 301, heading toward Shaftesbury. As the old car picked up speed, Charles felt relief. Family life could never be made to run smoothly. At least in the lab the variables had a comforting predictability and problems lent themselves to the scientific method. Charles was growing less and less appreciative of human capriciousness.
   “All right!” he shouted. “No music!” He switched off the radio. The two boys had been fighting over which station to hear. “A little quiet contemplation is a good way to begin the day.”
   The brothers looked at each other and rolled their eyes.
   Their route took them along the Pawtomack River and they got glimpses of the water as it snaked its way through the countryside. The closer they got to Shaftesbury, the more intense the stench became from Recycle, Ltd. The first view of the town was the factory’s smokestack spewing its black plume into the air. A harsh whistle shattered the silence as they came abreast of the plant, signaling a changing of shift.
   Once past the chemical plant the odor disappeared as if by magic. The abandoned mills loomed on their left as they proceeded up Main Street. Not a person was in sight. It was like a ghost town at six forty-five in the morning. Three rusting steel bridges spanned the river, additional relics of the progressive era before the great war. There was even a covered bridge but no one used that. It was totally unsafe and kept up just for the tourists. The fact that no tourists ever came to Shaftesbury hadn’t dawned on the town fathers.
   Jean Paul got out at the regional high school at the northern end of town. His eagerness to start his day was apparent in the rapid way he said good-bye. Even at that hour a group of his friends were waiting, and they entered the school together. Jean Paul was on the J.V. basketball team and they had to practice before classes. Charles watched his younger son disappear, then pulled the car out into the street heading toward I-93 and the trip into Boston. They didn’t hit traffic until they were in Massachusetts.
   For Charles, driving had a hypnotic effect. Usually his mind trailed off into the complexities of antigens and antibodies, protein structure and formation while he operated the car by some lower, more primitive parts of his brain. But today he began to find himself sensitive to Chuck’s habitual silence, then irritated by it. Charles tried to imagine what was on his older son’s mind. But try as he could, he realized he had absolutely no idea. Snatching quick looks at the bored, expressionless face, he wondered if Chuck thought about girls. Charles realized that he didn’t even know if Chuck dated.
   “How is school going?” asked Charles as casually as possible.
   “Fine!” said Chuck, immediately on guard.
   Another silence.
   “You know what you’re going to major in?”
   “Nah. Not yet.”
   “You must have some idea. Don’t you have to start planning next year’s schedule?”
   “Not for a while.”
   “Well, what course do you enjoy the most this year?”
   “Psychology, I guess.” Chuck looked out the passenger window. He didn’t want to talk about school. Sooner or later they’d get around to chemistry.
   “Not psychology,” said Charles, shaking his head.
   Chuck looked at his father’s cleanly shaven face, his broad but well-defined nose, his condescending way of speaking with his head tilted slightly back. He was always so sure of himself, quick to make judgments, and Chuck could hear the derision in his father’s voice as he pronounced the word “psychology.” Chuck worked up his courage and asked: “What’s wrong with psychology?” This was one area in which Chuck was convinced his father was not an expert.
   “Psychology is a waste of time,” said Charles. “It’s based on a fundamentally false principle, stimulus-response. That’s just not how the brain works. The brain is not a blank tabula rasa, it’s a dynamic system, generating ideas and even emotions often irrespective of the environment. You know what I mean?”
   “Yeah!” Chuck looked away. He had no idea what his father was talking about, but as usual it sounded good. And it was easier to agree, which is what he did for the next fifteen minutes while Charles maintained an impassioned monologue about the defects of the behavioral approach to psychology.
   “How about coming over to the lab this afternoon?” said Charles after an interval of silence. “My work has been going fabulously, and I think I’m close to a breakthrough of sorts. I’d like to share it with you.”
   “I can’t today,” said Chuck quickly. The last thing he wanted was to be shepherded around the institute where everyone kowtowed to Charles, the famous scientist. It always made him feel uncomfortable, especially since he didn’t understand a thing that Charles was doing. His father’s explanations always started so far above Chuck’s head that he was in constant terror of a question which could reveal the depths of his ignorance.
   “You can come at any time at all, at your convenience, Chuck.” Charles had always wished he could share his enthusiasm for his research with Chuck, but Chuck had never shown any interest. Charles had thought that if the boy could see science in action, he’d be irresistibly drawn to it.
   “No. I got a lab and then some meetings.”
   “Too bad,” said Charles. “Maybe tomorrow.”
   “Yeah, maybe tomorrow,” said Chuck.
   Chuck got out of the car on Huntington Avenue and, after a perfunctory good-bye, walked away in the wet Boston snow. Charles watched him go. He looked like some late-sixties caricature, out of place even among his peers. The other students seemed brighter, more attentive to their appearance, and almost invariably in groups. Chuck walked by himself. Charles wondered if Chuck had been the most severely hurt by Elizabeth’s illness and death. He’d hoped that Cathryn’s presence would have helped, but ever since the wedding, Chuck had become more withdrawn and distant. Putting the car in gear, Charles headed across the Fenway toward Cambridge

Two

   Crossing the Charles River via the Boston University Bridge, he began to plan his day. It was infinitely easier to deal with the complications of intracellular life than the uncertainties of child rearing. At Memorial Drive Charles turned right, then after a short distance, left into the parking area of the Weinburger Research Institute. His spirits began to rise.
   As he got out of his car, he noticed a significant number of cars already there, which was unusual at that time of the morning; even the director’s blue Mercedes was in its spot. Mindless of the weather, Charles stood for a moment puzzling over all the cars, then started toward the institute. It was a modern four-storied, brick-and-glass structure, somewhat akin to the nearby Hyatt Hotel but without the pyramid profile. The site was directly on the Charles River and nestled between Harvard and M.I.T., and directly across from the campus of Boston University. No wonder the institute had no trouble locating recruits.
   The receptionist saw Charles approach through the mirrored glass and pressed a button, sliding open the thick glass door. Security was tight because of the value of the scientific instrumentation as well as the nature of some of the research, particularly the genetic research. Charles started across the carpeted reception area, saying good morning to the newly acquired and coy Miss Andrews, who tilted her head down and watched Charles from beneath her carefully plucked eyebrows. Charles wondered how long she would last. The life of receptionists at the institute was very short.
   With an exaggerated double take, Charles stopped at the main hall and stepped back so he could see into the waiting room. In a haze of cigarette smoke a small crowd of people were milling about excitedly.
   “Dr. Martel… Dr. Martel,” called one of the men.
   Surprised to hear his name, Charles stepped into the room and was instantly engulfed by people, all talking at the same time. The man who had first called to Charles stuck a microphone just inches from his nose.
   “I’m from the Globe,” shouted the man. “Can I ask you a few questions?”
   Pushing the microphone to the side, Charles began a retreat to the hall.
   “Dr. Martel, is it true you’re going to take over the study?” shouted a woman grabbing onto Charles’s coat pocket.
   “I don’t give interviews,” shouted Charles as he broke from the small crowd. Inexplicably the reporters stopped at the threshold of the waiting room.
   “What the hell is going on?” muttered Charles as he slowed to a fast walk. He hated the media. Elizabeth’s illness had for some reason attracted the attention of the press and Charles had felt repeatedly raped as their private tragedy had been “trivialized” for people to read while having their morning coffee. He entered his lab and slammed the door.
   Ellen Sheldon, Charles’s laboratory assistant for the last six years, jumped. She’d been concentrating in the stillness of the lab while setting up the equipment to separate serum proteins. As usual she had arrived at seven fifteen to prepare for Charles’s invariable arrival at seven forty-five. By eight Charles liked to be into the day’s work, especially now that things were going so well.
   “If I slammed the door like that, I’d never hear the end of it,” said Ellen, irritated. She was a darkly attractive woman of thirty who wore her hair piled on her head except for vagrant wisps which trailed down alongside her neck. When he’d hired her, Charles got some jealous kidding from his colleagues, but in truth, Charles had not appreciated her exotic beauty until he’d worked with her for several years. Her individual features were not exceptional; it was the whole package that was intriguing. But as far as Charles was concerned, the most important aspects were her intellect, her eagerness, and her superb training at M.I.T.
   “I’m sorry if I scared you,” said Charles, hanging up his coat. “There’s a bunch of reporters out there, and you know how I feel about reporters.”
   “We all know how you feel about reporters,” agreed Ellen, going back to work.
   Charles sat down at his desk and began going through his papers. His laboratory was a large rectangular room with a private office connected by a door in the back. Charles had eschewed the office and put a functional metal desk in the lab, converting the office into an animal room. The main animal area was a separate wing off the back of the institute, but Charles wanted some of his experimental animals nearby in order to closely supervise their care. Good experimental results depended heavily on good care of the animals and Charles was particularly attentive to details.
   “What are all the reporters doing here anyway?” asked Charles. “Did our fearless leader make some scientific breakthrough in his bathtub last night?”
   “Be a little more generous,” scolded Ellen. “Someone has to do the administrative work.”
   “Excuse me,” said Charles with sarcastic exaggeration.
   “Actually, it is something serious,” said Ellen. “The episode with Brighton was leaked to the New York Times.”
   “These new generation doctors certainly like publicity,” said Charles, shaking his head in disgust. “I thought that after that rave review in Time magazine a month ago he would have been satisfied. What the hell did he do?”
   “Don’t tell me you haven’t heard?” said Ellen incredulously.
   “Ellen, I come here to work. You of all people should know that.”
   “True. But this Brighton situation… Everybody knows about it. It’s been the in-house gossip for at least a week.”
   “If I didn’t know you better, I’d think you were trying to hurt my feelings. If you don’t want to tell me, don’t. In fact, from your tone of voice, I’m beginning to think I’d rather not know.”
   “Well, it’s bad,” agreed Ellen. “The head of the animal department reported to the director that Dr. Thomas Brighton had been sneaking into the animal lab and substituting healthy mice for his own cancer-carrying animals.”
   “Wonderful,” said Charles with sarcasm. “Obviously the idea was to make his drug appear miraculously effective.”
   “Exactly. Which is all the more interesting because it’s been his drug, Canceran, that has gotten him all the recent publicity.”
   “And his position here at the institute,” added Charles, as he felt his face redden with contempt. He’d disapproved of all the publicity Dr. Thomas Brighton had garnered, but when he’d voiced his opinion he’d realized people had thought he was jealous.
   “I feel sorry for him,” said Ellen. “This will probably have a big effect on his career.”
   “Am I hearing right?” asked Charles. “You feel sorry for that little conniving bastard? I hope they throw his cheating ass right out of medicine. That guy is supposed to be a medical doctor. Cheating on research is as bad as cheating on patient care. No! It’s worse. In research you can end up hurting many more people.”
   “I wouldn’t be so quick to judge. Maybe he was under a lot of pressure because of all the publicity. There could have been extenuating circumstances.”
   “When it comes to integrity, there are no extenuating circumstances.”
   “Well, I disagree. People have problems. We’re not all supermen like you.”
   “Don’t give me any of that psychology bullshit,” said Charles. He was surprised at the malice implied in Ellen’s comment.
   “Okay, I won’t. But a little human generosity would do you good, Charles Martel. You don’t give a damn about other people’s feelings. All you do is take.” Ellen’s voice trembled with emotion.
   A strained silence fell over the lab. Ellen ostensibly went back to her work. Charles opened his lab book, but he could not concentrate. He hadn’t meant to sound so angry and obviously he had offended Ellen. Was it true he was insensitive to others’ feelings? It was the first time Ellen had ever said anything negative about him. Charles wondered if it had anything to do with the brief affair they’d had just before he’d met Cathryn. After working together so many years it had been more the result of propinquity than romance, coming at a time when Charles had finally come out of the immobilizing depression following Elizabeth’s death. It had only lasted a month. Then Cathryn had arrived at the institute as temporary summer help. Afterwards he and Ellen had never discussed the affair. At the time Charles had felt it was easier to let the episode slip into the past.
   “I’m sorry if I sounded angry,” said Charles. “I didn’t mean to. I got carried away.”
   “And I’m sorry I said what I did,” said Ellen, her voice still reflecting deeply felt emotion.
   Charles wasn’t convinced. He wanted to ask Ellen if she really thought he was insensitive, but he didn’t have the nerve.
   “By the way,” added Ellen. “Dr. Morrison wants to see you as soon as possible. He called before you arrived.”
   “Morrison can wait,” said Charles. “Let’s get things going here.”

   Cathryn was irritated at Charles. She wasn’t the kind of person who tried to suppress such feelings; besides, she felt justified. In light of Michelle’s nosebleed, he could have altered his sacred schedule and taken Michelle to Pediatric Hospital himself. After all, he was the doctor. Cathryn had horrible visions of Michelle’s nose bleeding all over the car. Could she bleed to death? Cathryn wasn’t sure, but the possibility seemed real enough to terrify her. Cathryn hated anything associated with disease, blood, and hospitals. Why such things bothered her she wasn’t sure, although a bad experience at age ten with a complicated case of appendicitis probably contributed. They’d had trouble making the diagnosis, first at the doctor’s office, then at the hospital. Even to that day she vividly remembered the white tiles and the antiseptic smell. But the worst had been the ordeal of the vaginal exam. No one tried to explain anything. They just held her down. Charles knew all this, but he had still insisted on getting to the lab on schedule and letting Cathryn accompany Michelle.
   Deciding there was a certain safety in numbers, Cathryn sat down at the kitchen phone to call Marge Schonhauser to see if she wanted a ride into Boston. If Tad was still in the hospital there was a good chance she would. The phone was picked up on the second ring. It was Nancy, the Schonhausers’ sixteen-year-old daughter.
   “My mother’s already at the hospital.”
   “Well, I just thought I’d try,” said Cathryn. “I’ll see if I can tell her while I’m there. But if I don’t get her, tell her I called.”
   “Sure,” said Nancy. “I know she’d be glad to hear from you.”
   “How’s Tad doing?” asked Cathryn. “Is he coming home soon?”
   “He’s awfully sick, Mrs. Martel. He had to have a marrow transplant. They tested all us kids and little Lisa was the only one who matched. He’s living in a tent to protect him from germs.”
   “I’m terribly sorry to hear that,” said Cathryn. She could feel a little of her strength drain away. She had no idea what a marrow transplant was, but it sounded serious and scary. She said good-bye to Nancy and hung up the phone. For a moment she sat thinking, dreading the emotional aspect of the confrontation with Merge, feeling the guilt of not having called sooner. Tad’s illness made her own fears about Michelle’s nosebleed seem petty by comparison. Taking a deep breath, Cathryn went into the living room.
   Michelle was watching the Today show, propped up on the couch. After some orange juice and rest, she felt considerably better, but she was still upset. Although Charles had not said it, she was certain he was disappointed in her. The nosebleed had been the final aggravation.
   “I called Dr. Wiley’s office,” said Cathryn as brightly as she could, “and the nurse said we should come as soon as possible. Otherwise we might have a long wait. So let’s get the show on the road.”
   “I feel much better,” said Michelle. She forced a smile but her lips trembled.
   “Good,” said Cathryn. “But you stay still. I’ll get your coat and stuff.” Cathryn started for the stairs.
   “Cathryn, I think I’m all right now. I think I can go to school.” As if to substantiate her opinion, Michelle swung her legs to the floor and stood up. Her smile wavered through a flurry of weakness.
   Cathryn turned and looked at her adopted daughter, feeling a rush of affection for his little girl whom Charles loved so dearly. Cathryn had no idea why Michelle would want to deny her illness unless she was afraid of the hospital like Cathryn was. She walked over and put her arms around the child, hugging her close. “You don’t have to be afraid, Michelle.”
   “I’m not afraid,” said Michelle, resisting Cathryn’s embrace.
   “You’re not?” asked Cathryn, more to have something to say. She was always taken by surprise to have her affection refused. Cathryn smiled self-consciously, her hands still resting on Michelle’s shoulders.
   “I think I should go to school. I don’t have to take gym if you give me a note.”
   “Michelle. You haven’t been feeling right for a month. You had a fever this morning. I think it’s time we did something.”
   “But I feel fine now, and want to go to school.”
   Taking her hands off Michelle’s shoulders, Cathryn examined the defiant face in front of her. In so many ways Michelle remained a mystery. She was such a precise, serious little girl who seemed mature for her age, but for some reason always kept Cathryn at arm’s length. Cathryn wondered how much of it was due to Michelle’s losing her mother at age three. Cathryn felt she knew something about growing up with only one parent because of her own father’s abandonment.
   “I tell you what we’ll do,” said Cathryn, debating with herself the best way to handle the problem. “We’ll take your temperature again. If you still have a fever, we go. If you don’t, then we won’t.”
   Michelle’s temperature was 100.8.
   An hour and a half later, Cathryn pulled the old Dodge station wagon into the garage at Pediatric Hospital and took a ticket from the machine. Thankfully it had been an uneventful ride. Michelle had spoken very little during the trip, only answering direct questions. To Cathryn she seemed exhausted and her hands lay immobile in her lap like a puppet’s, waiting to be moved from above.
   “What are you thinking?” asked Cathryn, breaking the silence. There were no parking spaces available and they kept driving from one level to the next.
   “Nothing,” said Michelle without moving.
   Cathryn watched Michelle out of the corner of her eye. She wanted so much to get Michelle to let down her guard, to let Cathryn’s love in.
   “Don’t you like to share your thoughts?” persisted Cathryn.
   “I don’t feel good, Cathryn. I feel really bad. I think you are going to have to help me out of the car.” Cathryn took one look at Michelle’s face, and abruptly stopped the car. She reached out and put her arms around the child. The little girl didn’t resist. She moved over and put her head on Cathryn’s breast. Cathryn felt warm tears touch her arm.
   “I’ll be glad to help you, Michelle. I’ll help you whenever you need me. I promise.”
   Cathryn had the feeling that she’d finally crossed some undefined threshold. It had taken two and a half years of patience, but it had paid off.
   Blaring auto horns brought Cathryn back to the present. She put her car in gear and started forward, pleased that Michelle continued to hold on to her.
   Cathryn felt more like a real mother than she ever had before. As they pushed through the revolving door, Michelle acted very weak and allowed Cathryn to help her. In the lobby a request for a wheelchair was promptly filled, and although Michelle initially resisted, she let Cathryn push her.
   For Cathryn, the happiness in the new closeness to Michelle helped dull the specter of the hospital. The decor helped, too; the lobby was paved with a warm Mexican tile and the seating was done in bright oranges and yellows. There were even lots of plants. It was more like a luxury hotel than a big city hospital.
   The pediatric offices were equally nonthreatening. There were five patients already in Dr. Wiley’s waiting room. To Michelle’s disgust, none was over two years of age. She would have complained except she glimpsed the examining rooms through an open door and remembered why she was there. Leaning toward Cathryn she whispered, “You don’t think I’ll get a shot, do you?”
   “I have no idea,” said Cathryn. “But afterwards if you feel up to it, we can do something fun. Whatever you like.”
   “Could we go visit my father?” Michelle’s eyes brightened.
   “Sure,” said Cathryn. She parked Michelle next to an empty seat, then sat down herself.
   A mother and a whimpering five-year-old boy emerged from the examining room. One of the mothers with a tiny baby got up and went in.
   “I’m going to ask the nurse if I can use the phone,” said Cathryn. “I want to find out where Tad Schonhauser is. You’re okay, aren’t you?”
   “I’m okay,” said Michelle. “In fact, I feel better again.”
   “Good,” said Cathryn as she got up. Michelle watched Cathryn’s long brown hair bounce on her shoulders as she walked over to the nurse, then dialed the phone. Remembering her father say how much he liked it, Michelle wished hers were the same color. Suddenly she wished she were really old, like twenty, so she could be a doctor and talk to Charles and work in his lab. Charles had said that doctors didn’t have to give shots; the nurses do. Michelle hoped she didn’t have to get a shot. She hated them.

   “Dr. Martel,” called Dr. Peter Morrison, standing at the doorway to Charles’s lab. “Didn’t you get my message?”
   Straightening up from loading serum samples into an automatic radioactivity counter, Charles looked at Morrison, administrative head of the department of physiology. The man was leaning on the doorjamb, the fluorescent ceiling light reflecting off the lenses in his narrow tortoiseshell glasses. His face was taut, angry.
   “I’ll be by in ten or fifteen minutes,” said Charles. “I just have a few more important things to do.”
   Morrison considered Charles’s statement for a moment. “I’ll be waiting in my office.” The door closed slowly behind him.
   “You shouldn’t bait him,” said Ellen, after Morrison had left. “All it can do is cause trouble.”
   “It’s good for him,” said Charles. “It gives him something to think about. For the life of me, I don’t know what else he does in that office of his.”
   “Someone has to attend to the administration,” said Ellen.
   “The irony is that he once was a decent researcher,” said Charles. “Now his entire life is dominated by his ambition to become director, and all he does is push papers, have meetings, go to lunch, and attend benefits.”
   “Those benefits raise money.”
   “I suppose,” said Charles. “But you don’t need a Ph.D. in physiology to do that. I just think it is a waste. If the people donating money at those fund-raisers ever found out how little of it actually gets applied to research, they’d be appalled.”
   “I agree with you there,” Ellen replied. “But why don’t you let me finish loading these samples. You go see Morrison and get it over with because I am going to need you to help draw blood from the rats.”
   Ten minutes later Charles found himself climbing the metal fire stairs to the second floor. He had no idea why Morrison wanted to see him, although he guessed it was going to be another pep talk, trying to get him to publish a paper for some upcoming meeting. Charles had very different ideas from his colleagues about publication. It had never been his inclination to rush into print. Although research careers often were measured by the number of articles a doctor published, Charles’s dogged dedication and brilliance had won him a greater respect from his colleagues, many of whom often said that it was men like Charles who made the great scientific discoveries. It was only the administration who complained.
   Dr. Morrison’s office was in the administrative area on the second floor where the halls were painted a pleasant beige and hung with somber oil paintings of past directors clothed in academic robes. The atmosphere was a world apart from the utilitarian labs on the ground and first floors and gave the impression of a successful law office rather than a nonprofit medical organization. Its opulence never failed to irritate Charles; he knew that the money had come from people believing they were contributing to research.
   In this frame of mind, Charles made his way to Morrison’s office. Charles was about to enter when he noticed that all the secretaries in the administration area were watching him. There was that same feeling of suppressed excitement that Charles had sensed when he arrived that morning. It was as if everyone were waiting for something to happen.
   As Charles went inside, Morrison stood up from his broad mahogany desk and stepped around into the room with his hand outstretched. His earlier irritated demeanor had vanished. By habit Charles shook the hand but was baffled by the gesture. He had nothing in common with this man. Morrison was dressed in a freshly pressed pin-striped suit, starched white shirt, and silk tie; his hand-sewn loafers were professionally shined. Charles was wearing his usual blue oxford shirt, open at the collar, with his tie loosened and tucked between the second and third buttons; his sleeves were rolled up above his elbows. His trousers were baggy khakis and his shoes, scuffed cordovans.
   “Welcome,” said Morrison as if he hadn’t already seen Charles that morning. With a sweep of his hand he motioned for Charles to sit on the leather couch in the rear of the office, which afforded a view out over the Charles River. “Coffee?” Morrison smiled, showing very small, very white, even teeth.
   Charles declined, sat back on the couch, and folded his arms. Something strange was going on and his curiosity was piqued.
   “Have you seen the New York Times today?” asked Morrison.
   Charles shook his head negatively.
   Morrison walked over to his desk, picked up the paper, and directed Charles’s attention to an article on the front page. His gold identification bracelet slid out from beneath his shirt sleeve as he pointed. SCANDAL AT THE WEINBURGER CANCER INSTITUTE.
   Charles read the first paragraph, which paraphrased what Ellen had already told him. That was enough.
   “Terrible, eh?” intoned Morrison.
   Charles nodded half-felt agreement. Although he knew that such an incident would have a negative effect on fund-raising for a time, he also felt that it would take some of the unearned emphasis away from this new drug, Canceran, and hopefully return it to more promising areas. He felt that the answer to cancer lay in immunology, not chemotherapy, although he recognized the increasing numbers of cures achieved in recent years.
   “Dr. Brighton should have known better,” said Morrison. “He’s just too young, too impatient.”
   Charles waited for Morrison to get to the point.
   “We’re going to have to let Dr. Brighton go,” said Morrison.
   Charles nodded as Morrison launched into his explanation of Brighton’s behavior. Charles looked at Morrison’s shining bald head. The little hair he had was located above his ears, connected in the back by a carefully combed swath.
   “Just a minute,” interrupted Charles. “This is all very interesting, but I do have an important experiment in progress downstairs. Is there something specific you wanted to tell me?”
   “Of course,” said Morrison, adjusting his cuff. His voice took on a more serious note and he brought the tips of his fingers together, forming a steeple. “The board of directors of the institute anticipated the New York Times article and had an emergency meeting last night. We decided that if we didn’t act quickly the real victim of the Brighton affair would be the new and promising drug, Canceran. I assume you can understand this concern?”
   “Of course,” said Charles, but on the horizon of Charles’s mind, a black cloud began to form.
   “It was also decided that the only way to salvage the project was for the institute to publicly support the drug by appointing its most prestigious scientist to complete the tests. And I’m happy to say, Charles Martel, that you were chosen.”
   Charles closed his eyes and slapped a hand over his forehead. He wanted to storm out of the office, but he contained himself. Slowly he reopened his eyes. Morrison’s thin lips were pulled into a smile. Charles could not tell if the man knew what his reaction was and was, therefore, teasing him, or if Morrison genuinely thought that he was conveying good news.
   “I can’t tell you how pleased I am,” continued Morrison, “that the board of directors picked someone from my department. Not that I’m surprised, mind you. We all have been working tirelessly for the Weinburger. It’s just nice to get this kind of recognition once in a while. And, of course, you were my choice.”
   “Well,” began Charles in as steady a voice as he could manage. “I hope you convey to the board of directors my thanks for this vote of confidence, but unfortunately I’m not in a position to take over the Canceran project. You see, my own work is progressing extremely well. They will have to find someone else.”
   “I hope you’re joking,” said Morrison. His smile waned, then vanished.
   “Not at all. With the progress I’m making, there is no way I can leave my current work. My assistant and I have been extremely successful and the pace is increasing.”
   “But you have not published a single paper for several years. That’s hardly a rapid pace. Besides, funding for your work has come almost totally from the general operating funds of the institute; you have not been responsible for any major outside grants to the institute for a long, long time. I know that’s because you have insisted on remaining in the immunological field of cancer research and until now I have backed you all the way. But now your services are needed. As soon as you finish the Canceran project, you can go back to your own work. It’s as simple as that.” Morrison stood up and walked back behind his desk to signify that as far as he was concerned the meeting was over, the matter decided.
   “But I can’t leave my work,” said Charles, feeling a sense of desperation. “Not now. Things are going too well. What about my development of the process of the hybridoma? That should count for something.”
   “Ah, the hybridoma,” said Morrison. “A wonderful piece of work. Who would have thought that a sensitized lymphocyte could be fused with a cancer cell to make a kind of cellular antibody factory. Brilliant! There are only two problems. One: it was many years ago; and two: you failed to publish the discovery! We should have been able to capitalize on it. Instead, another institution got the credit. I wouldn’t count on the hybridoma development to ensure your position with the board of directors.”
   “I didn’t stop to publish the hybridoma process because it was just a single step in my experiment protocol. I’ve never been eager to rush into print.”
   “We all know that. In fact, it’s probably the major reason you’re where you are and not a department head.”
   “I don’t want to be a department head,” yelled Charles, beginning to lose his patience. “I want to do research, not push around papers and go to benefits.”
   “I suppose that’s meant as a personal insult,” said Morrison.
   “You can take it as you will,” said Charles, who had abandoned his efforts at controlling his anger. He stood up, approached Morrison’s desk, and pointed an accusing finger at the man. “I’ll tell you the biggest reason I can’t take over the Canceran project. I don’t believe in it!”
   “What the hell does that mean?” Morrison’s patience had also worn thin.
   “It means that cellular poisons like Canceran are not the ultimate answer to cancer. The presumption is that they kill cancer cells faster than normal cells so that after the malignancy is stopped the patient will still have enough normal cells to live. But that’s only an interim approach. A real cure for cancer can only come from a better understanding of the cellular processes of life, particularly the chemical communication between cells.”
   Charles began to pace the room, nervously running his fingers through his hair. Morrison, by contrast, didn’t move. He just followed Charles’s gyrations with his eyes.
   “I tell you,” shouted Charles, “the whole attack on cancer is coming from the wrong perspective. Cancer cannot be considered a disease like an infection because it encourages the misconception that there will be a magic bullet cure like an antibiotic.” Charles stopped pacing and leaned over the desk toward Morrison. His voice was quieter, but more impassioned. “I’ve been giving this a lot of thought, Dr. Morrison. Cancer is not a disease in the traditional sense, but an unmasking of a more primitive life-form, like those that existed at the beginning of time when multicellular organisms were evolving. Think of it. At one time, eons ago, there were only single-celled creatures who selfishly ignored each other. But then, after a few million years, some of them teamed up because it was more efficient. They communicated chemically and this communication made multicellular organisms like us possible. Why does a liver cell only do what a liver cell does, or a heart cell, or a brain cell? The answer is chemical communication. But cancer cells are not responsive to this chemical communication. They have broken free, gone back to a more primitive stage, like those single-cell organisms that existed millions of years ago. Cancer is not a disease but rather a clue to the basic organization of life. And immunology is the study of this communication.”
   Charles ended his monologue leaning forward on his hands over Morrison’s desk. There was an awkward silence. Morrison cleared his throat, pulled out his leather desk chair, and sat down.
   “Very interesting,” he said. “Unfortunately, we are not in a metaphysical business. And I must remind you that the immunological aspect of cancer has been worked on for more than a decade and contributed very little to the prolongation of the cancer victim’s life.”
   “That’s the point,” interrupted Charles. “Immunology will give a cure, not just palliation.”
   “Please,” said Morrison softly. “I listened to you, now listen to me. There is very little money available for immunology at the present time. That’s a fact. The Canceran project carries a huge grant from both the National Cancer Institute as well as the American Cancer Society. The Weinburger needs that money.”
   Charles tried to interrupt, but Morrison cut him off. Charles slumped back into a chair. He could feel the weight of the institute’s bureaucracy surround him like a giant octopus.
   Morrison ritually removed his glasses and placed them on his blotter. “You are a superb scientist, Charles. We all know that, and that’s why we need you at this moment. But you’re also a maverick and in that sense more tolerated than appreciated. You have enemies here, perhaps motivated by jealousy, perhaps by your self-righteousness. I have defended you in the past. But there are those who would just as soon see you go. I’m telling you this for your own good. At the meeting last night I mentioned that you might refuse taking over the Canceran project. It was decided that if you did, your position here would be terminated. It will be easy enough to get someone to take your place on a project like this.”
   Terminated! The word echoed painfully in Charles’s mind. He tried to collect his thoughts.
   “Can I say something now?” asked Charles.
   “Of course,” said Morrison, “tell me that you’re going to take over the Canceran project. That’s what I want to hear.”
   “I’ve been very busy downstairs,” said Charles, ignoring Morrison’s last comment, “and I’m moving very rapidly. I have been purposefully secretive but I believe that I am truly close to understanding cancer and possibly a cure.”
   Morrison studied Charles’s face, trying to garner a hint as to his sincerity. Was this a trick? A delusion of grandeur? Morrison looked at Charles’s bright blue eyes, his high lined forehead. He knew all about Charles’s past, his wife’s death, his sudden move from clinical medicine into research. He knew that Charles was a brilliant worker, but a loner. He suspected that Charles’s idea of “truly close” might well constitute ten years.
   “A cure for cancer,” said Morrison, not bothering to smooth the sarcastic edge to his voice. He kept his eyes on Charles’s face. “Wouldn’t that be nice. We’d all be very proud. But… it will have to wait until the Canceran study is done. Lesley Pharmaceuticals, who holds the patent, is eager to get production rolling. Now, Dr. Martel, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do. The matter is closed. The Canceran lab books are available, so get cracking. Good luck. If you have any problems let me know.”
   Charles stumbled out of Morrison’s office in a daze, crushed at the prospect of being forced away from his own research at such a critical time. Aware of the quizzical stare from Morrison’s prim secretary, Charles half ran to the fire stairs, banging open the door. He descended slowly, his mind reeling. Never in his life had anyone ever threatened to fire him. Although he felt confident he could get a job, the idea of being cast adrift even for a short time was devastating, especially with all his ongoing financial obligations. When he had given up his private practice, Charles had given up his status as moderately well-to-do. On his research salary, they barely made it, especially with Chuck in college.
   Reaching the first floor, Charles turned down the hall, toward his lab. He needed some time to think.

Three

   It was their turn. A nurse who looked like she stepped out of a 1950s Doris Day movie called out Michelle’s name and held the door open. Michelle gripped her stepmother’s hand as they entered the inner office. Cathryn wasn’t sure which one of them was more tense.
   Dr. Wiley looked up from a chart, peering over half glasses. Cathryn had never met Dr. Jordan Wiley, but all the children knew him. Michelle had told Cathryn that she remembered coming to him for the chicken pox four years ago when she was eight. Cathryn was immediately taken by the attractiveness of the man. He was in his late fifties and exuded that comfortably paternal air that people traditionally associate with doctors. He was a tall individual with closely cropped graying hair and a bushy gray mustache. He wore a small, hand-tied red bow tie which gave him a unique, energetic look. His hands were large but gentle as he placed the chart on his desk and leaned forward.
   “My, my,” said Dr. Wiley. “Miss Martel, you have become a lady. You look very beautiful, a little pale, but beautiful. Now introduce me to your new mother.”
   “She’s not my new mother,” said Michelle indignantly. “She’s been my mother for over two years.”
   Both Cathryn and Dr. Wiley laughed and after a moment’s indecision, Michelle joined them, although she was not sure she got the joke.
   “Please, sit down,” said Dr. Wiley, motioning to the chairs facing his desk. As a consummate clinician, Dr. Wiley had started the examination the moment Michelle had entered his office. Besides her pallor, he’d noticed the girl’s tentative gait, her slumped posture, the glazed look to her blue eyes. Spreading open her chart, which he’d reviewed earlier, he picked up a pen. “Now then, what seems to be the trouble?”
   Cathryn described Michelle’s illness with Michelle adding comments here and there. Cathryn said that it had started gradually with fever and general malaise. They’d thought she’d had the flu, but it would not go away. Some mornings she’d be fine; others she’d feel terrible. Cathryn concluded by saying that she’d decided it would be best to have Michelle checked in case she needed some antibiotics or something.
   “Very well,” said Dr. Wiley. “Now I’d like some time alone with Michelle. If you don’t mind, Mrs. Martel.” He came around from behind his desk and opened the door to the waiting room.
   Momentarily nonplussed, Cathryn got to her feet. She had expected to stay with Michelle.
   Dr. Wiley smiled warmly and, as if reading her mind, said, “Michelle will be fine with me; we’re old friends.”
   Giving Michelle’s shoulder a little squeeze, Cathryn started for the waiting room. At the door she paused. “How long will you be? Do I have time to visit a patient?”
   “I think so,” said Dr. Wiley. “We’ll be about thirty minutes or so.”
   “I’ll be back before that, Michelle,” called Cathryn. Michelle waved and the door closed.
   Armed with some directions from the nurse, Cathryn retraced her steps back to the main lobby. It wasn’t until she entered the elevator that her old fear of hospitals returned. Staring at a sad little girl in a wheelchair, Cathryn realized that pediatric hospitals were particularly unnerving. The concept of a sick child made her feel weak. She tried to concentrate on the floor indicator above the doors, but a powerful, incomprehensible urge drew her eyes back to the sick child. When the doors opened on the fifth floor and she stepped off, her legs felt rubbery and her palms were sweaty.
   Cathryn was heading for the Marshall Memorial isolation unit, but the fifth floor also contained the general intensive care unit and the surgical recovery room. In her emotionally sensitive state, Cathryn was subjected to all the sights and sounds associated with acute medical crisis. The beep of the cardiac monitors mixed with the cries of terrified children. Everywhere there was a profusion of tubes, bottles, and hissing machines. It was an alien world populated with a bustling staff who seemed, to Cathryn, to be unreasonably detached from the horror around them. The fact that these children were being helped in the long run was lost on Cathryn.
   Pausing to catch her breath in a narrow hallway lined with windows, Cathryn realized that she was crossing from one building to another within the medical center. The hall was a peaceful bridge. She was alone for a moment until a man in a wheelchair with DISPATCHER written across the back motored past her. Glass test tubes and jars filled with all sorts of body fluid samples jangled in a metal rack. He smiled, and Cathryn smiled back. She felt better. Fortified, she continued on.
   The Marshall Memorial isolation unit was easier for Cathryn to deal with. All the doors to the rooms were closed and there were no patients to be seen. Cathryn approached the nurses’ station which seemed more like a ticket counter at a modern airport than the nerve center for a hospital ward. It was a large square area with a bank of TV monitors. A clerk looked up and cheerfully asked if he could help her.
   “I’m looking for the Schonhauser boy,” said Cathryn.
   “Five twenty-one,” said the clerk pointing.
   Cathryn thanked him and walked over to the closed door. She knocked softly. “Just go right in,” called the clerk. “But don’t forget your gown.”
   Cathryn tried the door. It opened and she found herself in a small anteroom with shelving for linen and other supplies, a medicine locker, a sink, and a large soiled-laundry hamper. Beyond the hamper was another closed door containing a small glass window. Before Cathryn could move, the inner door opened and a gowned, masked figure stepped into the room. With rapid movements the individual discarded the paper mask and hood in the trash. It was a young nurse with red hair and freckles.
   “Hi,” she said. The gloves went into the trash, the gown into the hamper. “You going in to see Tad?”
   “I was hoping to,” said Cathryn. “Is Mrs. Schonhauser in there, too?”
   “Yup, she’s here every day, poor woman. Don’t forget your gown. Very strict reverse precautions.”
   “I…” started Cathryn, but the harried nurse was already through the door.
   Cathryn searched through the shelves until she found the hoods and the masks. She put them on, feeling ridiculous. The gown was next but she put it on like a coat. The rubber gloves were more difficult and she never got the left one all the way on. With the half-empty fingers dangling from her hand, she opened the inner door.
   The first thing she saw was a large plastic enclosure like a cage surrounding the bed. Although the plastic fragmented the image, Cathryn was able to make out Tad Schonhauser’s form. In the raw fluorescent light the boy was a pale, slightly greenish color. There was a low hiss of oxygen. Marge Schonhauser was seated to the left of the bed, reading by the window.
   “Marge,” whispered Cathryn.
   The masked and gowned woman looked up. “Yes?” she said.
   “It’s Cathryn.”
   “Cathryn?”
   “Cathryn Martel.”
   “For goodness sake,” said Marge when she was able to associate the name. She got up and put her book down. Taking Cathryn’s hand, she led her back into the anteroom. Before the door closed behind them Cathryn looked back at Tad. The boy had not moved although his eyes were open.
   “Thank you for coming,” said Marge. “I really appreciate it.”
   “How is he?” asked Cathryn. The strange room, the gowning… it wasn’t encouraging.
   “Very bad,” said Marge. She pulled off her mask. Her face was drawn and tense; her eyes red and swollen. “He had a marrow transplant twice from Lisa but it hasn’t worked. Not at all.”
   “I spoke to Nancy this morning,” said Cathryn. “I had no idea he was this sick.” Cathryn could sense the emotion within Marge. It was just beneath the surface like a volcano, ready to erupt.
   “I’d never even heard of aplastic anemia,” said Marge, trying to laugh. But the tears came instead. Cathryn found herself crying in sympathy, and the two women stood there for several minutes weeping on each other’s shoulder. Finally Marge sighed, pulled back slightly, and looked at Cathryn’s face. “Oh, it is good of you to come. You don’t know how much I appreciate it. One of the difficult things about serious illness is that people ignore you.”
   “But I had no idea,” repeated Cathryn remorsefully.
   “I’m not blaming you,” said Marge. “I just mean people in general. I suppose they just don’t know what to say or maybe they are afraid of the unknown, but it happens when you need people the most.”
   “I’m terribly sorry,” said Cathryn, at a loss for something to say. She wished she’d called weeks ago. Marge was older than she, closer to Charles’s age. But they got along well, and Marge had been gracious and helpful when Cathryn had first come to Shaftesbury. The other New Englanders had been very cold.
   “I don’t mean to take it out on you,” said Marge, “but I feel so upset. The doctors told me this morning that Tad might be terminal. They’re trying to prepare me. I don’t want him to suffer, but I don’t want him to die.”
   Cathryn was stunned. Terminal? Die? These were words that referred to old people, not to a young boy who just a few weeks ago was in their kitchen bursting with life and energy. With difficulty she resisted an urge to run back downstairs. Instead she hugged Marge.
   “I just can’t help but ask why,” sobbed Marge, struggling to control herself and allowing Cathryn to hold her. “They say the good Lord has His reasons, but I’d like to know why. He was such a good boy. It seems so unfair.”
   Marshaling her strength, Cathryn began to talk. She hadn’t planned what she was going to say. It just came out. She talked about God and death in a way that surprised her because she wasn’t religious in the traditional sense. She’d been brought up a Catholic and had even talked briefly of becoming a nun when she was ten. But during college she had rebelled against the ritual of the Church and had become an agnostic of sorts, not bothering to examine her beliefs. Yet she must have made sense because Marge responded; whether it was to the content or just the human companionship, Cathryn didn’t know. But Marge calmed down and even managed a weak smile.
   “I’ve got to go,” said Cathryn finally. “I’ve got to meet Michelle. But I’ll be back and I’ll call tonight, I promise.” Marge nodded and kissed Cathryn before going back in with her son. Cathryn stepped out into the hall. She stood by the door breathing rapidly. The hospital had lived up to her fears after all.

   “It doesn’t seem to me that we have a whole lot of choice,” said Ellen as she put her coffee mug on the counter. She was sitting on a laboratory stool, looking down at Charles who was slumped in his chair before his desk. “It’s a shame to have to slow down on our work at this point, but what can we do? Maybe we should have kept Morrison informed of our progress.”
   “No,” said Charles. His elbows were on the desk, his face in his hands, his coffee untouched. “If we’d done that he would have stopped us a dozen times to write some goddamned paper. We’d be years behind.”
   “That’s the only way this could have been avoided,” said Ellen. She reached out and put her hand on Charles’s arm. Perhaps more than anyone, she realized how difficult this was for him. He detested any interference with his work, particularly an administrative interference. “But you’re right. If they had known what we were doing, they would have been in here every day.” She kept her hand on his arm. “It will be all right. We’ll just slow down a little.”
   Charles looked up into Ellen’s eyes, which were so dark that the pupils merged with the irises. He was acutely aware of her hand. Since their affair she’d scrupulously avoided touching him. Now in the same morning she’d accused him of insensitivity and held his arm: such confusing signals. “This Canceran nonsense is going to take some time,” he said. “Six months to a year, and that’s only if everything goes very smoothly.”
   “Why not do Canceran and our own work?” said Ellen. “We can extend our hours, work nights. I’ll be willing to do it for you.”
   Charles stood up. Work nights? He looked at this woman whom he vaguely remembered sleeping with; it seemed so long ago. Her skin had been that same olive color as Elizabeth’s and Michelle’s. Although he had been physically attracted to Ellen, it had never seemed right with her; they were partners, coworkers, colleagues, not lovers. It had been an awkward affair; their lovemaking clumsy, like adolescents. Cathryn wasn’t as beautiful as Ellen but from the beginning it was more comfortable, more fulfilling.
   “I’ve got a better idea,” said Charles. “Why don’t I go over Morrison’s head to the director and just lay the cards on the table, explain that it’s infinitely more important for us to stay with our own work.”
   “I can’t imagine it will help,” cautioned Ellen. “Morrison told you the decision came from the board of directors. Dr. Ibanez is not going to reverse that. I think you’re just asking for trouble.”
   “And I think it’s worth the risk. Help me get the lab books together. I’ll show him what we’ve been doing.”
   Ellen slid off her stool and walked toward the door to the hall.
   “Ellen?” called Charles, surprised by her actions.
   She didn’t stop. “Just do what you want, Charles. You always do anyway.” The door closed behind her.
   Charles’s first impulse was to go after her. But the impulse cooled quickly. He’d expected her support. Besides, he had more important things to do than worry about Ellen’s moods and behavior. Angrily, he put her out of his mind and concentrated on getting the main protocol book from his desk and the most recent data books from the workbench. Rehearsing what he would say, Charles headed back up the fire stairs.
   The row of administrative secretaries warily monitored his progress down the hall. The entire group knew that he had been ordered to take over the Canceran study and that he wasn’t happy with the idea.
   Charles ignored the stares although he felt like a wolf in a chicken coop as he approached Dr. Carlos Ibanez’s secretary, Miss Veronica Evans. Befitting her status, her area was separated from the rest of the room with paneled dividers. She’d been at the Weinburger even longer than Ibanez. She was a well-groomed woman of hefty proportions and indeterminate late middle age.
   “I’d like to see the director,” said Charles in a no-nonsense voice.
   “Do you have an appointment?” No one intimidated Miss Evans.
   “Just tell him I’m here,” said Charles.
   “I’m afraid…” began Miss Evans.
   “If you don’t tell him I’m here, I’m going to barge right in.” Charles’s voice was stiffly controlled.
   Marshaling one of her famous, disdainful expressions, Miss Evans reluctantly got up and disappeared within the inner office. When she reappeared, she merely held the door ajar and motioned Charles inside.