Ibanez’s office was a large, corner room that faced south and east. Besides the Boston University campus, part of the Boston skyline could be seen across the partially frozen Charles River. Ibanez was seated at a monstrous, antique Spanish desk. The view was at his back. Seated in front of the desk was Dr. Thomas Brighton.
   Laughing at some conversational point made before Charles arrived, Dr. Carlos Ibanez gestured with the long, thin cigar he was smoking for Charles to take a chair. A halo of gray smoke hung above the director’s head like a rain cloud over a tropic island. He was a small man in his early sixties, given to sudden rapid movements, particularly of his hands. His perpetually tanned face was framed by silver hair and a silver goatee. His voice was surprisingly robust.
   Charles sat, disturbed by Dr. Brighton’s presence. On one hand, he was furious with the man, both on professional and personal grounds. On the other, he felt sorry for the doctor, having to face up to a scandal and the sudden dissolution of his life.
   Dr. Brighton gave Charles a rapid but unmistakably disdainful glance before turning back to Dr. Ibanez. That single look was enough to undermine Charles’s empathy. Charles studied Brighton’s profile. As far as Charles was concerned, he was young: thirty-one years old. And he appeared younger than that: blond and handsome in an effete Ivy League sort of way.
   “Ah, Charles,” said Ibanez with some embarrassment. “I was just saying good-bye to Thomas. It’s a shame that in his zeal to finish the Canceran project he acted foolishly.”
   “Foolishly,” Charles burst out. “Criminally would be more accurate.” Thomas flushed.
   “Now, Charles, his motives were of the best. We know he did not mean to embarrass the institute. The real criminal is the person who leaked this information to the press, and we have every intention of finding him and punishing him severely.”
   “And Dr. Brighton?” asked Charles as if the man were not in the room. “Are you condoning what he did?”
   “Of course not,” said Ibanez. “But the disgrace he has suffered at the hands of the press seems punishment enough. It will be hard for him to get a job worthy of his talents for the next few years. The Weinburger certainly can’t finance his career any longer. In fact, I was just telling him about an internal medical group in Florida in which I’m quite sure we can get him a position.”
   There was an uncomfortable pause.
   “Well,” said Dr. Ibanez, getting to his feet and coming around his desk. Brighton stood up as Dr. Ibanez approached him. Dr. Ibanez put his arm on Brighton’s shoulder and walked him to the door, ignoring Charles.
   “I’d appreciate any help you can give me,” said Brighton.
   “I hope you understand the reasons behind making you leave the institute so quickly,” said Ibanez.
   “Of course,” returned Brighton. “Once the press gets onto something like this, they want to suck it dry. Don’t worry about me, I’m glad to get out of the spotlight for a while.”
   Closing the door behind Brighton, Ibanez came back to his desk and sat down. His mood had abruptly switched to tired irritation. “Actually there are two people I’d like to strangle. The person from here who leaked the story and the reporter that wrote it. The press has a habit of blowing things out of proportion and this is a good example. Front page New York Times! Absurd!”
   “It seems to me,” said Charles, “that you’re blaming the wrong people. After all, this is a ‘moral issue,’ not just an inconvenience.”
   Dr. Ibanez eyed Charles across the expanse of his desk. “Dr. Brighton should not have done what he did, but the moral issue does not bother me as much as the potential damage to the institute and to the drug, Canceran. That would change this from a minor affair to a major catastrophe.”
   “I just don’t think that professional integrity is a minor affair,” said Charles.
   “I hope you’re not lecturing me, Dr. Martel. Let me tell you something. Dr. Brighton was not motivated by any evil intent. He believed in Canceran and wanted to speed up its availability to the public. His fraud was the result of youthful impatience, which we’ve all been guilty of in one degree or another. Unfortunately in this case his enthusiasm got out of hand with the result being we’ve lost a very talented man, a phenomenal money raiser.”
   Charles moved to the edge of his seat. For him the issue was crystal clear and he was astounded that he and Ibanez could view the event from such fundamentally different perspectives. On the verge of unleashing a diatribe on the difference between right and wrong, Charles was interrupted by Miss Evans.
   “Dr. Ibanez,” called Miss Evans from the doorway. “You told me to tell you the moment Mr. Bellman arrived. He’s here.”
   “Send him in!” shouted Ibanez, leaping to his feet like a boxer at the sound of the bell.
   Jules Bellman, the institute’s public relations man, came through the door like a puppy with his tail between his legs. “I didn’t know about the Times until this morning,” he squeaked. “I don’t know how it happened, but it didn’t come from anyone in my office. Unfortunately a great number of people knew.”
   “My assistant said it was the gossip of the institute,” said Charles, coming to Bellman’s rescue. “I think I was the only one who didn’t know anything about it.”
   Ibanez glowered for another moment. “Well, I want the leak found.” He didn’t ask the P.R. man to sit down.
   “Absolutely,” said Bellman, his voice stronger. “I already think I know who was responsible.”
   “Oh?” said Ibanez, his eyebrows raising.
   “The animal keeper who reported to you about Brighton originally. I heard that he was pissed that he didn’t get a bonus.”
   “Christ! Everybody wants a medal for doing their job,” said Ibanez. “Keep at it until you’re sure. Now we have to talk about the press. Here’s how I want you to handle it. Schedule a conference. Acknowledge that errors were found in the Canceran experimental protocol due to a severe time constraint, but don’t admit to any fraud. Just say that mistakes were uncovered by the usual supervisory process that the administration routinely follows, and that Dr. Brighton has been granted an unspecified leave of absence. Say that he has been under great pressure to speed the delivery of the drug to the public. Above all, emphasize that Canceran is the most promising anticancer drug to come along in a long time. Then emphasize that the error here was Brighton’s and that the Weinburger Institute still has full confidence in Canceran. And the way you’re going to do this is by announcing that we are putting our most renowned scientist on the project, Dr. Charles Martel.”
   “Dr. Ibanez,” began Charles, “I…”
   “Just a minute, Charles,” interrupted Ibanez. “Let me get rid of Jules here. Now you think you’ve got all that, Jules?”
   “Dr. Ibanez,” Charles broke in. “I really want to say something.”
   “In a minute, Charles. Listen, Jules, I want you to make Charles here sound like Louis Pasteur reincarnated, understand?”
   “You got it,” said Bellman excitedly. “Now, Dr. Martel. Can you tell me your latest publications.”
   “Goddammit,” shouted Charles, slamming his lab books down on Ibanez’s desk. “This is a ridiculous conversation. You know I haven’t published anything recently, mostly because I didn’t want to take the time. But papers or no papers, I’ve been making extraordinary progress. And it’s all here in these books. Let me show you something.”
   Charles reached over to open one of the lab books but Dr. Ibanez restrained his arm. “Charles, calm down. You’re not on trial here, for God’s sake. Actually it’s probably better you haven’t published. Right now interest as well as funding for immunological cancer research has slackened. It probably wouldn’t be good for Jules to have to admit you’ve been working exclusively in this area because the press might suggest you were unqualified to take over Canceran.”
   “Give me strength,” groaned Charles to himself through clenched teeth. He stared at Ibanez, breathing heavily. “Let me tell you something! The whole medical community is approaching cancer from the wrong perspective. All this work on chemotherapeutic agents like Canceran is only for palliative purposes. A real cure can only come from better understanding of the chemical communication among cells of which the immune system is a direct descendant. Immunology is the answer!” Charles’s voice had built to a crescendo, and the last sentence held the fervor of a religious fanatic.
   Bellman looked down and shuffled his feet. Ibanez took a long drag on his cigar, blowing the smoke in a long, thin stream.
   “Well,” said Dr. Ibanez, breaking the embarrassing silence. “That’s an interesting point, Charles, but I’m afraid not everybody would agree with you. The fact of the matter is that while there is plenty of funding for chemotherapy research, there is very little for immunological studies…”
   “That’s because chemotherapy agents like Canceran can be patented whereas immunological processes, for the most part, cannot be,” said Charles, impulsively interrupting Dr. Ibanez.
   “It seems to me,” said Ibanez, “that the old phrase, ‘don’t bite the hand that feeds you,’ applies here. The cancer community has supported you, Dr. Martel.”
   “And I’m thankful,” said Charles. “I’m not a rebel or a revolutionary. Far from it. All I want is to be left alone to do my work. In fact, that’s why I came up here in the first place: to tell you that I don’t feel capable of taking on the Canceran project.”
   “Nonsense!” said Ibanez. “You’re more than capable. Obviously the board of directors thinks so.”
   “I’m not talking about my intellectual capabilities,” snapped Charles. “I’m talking about my lack of interest. I don’t believe in Canceran and the approach to cancer it represents.”
   “Dr. Martel,” said Dr. Ibanez slowly, his eyes boring into Charles’s face. “Are you aware that we are in the midst of a crisis? Are you going to sit there and tell me you cannot help because of a lack of interest? What do you think I’m running here, a federally endowed college? If we lose the grant for Canceran the whole institute is in financial jeopardy. You’re the only person who is not already working under a National Cancer Institute grant and whose stature in the research community is such that this whole unfortunate brouhaha will be defused when you take over.”
   “But I’m at a critical point in my own research,” pleaded Charles. “I know I haven’t published and I know that I’ve been somewhat secretive. Maybe that was wrong. But I’ve been getting results and I think I have made an astounding breakthrough. It’s right here.” Charles tapped the cover of one of his lab books. “Listen, I can take a cancer cell, any cancer cell, and isolate the chemical difference between that cell and a normal cell from the same individual.”
   “In what animals?” asked Dr. Ibanez.
   “Mice, rats, and monkeys,” said Charles.
   “What about humans?” asked Dr. Ibanez.
   “I haven’t tried it yet, but I’m sure it will work. It’s worked flawlessly in all the species I’ve tried.”
   “Is this chemical difference antigenic in the host animal?”
   “It should be. In all cases the protein seems to be sufficiently different to be antigenic but unfortunately I have not yet been able to sensitize a cancerous animal. There seems to be some kind of blocking mechanism or what I call a blocking factor. And that’s where I am in my work, trying to isolate this blocking factor. Once I do, I intend to use the hybridoma technique to make an antibody to the blocking factor. If I can eliminate the blocking factor, I’m hoping the animal will then respond immunologically to its tumor.”
   “Whew!” whistled Bellman, not sure what to write in his pad.
   “The most exciting thing,” said Charles with enthusiasm, “is that it all makes scientific sense. Cancer today is a vestigial aspect of an ancient system whereby organisms could accept new cellular components.”
   “I give up,” said Bellman. He closed his pad with a snap.
   “What you are also saying, Dr. Martel,” said Dr. Ibanez, “is that you have a long way to go in this work of yours.”
   “Absolutely,” said Charles. “But the pace has been quickening.”
   “But there’s no reason, except your preference, that you couldn’t put this work aside for a period of time.”
   “Only that it appears so promising. If it turns out to be as fruitful as I expect, then it would be tragic, if not criminal, not to have it available as soon as possible.”
   “But it is only in your opinion that it appears so promising. I must admit it sounds interesting and I can assure you the Weinburger will support you as it has in the past. But first you are going to have to help the Weinburger. Your own interests must be postponed; you must take over the Canceran project immediately. If you refuse, Dr. Martel, you will have to take your research elsewhere. I want no more discussion. The issue is closed.”
   For a moment Charles sat there with a blank face reflecting his inner uncertainty. The enthusiasm he’d built up in presenting his work had elevated his expectations so that Ibanez’s dismissal had a paralyzing effect, especially combined with the threat of being turned out of his lab. The suggestion of being fired was far more terrifying coming from Ibanez than from Morrison. Work and Charles’s sense of self had been so closely connected that he could not imagine them severed. He gathered up his lab books with an effort.
   “You’re not the most popular man on the staff,” added Ibanez gently, “but you can change that now by pitching in. I want you to tell me, Dr. Martel: Are you with us?”
   Charles nodded his head without looking up, suffering the final indignity of unconditional surrender. He turned and left without uttering another word.
   After the door closed, Bellman looked back at Ibanez. “What a strange reaction. I hope he’s not going to be trouble. That evangelistic attitude scares me to death.”
   “I feel the same way,” said Ibanez pensively. “Unfortunately he’s become a scientific fanatic, and like all fanatics, he can be difficult. It’s too bad because he’s such a first-rate researcher, maybe our best. But people like that can put us right out of business, especially in this era of reduced funding. I wonder where Charles thinks the money to run this place comes from. If the people down at the National Cancer Institute heard that monologue of his about chemotherapy, they’d throw a fit.”
   “I’m going to have to keep the press away from him,” said Bellman.
   Dr. Ibanez laughed. “At least that part will be easy. Charles has never cared for publicity.”
   “You sure he’s the best man to take over Canceran?” said Bellman.
   “He’s the only man. No one else is available who has his professional reputation. All he has to do is finish the study.”
   “But if he screws up somehow…” worried Bellman.
   “Don’t even suggest it,” said Ibanez. “If he mishandles Canceran at this point, we’d have to do something drastic. Otherwise we’ll all be looking for a job.”

   Disgusted with himself, Charles dragged his way back down to his lab. For the first time in almost ten years, Charles nostalgically recalled private practice. It wasn’t the one-on-one of clinical medicine that he longed for, but rather the autonomy. Charles was accustomed to being in control and until that moment he had not realized how little control he had at the Weinburger.
   For the second time in the day, Charles slammed the door to his lab, rattling the glassware on the shelves and terrifying the rats and mice in the animal room. Also for the second time he startled Ellen, who deftly caught a pipette she’d knocked off the counter when she spun around. She was about to complain but when she saw Charles’s face, she remained silent.
   In a fit of misdirected rage, Charles slung the heavy lab books at the counter. One hit the floor while the others crashed into a distillation apparatus sending shards of glass all over the room. Ellen’s hand flew up to protect her face as she stepped back. Still not satisfied, Charles picked up an Erlenmeyer flask and hurled it into the sink. Ellen had never seen Charles like this in all the six years they’d worked together.
   “If you tell me I told you so, I’ll scream,” said Charles, flinging himself onto his metal swivel chair.
   “Dr. Ibanez wouldn’t listen?” asked Ellen, guardedly.
   “He listened. He just wouldn’t buy, and I caved in like a paper tiger. It was awful.”
   “I don’t think you had any choice,” said Ellen. “So don’t be so hard on yourself. Anyway, what’s the schedule?”
   “The schedule is that we finish the Canceran efficacy study.”
   “Do we start right away?” asked Ellen.
   “Right away,” returned Charles with a tired voice. “In fact, why don’t you go get the Canceran lab books. I don’t want to talk to anyone for a while.”
   “All right,” said Ellen softly. She was relieved to have an errand to take her out of the lab for a few minutes. She sensed that Charles needed a little time by himself.
   After Ellen left, Charles didn’t move and he tried not to think. But his solitude did not last long. The door was thrown open and Morrison stormed into the lab.
   Charles swung around and looked up at Morrison, whose veins were standing out on the sides of his forehead like strands of spaghetti. The man was furious.
   “I’ve had just about all I can tolerate,” he shouted through blanched lips. “I’m tired of your lack of respect. What makes you think you’re so important that you don’t have to follow normal protocol? I shouldn’t have to remind you that I am your department head. You’re supposed to go through me when you have questions about administration, not to the director.”
   “Morrison, do me a favor,” said Charles, “get the hell out of my lab.”
   Morrison’s small eyes became suffused with a pale crimson. Minute beads of perspiration sprung up on his forehead as he spoke: “All I can say is that if it weren’t for our current emergency, Charles, I’d see that you were thrown out of the Weinburger today. Lucky for you we can’t afford another scandal. But you’d better shine on this Canceran project if you have any intentions of staying on staff here.”
   Without waiting for a response, Morrison stalked out of the lab. Charles was left with the low hum of the refrigerator compressors and the ticks of the automatic radioactivity counter. These were familiar sounds and they had a soothing effect on Charles. Maybe, he thought, the Canceran affair wouldn’t be too bad; maybe he could do the study quickly, provided the experimental protocol was decent; maybe Ellen was right and they could do both projects by working some nights.
   Suddenly the phone began to ring. He debated answering, hearing it ring three times, then four. On the fifth ring he picked it up.
   “Hello,” said the caller. “This is Mrs. Crane from the bursar’s office at Northeastern University.”
   “Yes,” said Charles. It took him a moment to associate the school with Chuck.
   “Sorry to bother you,” said Mrs. Crane. “But your son gave us the number. It seems that the $1650 semester tuition is way overdue.”
   Charles toyed with a small tin of paper clips, wondering what to say. Not being able to pay bills was a new experience.
   “Mr. Martel, are you there?”
   “Dr. Martel,” said Charles, although as soon as he made the correction he felt foolish.
   “Excuse me, Dr. Martel,” said Mrs. Crane, genuinely compunctious. “Can we expect the money in the near future?”
   “Of course,” said Charles. “I’ll have a check on its way. I’m sorry for the oversight.”
   Charles hung up. He knew that he’d have to get a loan immediately. He hoped to hell that Chuck was doing reasonably well and that he wouldn’t major in psychology. He picked up the phone again, but didn’t dial. He decided it would save time if he went directly to the bank; besides, he felt like he could use some fresh air and a little time away from the Morrisons and Ibanezes of the world.

Four

   Flipping the pages of an old issue of Time magazine, Cathryn wrestled with a resurgence of anxiety. At first Dr. Wiley’s waiting room had been a sanctuary from the horrors of the rest of the hospital, but as time passed uncertainty and foreboding began to reassert themselves. Glancing at her watch she saw that Michelle had been back in the examining area for over an hour. Something must be wrong!
   She began to fidget, crossing and uncrossing her legs, checking her watch repeatedly. To her discomfort there was no conversation in the room and almost no movement except for the hands of a woman who was knitting and the erratic gestures of two toddlers playing with blocks. All at once Cathryn realized what was bothering her. Everything was too flat, without emotion. It was like a two-dimensional picture of a three-dimensional scene.
   She stood up, unable to sit still for another moment. “Excuse me,” she said walking over to the nurse. “My little girl, Michelle Martel. Do you have any idea how much longer she’ll be?”
   “The doctor hasn’t told us,” said the nurse politely. She sat with her back painfully straight so that her substantial buttocks protruded out the back of her chair.
   “She’s been in there for a long time,” said Cathryn, searching for some reassurance.
   “Dr. Wiley is very complete. I’m sure she’ll be out shortly.”
   “Does he frequently take over an hour?” asked Cathryn. She felt superstitiously ambivalent about asking any questions at all, as if the asking would influence the ultimate outcome.
   “Certainly,” said the nurse receptionist. “He takes whatever time he needs. He never rushes. He’s that kind of a doctor.”
   But why does he need all that time, wondered Cathryn as she returned to her seat. The image of Tad with his plastic cell kept returning to Cathryn’s troubled mind. It was a horrifying shock to realize that children do get serious illnesses. She had believed that it was a rare occurrence that happened to someone else’s child, a child one didn’t know. But Tad was a neighbor, her daughter’s friend. Cathryn shuddered.
   Picking up yet another magazine, Cathryn glanced at the advertisements; there were smiling, happy people, shining floors, buying new cars. She tried to decide what to fix for dinner but never completed the thought. Why was Michelle taking so long? Two more mothers arrived with pink swathed parcels that were obviously babies. Then came another mother and child: a small boy about two with a huge violaceous rash that covered half his face.
   The waiting room was now packed and Cathryn began to have trouble breathing. Getting up to make room for the second mother carrying her infant, Cathryn tried to avoid seeing the two-year-old with the horribly disfiguring rash. Her fears mounted. It had been over an hour and twenty minutes since she’d left Michelle. She realized she was trembling.
   Once again she approached the nurse and self-consciously stood before her desk until the woman acknowledged her presence.
   “Can I help you?” she said in a painfully courteous manner. Cathryn wanted to reach over and shake this woman whose starched whiteness inflamed Cathryn’s precarious emotions. She didn’t need politeness, she needed warmth and understanding, an ounce of sensitivity.
   “Do you think it could be possible,” asked Cathryn, “to find out what’s taking so long?”
   Before the receptionist could respond, the door to her left opened and Dr. Wiley leaned into the room. He searched the waiting area until his eyes found Cathryn. “Mrs. Martel, can I speak to you for a moment?” His voice was noncommittal and he turned back inside, leaving the door ajar.
   Cathryn hurried after him, nervously touching the flowered combs in her hair to be sure they were in place, and closed the door behind her carefully. Wiley had retreated to his desk but had not sat down in the chair. Instead he was half-sitting on the front edge, his arms folded across his chest.
   Exquisitely sensitive to every nuance, Cathryn scrutinized Dr. Wiley’s broad face. His forehead was deeply lined, something Cathryn hadn’t noticed on her first encounter. The man didn’t smile.
   “We need your permission for a test,” said Dr. Wiley.
   “Is everything all right?” asked Cathryn. She tried to sound normal but her voice was too high.
   “Everything is under control,” said Dr. Wiley. Unfolding his arms, he reached out for a paper on his desk. “But we need to do a specific diagnostic test. I’m going to need your signature on this form.” He handed the paper to Cathryn. She took it, her hand quivering.
   “Where is Michelle?” Cathryn’s eyes scanned the form. It was written in standard medicalese.
   “She’s in one of the examining rooms. You can see her if you’d like although I’d rather go ahead with this test before you do. It’s called a bone marrow aspiration.”
   “Bone marrow?” Cathryn’s head shot up. The words evoked the awesome image of Tad Schonhauser in his plastic tent.
   “It’s nothing to be alarmed about,” said Dr. Wiley, noticing Cathryn’s shocked response. “It’s a simple test, very similar to taking a sample of blood.”
   “Does Michelle have aplastic anemia?” blurted Cathryn.
   “Absolutely not.” Dr. Wiley was perplexed at her response. “We want to do the test in order to try to make a diagnosis, but I can assure you Michelle does not have aplastic anemia. If you don’t mind my asking, what made you ask that?”
   “Just a few minutes ago I visited our neighbor’s child who has aplastic anemia. When you said bone marrow, it…” Cathryn struggled to complete her own sentence.
   “I understand,” said Dr. Wiley. “Don’t worry. I can assure you that aplastic anemia is not a possibility here. But we still want to do the test… just to be complete.”
   “Do you think I should call Charles?” asked Cathryn. She was relieved that Michelle couldn’t have aplastic anemia and grateful to Dr. Wiley for eliminating it as a possibility. Although Charles had said aplastic anemia wasn’t infectious, its proximity was frightening.
   “If you’d like to call Charles, by all means. But let me explain a little. Bone marrow aspiration is done with a needle similar to the one we use for drawing blood. We use a little local anesthesia so it’s practically painless, and it only takes a few moments. And once we have the results we’ll be done. It’s truly a simple procedure, and we do it often.”
   Cathryn managed a smile and said they could go ahead with the test. She liked Dr. Wiley, and she felt a visceral confidence in the man, especially since Charles had undoubtedly picked him from a group of pediatricians he knew well, back when Chuck had been born. She signed the forms where Dr. Wiley pointed, then allowed herself to be escorted out of the office and back into the crowded waiting room.

   Michelle lay very still on the examining table. Even with her head propped up on the pillow her view was mostly ceiling with frosted glass over fluorescent lighting. But she could see a little wallpaper, enough to make out images of laughing clowns, rocking horses, and children with balloons. There was a sink in the room, and although she couldn’t see it from where she was, she could hear the water dripping.
   For Michelle the hospital had lived up to her fears. She’d been stuck with needles three times. Once in each arm and once in a finger. Each time she’d asked if it was the last but no one would say, so she was afraid it might happen again, especially if she moved too much, so she stayed very still.
   She felt embarrassed to be dressed so scantily. She had on a nightie of sorts, but it was open in the back, and she could feel her skin on the paper which covered the table. By looking down, she could see the mounds made by her toes beneath the white sheet that covered her. Even her hands were under the cover, clasped together over her stomach. She’d been shivering a little but didn’t tell anyone. All she wanted was her clothes and to go home. Yet she knew the fever was back and she was afraid someone might notice and then want to stick her again. They had told her that the reason they needed her blood was to find out why she kept getting the fever.
   There was a scraping sound, and the door to the examining room opened. It was the fat nurse, and she was backing into the room so that her form filled the doorway. She was pulling something, and Michelle heard the telltale sound of metal jangling against metal. Once clear of the door, the nurse swung around, pushing a small table on wheels. The table was covered with a blue towel. As far as Michelle was concerned, it didn’t look good.
   “What’s that?” she asked anxiously.
   “Some things for the doctor, sweetheart,” said Miss Hammersmith, as if she were talking about treats. Her name tag was pinned high on her shoulder like a battle ribbon, above the band of her bosom which went around her chest like an innertube. There seemed to be as much flesh in the back as the front.
   “Is it going to hurt?” asked Michelle.
   “Sweetheart, why do you ask that kind of question? We’re trying to help you.” Miss Hammersmith sounded offended.
   “Everything the doctor does hurts,” said Michelle.
   “Now that’s hardly true,” scoffed Miss Hammersmith.
   “Ah, my favorite patient,” said Dr. Wiley, opening the door with his shoulder. Coming into the room he kept his hands away from his body because they were wet and dripping onto the floor. Miss Hammersmith broke open a paper package, and Dr. Wiley carefully pulled out a sterile towel with his thumb and forefinger. Most alarming to Michelle, he was wearing a surgical mask.
   “What are you going to do?” she asked, her eyes opened to their physical limits. She forgot her resolve about staying still and pushed herself up on one elbow.
   “Well, I’m afraid I’ve got good and bad news,” said Dr. Wiley. “I’m afraid you have to have one more little needle stick but the good news is that it will be the last for a while. What do you say?”
   Dr. Wiley tossed the towel onto the counter by the sink and plucked out a pair of rubber gloves from a package Miss Hammersmith held open for him.
   With growing dismay, Michelle watched him pull the gloves onto each hand, snapping the wrist portion into place and tugging on each finger in turn.
   “I don’t want any more needles,” said Michelle, her eyes filling with tears. “I just want to go home.” She tried not to cry but the harder she tried, the less successful she was.
   “Now, now,” soothed Miss Hammersmith as she began stroking Michelle’s hair.
   Michelle parried Miss Hammersmith’s hand and tried to sit up, but she was restrained by a cinch about her waist. “Please,” she managed.
   “Michelle!” called Dr. Wiley sharply, then his voice softened. “I know you don’t feel well, and I know this is hard for you, but we have to do it. It will be over in a moment if you help us.”
   “No!” said Michelle defiantly. “I want my father.”
   Dr. Wiley gestured to Miss Hammersmith: “Maybe Mrs. Levy could come in here for a moment and give us a hand.”
   Miss Hammersmith lumbered out of the room.
   “Okay, Michelle, just lie back and relax for a moment,” said Dr. Wiley. “I’m sure your dad will be real proud of you when I tell him how courageous you were. This is only going to take a moment. I promise.”
   Michelle lay back and closed her eyes, feeling the tears run down the side of her face. Intuitively she knew that Charles would be disappointed if he heard that she’d acted like a baby. After all, it was going to be the last stick. But both her arms had been punctured and she wondered where they would do it.
   The door opened again and Michelle propped herself up to see who it was. Miss Hammersmith came in followed by two other nurses, one of whom carried some leather straps.
   “We won’t need restraints, I don’t think,” said Dr. Wiley. “Okay, Michelle, now just lie back quietly for a moment.”
   “Come on, sweetheart,” cajoled Miss Hammersmith, coming up alongside Michelle. One of the other nurses went around to the opposite side while the nurse who had been carrying leather straps went down to the foot of the table. “Dr. Wiley is the best doctor in the world and you should be so thankful he’s taking care of you,” said Miss Hammersmith as she pulled Michelle’s sheet down over the child’s legs. Keeping her arms stiffly against her side, Michelle half-heartedly tried to resist when Miss Hammersmith pulled up the nightie to expose the child’s body from her nipples to her bony knees.
   She watched while the nurse whisked the towel from the table with the wheels. Dr. Wiley busied himself with the instruments on it, his back to her. She could hear the tinkle of glass and the sound of fluid. When the doctor turned, he had a wet piece of cotton in each hand. “I’m just going to clean your skin a little,” he explained as he began scrubbing Michelle’s hipbone.
   The water felt alarmingly cold to Michelle as it ran down her hip and pooled beneath her buttocks. This was a new experience, not like the previous needles. She strained to see what was happening, but the doctor gently urged her to lie back.
   “It will be over in just a moment,” said Miss Hammersmith.
   Michelle looked at the faces of the nurses. They were all smiling but they were fake smiles. Michelle began to feel panic. “Where are you going to stick me?” she shouted, trying again to sit up.
   As soon as she moved, she felt strong arms grip her and force her back. Even her ankles were locked in an iron grasp. She was pressed firmly back onto the table, and the restriction inflamed her panic. She tried to struggle but felt the hold on her limbs tighten. “No!” cried Michelle.
   “Easy now,” said Dr. Wiley as he floated a gun-metal colored drape with a hole in the center over Michelle’s pelvis and positioned it on her hipbone. Turning back to the small table, Dr. Wiley busied himself. When he reappeared in Michelle’s view he was holding a huge syringe with three stainless steel finger rings.
   “No!” cried Michelle and with all her might she tried to break from the grasp of the nurses. Instantly she felt the crushing weight of Miss Hammersmith settle on her chest, making breathing difficult. Then she felt the sharp pain of a needle pierce her skin over her hipbone followed by a burning sensation.

   Charles bit off the corner of his pastrami on white, catching a stray piece of meat with his fingers before it fell to the desktop. It was a mammoth sandwich, the only good thing put out by the institute cafeteria. Ellen had brought it back to the lab since Charles did not want to see anyone and, except for his brief foray to the First National Bank, he’d stayed at his desk poring over the Canceran experimental protocol. He’d been through all the lab books, and to his surprise, he found them well-organized. He began to feel optimistic that completing the study would not be as difficult as he had initially imagined; maybe they could get it done in six months. He swallowed what he had in his mouth and chased it down with a slug of lukewarm coffee.
   “The one good thing about this project,” said Charles, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, “is the size of the grants. For the first time we’ve got money to burn. I’ll bet we can get that new automatic counter we’ve wanted as well as a new ultra centrifuge.”
   “I think we should get a new chromatography unit,” said Ellen.
   “Why not?” said Charles. “Having been railroaded into this project, we owe it to ourselves.” He put the sandwich back down on the paper plate and picked up his pencil. “Here’s the way we’ll handle this thing. We’ll start out with a dose of 1/16 of the LD50.”
   “Wait,” said Ellen. “Being in immunology, it’s been a while since I’ve done this kind of thing. Refresh me. The LD50 is the dose of a drug that causes 50 percent death in a large population of test animals. Right?”
   “Right,” said Charles. “We have the LD50 for mice, rats, rabbits, and monkeys from the toxicity studies done on Canceran before they started the efficacy studies. Let’s start out with the mice. We’ll use the RX7 strain bred for mammary tumors because Brighton ordered them and they’re here.”
   With his pencil, Charles began to make a flow diagram of the project. While he wrote, he spoke, explaining to Ellen each step, particularly how they would increase the dosage of the drug and how they would expand the study to include rats and rabbits as soon as they got some preliminary data from the mice. Because the monkeys were so expensive they would not be used until the very end when the information from the other animals could be extrapolated and applied to a statistically significant group. Then, assuming positive results, a method of randomization would be worked out with each species to ensure suitable controls. These fresh animals would then be treated with the optimum dosage level of Canceran determined from the first part of the study. This portion of the project would be carried out so that neither Charles nor Ellen would know which animals had been treated until after each had been sacrificed and studied and recorded.
   “Whew,” sighed Ellen as she stretched her arms back. “I guess I didn’t know what was involved.”
   “Unfortunately there’s more,” said Charles. “Each animal, after they’re autopsied, has to be studied not only microscopically, but also with the electron microscope. And…”
   “All right already!” said Ellen. “I get the picture. But what about our own work? What are we going to do?”
   “I’m not sure,” said Charles. He put down his pencil. “I guess that’s up to both of us.”
   “I think it’s more up to you,” said Ellen. She was sitting on a high stool with her back against the slate-topped workbench. She was wearing a white laboratory coat which was unbuttoned, revealing a beige sweater and a single strand of small, natural pearls. Her soft hands were folded together and lay still in her lap.
   “Did you mean what you said about working nights?” asked Charles. In his mind he tried to estimate the feasibility of continuing the work on the mysterious blocking factor while they labored with Canceran. It would be possible, although they’d have to put in long hours and slow down considerably. But even if they were able to isolate a single protein in a single animal which functioned as a blocking agent, they’d have something. Even if only one mouse became immunized to its tumor, it would be spectacular. Charles was well aware that success with a single case was hardly a reason to generalize, but he felt that a single cure would provide the basis for convincing the institute to back his work.
   “Look,” said Ellen. “I know how much this work of yours means to you, and I know you think you’re close to some sort of a conclusion. I don’t know whether it’s going to be positive or negative in the final analysis but that doesn’t matter. You need to know. And you will. You’re the most stubborn person I ever met.”
   Charles examined Ellen’s face. What did she mean, stubborn? He didn’t know whether it was a compliment or an insult, and he had no idea how the conversation had switched to his personality. But Ellen’s expression was neutral, her unfathomable eyes unwavering.
   Noticing Charles’s stare, Ellen smiled, then said: “Don’t look so surprised. If you’re willing to work nights, so am I. In fact, I can bring in some things to eat on the days we work evenings so we can have supper right here.”
   “I’m not sure you realize how tough it will be,” said Charles. “We’d be practically living here.”
   “The lab is bigger than my apartment,” said Ellen with a laugh, “and my cats take care of themselves.”
   Charles turned his gaze back to his recently concocted flow diagram. But he wasn’t thinking about Canceran. He was wrestling with the advisability of working evenings with Ellen. “You understand that I have no idea whether I can get Morrison to pay you overtime?” he said.
   “I don’t…” began Ellen, but she didn’t finish. The phone interrupted them.
   “You answer it,” said Charles. “I don’t want to talk with anyone.”
   Ellen slid off her stool and, leaning on Charles’s shoulder, reached across his desk for the receiver. Her hand rested on Charles as she said hello, but it was quickly removed. Abruptly she dumped the receiver in his lap and walked away. “It’s your wife.”
   Charles fumbled for the phone as it slid between his legs, retrieving it by pulling on the coiled cord. Of all the times for Cathryn to be calling, he thought.
   “What is it?” he asked impatiently.
   “I want you to come over here to Dr. Wiley’s office,” said Cathryn in a stiffly controlled voice.
   “What’s going on?”
   “I don’t want to discuss it over the phone.”
   “Cathryn, this hasn’t been a good morning for me. Give me an idea of what’s happening.”
   “Charles, just come over here!”
   “Cathryn, the roof has fallen in on top of me this morning. I can’t leave now.”
   “I’ll be waiting for you,” said Cathryn. Then she hung up.
   “Fuck!” shouted Charles as he slammed down the receiver. He swung around in his chair and saw that Ellen had retreated behind her desk. “On top of everything, Cathryn wants me over at the pediatrician’s office but won’t tell me what it’s about. God! What else can happen today?”
   “That’s what you get for marrying a typist.”
   “What?” asked Charles. He’d heard but the comment seemed out of context.
   “Cathryn doesn’t understand what we are doing. I don’t think she can comprehend the pressures you feel.”
   Charles peered quizzically at Ellen, then shrugged. “You’re probably right. Obviously she thinks I can just drop everything and run over there. Maybe I should call Wiley and find out what’s going on.” Charles snapped the phone off the hook and started dialing, but midway he stopped. Slowly he replaced the receiver. The thought of Michelle planted a seed of concern under his irritation. Vividly he remembered the morning’s nosebleed. “I’d better run over there. It won’t take very long.”
   “But what about our schedule?” asked Ellen.
   “We’ll talk more when I get back. Meanwhile why don’t you prepare the dilution of Canceran for the mice. We’ll inject the first batch as soon as I return.” Charles went over to the metal locker near the door and pulled out his coat. “Have the mice brought up here to our own animal room. It will make it a lot easier.”
   Ellen watched the door close behind Charles. No matter what she resolved outside of the lab, whenever she was face to face with him, it seemed that her feelings were hurt. Ellen knew it was absurd but she couldn’t protect herself. And now she felt such a mixture of disappointment and anger that she could have cried. She had allowed the idea of working together at night to excite her. But it was stupid, adolescent. She knew deep down that it would not lead to anything and ultimately cause her more heartache.
   Thankful for something specific to do, Ellen forced herself over to the counter where the sterile bottles of Canceran had been left. It was a white powder, like confectioner’s sugar waiting for the introduction of sterile water. It wasn’t as stable in solution as it was in solid form so it had to be reconstituted before it was used. She got out the sterile water, then used the desktop computer to work out the optimum dilution.
   As she was getting out the syringes, Dr. Morrison came into the lab.
   “Dr. Martel isn’t here,” said Ellen.
   “I know,” said Morrison. “I saw him leave the building. I wasn’t looking for him. I wanted to talk to you for a moment.”
   Putting the syringe down, Ellen thrust her hands into her jacket pockets and came around the end of the counter to face the man. It was not usual for the head of the department of physiology to seek her out, especially behind Charles’s back. Yet with everything else that had happened that morning, she wasn’t all that surprised. Besides, Morrison’s face had such a Machiavellian look that such intrigue seemed appropriate.
   Coming over to her, Morrison produced a slim, gold cigarette case, snapped the case open, and extended it toward Ellen. When she shook her head, Morrison withdrew a cigarette. “May I smoke in here?” he asked.
   Ellen shrugged. Charles didn’t allow it but not because of danger. He just hated the smell. Ellen felt a stab of rebellious joy as she tacitly acquiesced.
   Morrison produced a gold lighter that matched his cigarette case from his vest pocket and made an elaborate ritual out of lighting his cigarette. It was a staged gesture, designed to keep Ellen waiting.
   “I suppose you know what has happened today concerning the Brighton case,” said Morrison at length.
   “A little bit,” agreed Ellen.
   “And you know that Charles has been selected to continue the Canceran study?”
   Ellen nodded.
   Morrison paused and blew smoke out in successive rings. “It’s extremely important for the institute that this study be concluded… successfully.”
   “Dr. Martel has already started on it,” said Ellen.
   “Good. Good,” said Morrison.
   Another pause.
   “I don’t know exactly how to put this,” said Morrison. “But I’m concerned about Charles messing up this experiment.”
   “I don’t think you have anything to worry about,” said Ellen. “If there’s one thing you can count on with Charles, it is scientific integrity.”
   “It’s not his intellectual capabilities that concern me,” said Morrison. “It’s his emotional stability. To be perfectly candid, he seems a bit impulsive. He’s hypercritical of everyone else’s work and seems to feel he has a corner on the scientific method.”
   Impulsive? The word hit a familiar chord in Ellen’s memory. As if it were yesterday she could remember the last evening she’d spent with Charles. They’d had dinner at the Harvest Restaurant, gone back to her apartment on Prescott Street, and made love. It had been a warm and tender night, but as usual Charles had not stayed over. He’d said he had to be home when the children woke up. The next day at work he had behaved as he always did, but they never went out again and Charles never offered a word of explanation. Then he’d married the temporary typist. It seemed like one day Ellen heard he’d been seeing this girl, and the next he was marrying her. Ellen agreed that impulsive was a good description of Charles; impulsive and stubborn.
   “What do you want me to say?” said Ellen, struggling to bring her mind to the present.
   “I guess I want you to reassure me,” said Morrison.
   “Well,” said Ellen. “I agree that Charles is temperamental, but I don’t think it will influence his work. I think you can count on him to do the Canceran study.”
   Morrison relaxed and smiled, his small teeth visible behind thin lips. “Thank you, Miss Sheldon. That’s exactly what I wanted to hear.” Reaching into the sink, he ran water on his half-smoked cigarette and dropped it into the wastebasket. “One other thing. I was wondering if you would do me and the institute a big favor. I’d like you to report any abnormal behavior on Charles’s part in relation to the Canceran project. I know this is an awkward request, but the entire board of directors will be grateful for your cooperation.”
   “All right,” said Ellen quickly, not sure how she really felt about it. At the same time she thought that Charles deserved it. She’d put forth a lot of effort for the man and he’d not appreciated it. “I’ll do it with the proviso that anything I say remains anonymous.”
   “Absolutely,” agreed Morrison. “That goes without saying. And, of course, you will report to me directly.”
   At the door, Morrison paused. “It’s been nice talking with you, Miss Sheldon. I’ve been meaning to do it for some time. If you need anything, my office is always open.”
   “Thank you,” said Ellen.
   “Maybe we could even have dinner sometime.”
   “Maybe,” said Ellen.
   She watched the door close. He was a strange-looking man but he was decisive and powerful.

Five

   Crossing the river by way of the Harvard Bridge, Charles struggled with a recalcitrant heater. He could not get the control arm to move to the heat position. As a consequence of his efforts, the Pinto swerved, to the dismay of neighboring motorists who responded by pressing their horns. In desperation, he hit the control with the heel of his hand only to be rewarded with the plastic arm snapping off and falling to the floor.
   Resigning himself to the chill, Charles tried to concentrate on the road. As soon as he could, he turned right off Massachusetts Avenue and skirted the Back Bay Fens, a neglected and trash-littered park in the center of what once was an attractive residential neighborhood. He passed the Boston Museum of Fine Arts and then the Gardner Museum. As the traffic cleared, his mind wandered. To Charles it seemed emotionally cruel of Cathryn to leave him dangling, a victim of his own imagination. Could Michelle’s nosebleed have started again? No, that seemed too simple. Maybe they needed to do some test like an IVP and Cathryn didn’t want to give permission. No, there would be no reason why she wouldn’t explain that over the phone. It had to be some medical problem. Maybe appendicitis. Charles remembered the abdominal tenderness, the low-grade fever. Maybe it was a subacute appendicitis and they wanted to operate. And Charles knew how hospitals affected Cathryn. They made her crazy.
   Entering Dr. Jordan Wiley’s office, Charles was engulfed by a sea of anxious mothers and crying children. The crowded waiting room… that was a part of private practice that Charles did not miss. Like all doctors, his secretaries had an irritating propensity to book new, full workups in time slots reserved for simple return visits, resulting in a hopeless backup of patients. No matter what Charles had said, it had made no difference. He had always been behind in the office and had always been apologizing to the patients.
   Charles searched for Cathryn in the press of women and children, but he didn’t see her. He worked his way over to the nurse who was being besieged by a covey of mothers demanding to know exactly when they would be seen. Charles tried to interrupt but soon realized he had to wait his turn. Eventually he got the woman’s attention and was impressed by her composure. If she was affected by the chaos around her, she did a superb job of not showing it.
   “I’m looking for my wife,” said Charles. He had to speak loudly to make himself heard.
   “What’s the name?” asked the nurse, her hands folded over a pile of charts.
   “Martel. Cathryn Martel.”
   “Just a moment.” As she rolled back in her chair and got to her feet, her face became serious. The women grouped around the desk eyed Charles with a mixture of respect and vexation. They were clearly jealous of the rapid response he’d elicited.
   The nurse returned almost immediately, followed by a woman of impressive dimensions who Charles thought would make an appropriate mate for the Michelin tire man. He noticed her name tag: Miss A. Hammersmith. She motioned to Charles, and he obediently stepped around the desk.
   “Please follow me,” said the nurse. Her mouth, suspended between two puckered cheeks, was the only part of her face that moved as she spoke.
   Charles did as he was told, finding himself hurrying down a hall behind the bulk of Miss Hammersmith who effectively blocked his view. They passed a series of what Charles imagined were examining rooms. At the end of the hall she opened a paneled door and moved aside for Charles to enter.
   “Excuse me,” said Charles, squeezing past her.
   “I guess we both could lose a few pounds,” said Miss Hammersmith.
   As Charles stepped into the room, Miss Hammersmith remained in the hall and softly closed the door behind him. Bookshelves lined one wall, filled with stacks of medical periodicals and some textbooks. In the center of the room was a round, blond oak table surrounded by a half dozen captain’s chairs. One of them abruptly scraped back as Cathryn stood up. She was breathing audibly; Charles could hear the air enter and exit from her nose. It wasn’t a smooth sound. It trembled.
   “What…” began Charles.
   Cathryn ran to him before he could speak and threw her arms around his neck. Charles put his hands on her waist and let her hold him for a few moments to regain her equilibrium. “Cathryn,” he said at last, beginning to experience the bitter taste of fear. Cathryn’s behavior was undermining his thought of appendicitis, of an operation, of something ordinary.
   A horrid, unwelcome memory forced itself into Charles’s mind: the day he’d learned of Elizabeth’s lymphoma. “Cathryn,” he said more sharply. “Cathryn! What is going on? What’s the matter with you?”
   “It’s my fault,” said Cathryn. As soon as she spoke she started to cry. Charles could feel her body shudder with the force of her tears. He waited, his eyes moving around the room, noticing the picture of Hippocrates on the wall opposite the bookshelves, the rich parquet floor, the Nelson’s textbook of pediatrics on the table.
   “Cathryn,” said Charles at length. “Please tell me what’s going on. What’s your fault?”
   “I should have brought Michelle in sooner. I know I should have.” Cathryn’s voice was broken by her sobs.
   “What’s wrong with Michelle?” asked Charles. He could feel panic tightening in his chest. There was a terrifying sense of déjà vu…
   Cathryn strengthened her grip on Charles’s neck as if he was her only salvation. All the control she’d marshaled before his arrival vanished.
   Using most of his strength, Charles managed to break Cathryn’s hold on his neck. Once he did so, she seemed to collapse. He helped her to a chair where she sank like a deflated balloon. Then he sat down beside her.
   “Cathryn, you must tell me what is going on.”
   His wife looked up with great effort, her teal-blue eyes awash with tears. She opened her mouth, but before she could speak the door opened. Dr. Jordan Wiley stepped into the room.
   Charles, his hands still resting on Cathryn’s shoulders, turned at the sound of the closing door. When he saw Dr. Wiley he stood up, searching the man’s face for a clue to what was happening. He had known Dr. Wiley for almost twenty years. It had been a professional rather than a social relationship, beginning while Charles was in medical school. Wiley had been his preceptor for third-year pediatrics and had impressed Charles with his knowledge, intelligence, and empathy. Later when Charles needed a pediatrician he’d called Jordan Wiley.
   “It’s good to see you again, Charles,” said Dr. Wiley, grasping Charles’s hand. “I’m sorry it’s under such trying circumstances.”
   “Perhaps you could tell me what these trying circumstances are,” said Charles, allowing annoyance to camouflage his fear.
   “You haven’t been told?” asked Dr. Wiley. Cathryn shook her head.
   “Maybe I should step outside for a few moments,” said Dr. Wiley.
   He started to turn toward the door, but Charles restrained him with a hand on his forearm. “I think you should tell me what this is all about,” he said.
   Dr. Wiley glanced at Cathryn, who nodded agreement. She was no longer sobbing but she knew she’d have difficulty speaking.
   “All right,” said Dr. Wiley, facing Charles once again. “It’s about Michelle.”
   “I gathered that,” said Charles.
   “Why don’t you sit down,” said Dr. Wiley.
   “Why don’t you you just tell me,” said Charles.
   Dr. Wiley scrutinized Charles’s anxious face. He saw that Charles had aged a lot since he was a student and was sorry that he had to be the messenger of more anguish and suffering; it was one of the few responsibilities of being a doctor that he detested.
   “Michelle has leukemia, Charles,” said Dr. Wiley.
   Charles’s mouth slowly dropped open. His blue eyes glazed as if he were in a trance. He didn’t move a muscle; he didn’t even breathe. It was as if Dr. Wiley’s news had released a flood of banished memories. Over and over Charles heard, “I’m sorry to inform you, Dr. Martel, but your wife, Elizabeth, has an aggressive lymphoma… I’m awfully sorry to report that your wife is not responding to treatment… Dr. Martel, I’m sorry to say, but your wife has entered a terminal leukemic crisis… Dr. Martel, I’m terribly sorry to have to tell you that your wife died a few moments ago.”
   “No! It’s not true. It’s impossible!” shouted Charles with such vehemence that both Dr. Wiley and Cathryn were startled.
   “Charles,” began Dr. Wiley as he reached out and placed a sympathetic arm on Charles’s shoulder.
   With a lightning movement, Charles knocked Dr. Wiley’s hand away. “Don’t you dare patronize me!”
   Despite her tears, Cathryn jumped up and caught Charles’s arm as Dr. Wiley stepped back in surprise.
   “Is this all some elaborate joke?” snapped Charles, shrugging off Cathryn’s hand.
   “It’s not a joke,” said Dr. Wiley. He spoke gently but firmly. “Charles, I know this is difficult for you, especially because of what happened to Elizabeth. But you have to get control of yourself. Michelle needs you.”
   Charles’s mind was a jumble of incomplete thoughts and emotions. He wrestled with himself, trying to anchor his thoughts. “What makes you think Michelle has leukemia?” He spoke slowly, with great effort. Cathryn sat back down.
   “The diagnosis in unequivocal,” said Dr. Wiley softly.
   “What kind of leukemia?” asked Charles, running his hand through his hair and looking out the window at the neighboring brick wall. “Lymphocytic?”
   “No,” said Dr. Wiley. “I’m sorry to say but it’s acute myeloblastic.”
   I’m sorry to say… I’m sorry to say… a stock medical phrase that doctors resorted to when they didn’t know what else to do and it echoed unpleasantly in Charles’s head. I’m sorry to say your wife died… It was like a knife plunging into the heart.
   “Circulating leukemic cells?” asked Charles, forcing intelligence to struggle against memory.
   “I’m sorry to say, but there are,” said Dr. Wiley. “Her white count is over fifty thousand.”
   A deathly silence descended over the room.
   Abruptly Charles began to pace. He moved with quick steps, while his hands worked at each other as if they were enemies.
   “A diagnosis of leukemia isn’t certain until a bone marrow is done,” he said abruptly.
   “It’s been done,” said Dr. Wiley.
   “It couldn’t have,” snapped Charles. “I didn’t give permission.”
   “I did,” said Cathryn, her voice hesitant, fearful she’d done something wrong.
   Ignoring Cathryn, Charles continued to glower at Dr. Wiley.
   “I want to see the smears myself.”
   “I’ve already had the slides reviewed by a hematologist,” said Dr. Wiley.
   “I don’t care,” said Charles angrily. “I want to see them.”
   “As you wish,” said Dr. Wiley. He remembered Charles as a rash but thorough student. Apparently he hadn’t changed. Although Dr. Wiley knew that it was important for Charles to substantiate the diagnosis, at that moment he would have preferred to talk about Michelle’s extended care.
   “Follow me,” he said finally and led Charles out of the conference room and down the hall. Once the conference room door opened a cacophony of crying babies could be heard. Cathryn, initially unsure of what to do, hurried after the men.
   At the opposite end of the corridor they entered a narrow room which served as a small clinical lab. There was just enough space for a counter and a row of high stools. Racks of urine samples gave the room a slightly fishy aroma. A pimply faced girl in a soiled white coat deferentially slid off the nearest stool. She’d been busy doing the routine urinalysis.
   “Over here, Charles,” said Dr. Wiley, motioning to a shrouded microscope. He plucked off the plastic cover. It was a binocular Zeiss. Charles sat down, adjusted the eyepieces, and snapped on the light. Dr. Wiley opened up a nearby drawer and pulled out a cardboard slide holder. Gently he lifted one of the slides out, being careful to touch only the edges. As he extended it toward Charles, their eyes met. To Dr. Wiley, Charles looked like a cornered animal.
   Using his left hand, Charles took the slide between his thumb and first finger. In the center of the slide was a cover glass over what appeared to be an innocuous smudge. On the ground glass portion of the slide was written:


Michelle Martel
#882673 Bone Marrow

   Charles’s hand trembled as he placed the slide on the mechanical stage and put a drop of oil on the cover glass. Watching from the side he lowered the oil immersion lens until it just touched the slide and entered the oil.
   Taking a deep breath, Charles put his eyes to the oculars and tensely began to raise the barrel of the scope. All at once a multitude of pale blue cells leaped out of the blur, choking off his breath, and forcing the blood to pound in his temples. A shiver of fear as real as if he were looking at his own death warrant blew through his soul. Instead of the usual population of cells in all stages of maturation, Michelle’s marrow had been all but replaced by large, undifferentiated cells with correspondingly large irregular nuclei, containing multiple nucleoli. He was gripped by a sense of utter panic.
   “I think you’ll agree it’s rather conclusive,” said Dr. Wiley gently.
   With a crash, Charles leaped to his feet, knocking his stool over backwards. An uncontrollable anger, anger pent up from the exasperating morning and now fired by Michelle’s illness, blinded him. “Why?” he screamed at Dr. Wiley, as if the pediatrician were part of an encircling conspiracy. He grabbed a fistful of the man’s shirt and shook him violently.
   Cathryn leaped between the two men, throwing her arms around her husband. “Charles, stop!” she shouted, terrified of alienating the one person she knew they needed to help them. “It’s not Dr. Wiley’s fault. If anyone’s to blame, it’s us.”
   As if waking from a dream, Charles embarrassingly let go of Dr. Wiley’s shirt, leaving the surprised pediatrician’s bow tie at an acute angle. He bent down and righted the stool, then stood back up, covering his face with his hands.
   “Blame is not the issue,” said Dr. Wiley, fumbling nervously with his tie. “Caring for the child is the issue.”
   “Where is Michelle?” asked Charles. Cathryn did not let go of his arm.
   “She’s already been admitted to the hospital,” said Dr. Wiley. “She’s on Anderson 6, a floor with a wonderful group of nurses.”
   “I want to see her,” said Charles, his voice weak.
   “I’m sure you do,” said Dr. Wiley. “But I think we have to discuss her care first. Listen, Charles.” Dr. Wiley reached out a comforting hand, but thought better of it. Charles’s fury had unnerved him. Instead he put his hands in his pockets. “We have here at Pediatric one of the world’s authorities on childhood leukemia, Dr. Stephen Keitzman, and with Cathryn’s permission I’ve already contacted him. Michelle is a very sick little girl, and the sooner a pediatric oncologist is on the case the better. He agreed to meet with us as soon as you arrived. I think we should talk to him, then see Michelle.”
   At first Cathryn wasn’t sure about Dr. Stephen Keitzman. Outwardly he was the opposite of Dr. Wiley. He was a small, young-looking man with a large head and thick dark, curly hair. He wore rimless glasses on a skinny nose whose pores were boldly evident. His manner was abrupt, his gestures nervous, and he had a peculiar tic that he displayed during pauses in his speech. All at once he’d curl his upper lip in a sneer that momentarily bared his capped teeth and flared his nostrils. It lasted only an instant but it had a disquieting effect on people who were meeting him for the first time. But he was sure of himself and spoke with an authority that made Cathryn feel confidence in the man.
   Certain that she would forget what was being told to them, she pulled out a small notebook and ballpoint pen. It confused her that Charles didn’t seem to be listening. Instead he was staring out the window, seemingly watching the traffic inching along Longwood Avenue. The northeast wind had brought arctic air into Boston and the mixture of light rain and snow had turned to a heavy snow. Cathryn was relieved that Charles was there to take control because she felt incapable. Yet he was acting strangely: angry one minute, detached the next.
   “In other words,” summed up Dr. Keitzman, “the diagnosis of acute myeloblastic leukemia is established beyond any doubt.”
   Swinging his head around, Charles surveyed the room. He knew that he had a precarious hold on his emotions, and it made it difficult to concentrate on what Keitzman had to say. Angrily he felt he’d spent the whole morning watching people undermine his security, dislocate his life, destroy his family, rob him of his newly found happiness. Rationally he knew there was a big difference between Morrison and Ibanez on the one hand and Wiley and Keitzman on the other, but at the moment they all triggered the same unreasoning fury. Charles had great difficulty believing that Michelle had leukemia, particularly the worst possible type, the most deadly kind. He had already been through that kind of disaster; it was someone else’s turn.
   Listening half-heartedly, Charles examined Dr. Stephen Keitzman, who had assumed that typical condescending air of the physician in charge, doling out bits and pieces of information as if he were lecturing. Obviously Keitzman had experienced this scene many times before and his stock phrases like “I’m sorry to say” had an overused, insincere ring. Charles had the uncomfortable feeling that the man was enjoying himself, not in the same manner he’d enjoy a movie or a good meal, but in a more subtle, self-satisfied way: he was the center of attention in a crisis. This attitude abraded Charles’s already frayed emotions, especially since he was more than familiar with the general material Dr. Keitzman was covering. Charles forced himself to remain silent while his mind’s eye conjured up kaleidoscopic images of Michelle as she grew up.
   “In order to allay the inevitable sense of guilt,” continued Keitzman as he bared his upper teeth in one of his nervous grimaces, “I want to emphasize that the cause and date of onset of leukemia like Michelle’s is unknown. Parents should not try to blame specific events for initiating the disease. The goal will be to treat the condition and bring about a remission. I’m pleased to be able to report that we have very favorable results with acute myeloblastic leukemia; something we didn’t have ten years ago. Now we are able to engineer a remission in about eighty percent of cases.”

   “That’s wonderful,” said Charles, speaking for the first time. “But unlike the five-year cures you’ve been achieving with other forms of leukemia, can you tell us how long the remission lasts in Michelle’s form of the disease.” It was as if Charles had to goad Keitzman into revealing the worst news at once.
   Keitzman pushed back his glasses and cleared his throat. “Dr. Martel, I am aware you know more about your daughter’s disease than other parents I deal with. But since your field is not specifically childhood leukemia, I don’t have any idea what you know and what you don’t know. Therefore, I felt it best to have this discussion as if you knew nothing. And even if you are already familiar with these facts, perhaps they are helpful to Mrs. Martel.”
   “Why don’t you answer my question?” said Charles.
   “I think it is a more fruitful approach if we concentrate on obtaining a remission,” said Dr. Keitzman. His nervous tic became more frequent. “My experience has shown that with the advances in chemotherapy, leukemia should be approached on a day-to-day basis. We have seen some spectacular remissions.”
   “Except in Michelle’s type,” snarled Charles. “Come on, tell us what the probability is of a five-year survival with acute myeloblastic leukemia.”
   Dr. Keitzman looked away from Charles’s challenging eyes to Cathryn’s frightened face. She had paused in her notetaking, gaping at Dr. Keitzman. He knew the meeting was going badly. He glanced at Dr. Wiley for support, but Dr. Wiley had his head down, watching his thumbnail play against his other fingers. Trying to avoid Charles’s stare, Keitzman said in a low voice, “The five-year survival is not impressive in acute myeloblastic leukemia, but it’s not impossible.”
   “Now you’re getting closer to the truth,” said Charles, jumping to his feet and leaning over Dr. Keitzman’s desk. “But to be more exact, the median survival of acute myeloblastic leukemia if a remission is obtained is only one to two years. And, in Michelle’s case, with circulating leukemic cells, her chances of a remission are a lot less than eighty percent. Wouldn’t you agree, Dr. Keitzman?”
   Taking his glasses off, Dr. Keitzman tried to think of how best to word his response. “There’s some truth in what you say, but it is not a constructive way to view the disease. There are lots of variables.”
   Charles abruptly walked to the window, watching the dirty snow flutter past. “Why don’t you tell Mrs. Martel what the survival time of the nonresponder is… the patients who don’t have a remission.”
   “I’m not sure what good this…” began Dr. Keitzman.
   Charles whirled around. “What good? You dare to ask? I’ll tell you what good it is. The worst thing about disease is the uncertainty. Humans are capable of adapting to anything as long as they know. It’s the hopeless floundering that drives people crazy.”
   Charles stormed back to Dr. Keitzman’s desk as he spoke. Eyeing Cathryn’s pad, he grabbed it and threw it into the wastebasket. “We don’t need notes on this gathering! It’s not a goddamn lecture. Besides, I know all too well about leukemia.” Turning back to Dr. Keitzman, Charles’s face was flushed. “Come on, Keitzman, tell us about the survival time of nonresponders.”
   Keitzman moved back in his chair, his hands gripping the edge of the desk as if he were prepared for flight. “It’s not good,” he said finally.
   “That’s not good enough,” snapped Charles. “Be more specific.”
   “All right!” said Dr. Keitzman. “Weeks, months at the most.”
   Charles didn’t answer. Having successfully backed Dr. Keitzman into a corner, he was suddenly adrift. Slowly he sank back down into his chair.
   Keitzman’s face recovered from a series of sustained twitches as he exchanged sympathetic glances with Dr. Wiley. Turning to Cathryn, he resumed his recommendations. “Now, as I was saying. It is best to try to think of leukemia as a nonfatal disease and to take each day as it comes.”
   “That’s like telling a man on death row not to think about death,” mumbled Charles.
   “Dr. Martel,” said Dr. Keitzman sharply, “as a physician I would expect your response to the crisis to be significantly different.”
   “It’s easy to respond differently,” said Charles, “when it’s not a member of your own family. Unfortunately I’ve been through this before.”
   “I think we should discuss therapy,” offered Dr. Wiley, speaking for the first time.
   “I agree,” said Dr. Keitzman. “We must start treatment as soon as possible. In fact, I’d like to start today, immediately after all the baseline studies are done. But of course, we are going to need consent to treat because of the nature of the drugs.”
   “With the chance of a remission so slight, are you sure it’s worth subjecting Michelle to the side effects?” Charles was speaking more calmly now, but he had a terrible vision of Elizabeth during those last months, the violent nausea, the loss of hair… He closed his eyes.
   “Yes, I do,” said Dr. Keitzman firmly. “I think it is well established that we have made significant advances in treating childhood leukemia.”
   “That’s absolutely true,” confirmed Dr. Wiley.
   “There have been advances,” agreed Charles, “but unfortunately in types of leukemia other than Michelle’s.”
   Cathryn’s eyes darted from Charles, to Keitzman, to Wiley. She expected and wanted unanimity on which she could build her hope. Instead she could feel nothing but dissension and animosity.
   “Well,” said Dr. Keitzman, “I believe in aggressively treating all cases, whatever the chances are for remission. Every patient deserves a chance at life, whatever the cost. Every day, every month, is precious.”
   “Even if the patient would rather end her suffering,” said Charles, recalling Elizabeth’s last days. “When the chances of a remission—let alone a cure—are less than twenty percent, I don’t know if it’s worth subjecting a child to the additional pain.”
   Dr. Keitzman stood up abruptly, pushing back his chair. “We obviously view the value of life very differently. I believe chemotherapy to be a truly remarkable weapon against cancer. But you are entitled to your opinion. However, it seems evident that you would prefer to find another oncologist or handle your daughter’s therapy yourself. Good luck!”
   “No!” said Cathryn, leaping to her feet, terrified at the prospect of being abandoned by Dr. Keitzman, who Dr. Wiley had said was the best. “Dr. Keitzman, we need you. Michelle needs you.”
   “I don’t think your husband shares your view, Mrs. Martel,” said Dr. Keitzman.
   “He does,” said Cathryn. “He’s just distraught. Please, Dr. Keitzman.” Turning to Charles, Cathryn put a hand on his neck. “Charles, please! We can’t fight this alone. You said this morning you weren’t a pediatrician. We need Dr. Keitzman and Dr. Wiley.”
   “I think you should cooperate,” urged Dr. Wiley.
   Charles sagged under the weight of his brooding impotence. He knew he could not care for Michelle even if he were convinced the current approach for her particular disease to be wrong. He had nothing to offer and his mind was overloaded, an emotional jumble.
   “Charles, please?” Cathryn pleaded.
   “Michelle is a sick little girl,” said Dr. Wiley.
   “All right,” said Charles softly, once again forced to surrender.
   Cathryn looked at Dr. Keitzman. “There! He said all right.”
   “Dr. Martel,” asked Dr. Keitzman. “Do you want me to serve as the oncologist on this case?”
   With a sigh which suggested breathing to be a great effort, Charles reluctantly nodded his head.
   Dr. Keitzman sat down and rearranged some papers on his desk. “All right,” he said at length. “Our protocol for myeloblastic leukemia involves these drugs: Daunorubicin, Thioguanine, and Cytarabine. After our workup we’ll start immediately with 60 mg/m2 of Daunorubicin given IV by rapid infusion.”
   As Dr. Keitzman outlined the treatment schedule, Charles’s mind tortured him by recalling the potential side effects of the Daunorubicin. Michelle’s fever was probably caused by an infection due to her body’s depressed ability to fight bacteria. The Daunorubicin would make that worse. And besides making her essentially defenseless for a host of bacteria and fungi, the drug would also devastate her digestive system and possibly her heart… besides that… her hair… God!
   “I want to see Michelle,” he said suddenly, leaping to his feet, trying to stifle his thoughts. Immediately he became aware that he had interrupted Dr. Keitzman in mid-sentence. Everyone was staring at him as if he had done something outrageous.
   “Charles, I think you should listen,” said Dr. Wiley, reaching up and grasping Charles’s arm. It had been a reflexive gesture and only after he’d made contact did Dr. Wiley question its advisability. But Charles didn’t react. In fact his arm felt limp and after the slightest tug, he sat back down.
   “As I was saying,” continued Dr. Keitzman, “I believe it is important to tailor the psychological approach to the patient. I tend to work by age: under five; school age; and adolescents. Under five it’s simple; constant and loving supportive therapy. Problems start in the school-age group where the fear of separation from parents and the pain of hospital procedures are the major concerns of the child.”
   Charles squirmed in his seat. He didn’t want to try to think of the problem from Michelle’s point of view; it was too painful.
   Dr. Keitzman’s teeth flashed as his face momentarily contorted, then he continued, “With the school-age child, the patient is told no more than he specifically asks to know. The psychological support is focused on relieving the child’s anxieties about separation.”
   “I think Michelle is going to feel the separation aspect a lot,” said Cathryn, struggling to follow Dr. Keitzman’s explanation, wanting to cooperate to please the man.
   “With adolescents,” said Dr. Keitzman without acknowledging Cathryn, “treatment approaches that of an adult. Psychological support is geared to eliminate confusion and uncertainty without destroying denial if that is part of the patient’s defense mechanism. In Michelle’s situation, unfortunately, the problem falls between the school age and the adolescent. I’m not sure what is the best way to handle it. Perhaps you people as parents might have an opinion.”
   “Are you talking about whether Michelle should be told she has leukemia?” asked Cathryn.
   “That’s part of it,” agreed Dr. Keitzman.
   Cathryn looked at Charles, but he had his eyes closed again. Dr. Wiley returned her gaze with a sympathetic expression that made Cathryn feel a modicum of reassurance.
   “Well,” said Dr. Keitzman, “it is an issue that demands thought. No decision has to be made now. For the time being, Michelle can be told that we are trying to figure out what’s wrong with her. Before we go, does Michelle have any siblings?”
   “Yes,” said Cathryn. “Two brothers.”
   “Good,” said Dr. Keitzman. “They should be typed to see if they match Michelle’s HLA and ABO loci. We’re probably going to need platelets, granulocytes, and maybe even marrow, so I hope one of them matches.”
   Cathryn looked at Charles for support but his eyes were still closed. She had no idea what Dr. Keitzman was talking about but she assumed Charles did. But Charles seemed to be having more trouble than she was with the news.
   On the way up in the elevator, Charles fought to control himself. He’d never before experienced such painfully conflicting emotions. On the one hand he could not wait to see his daughter, to hold her and protect her; on the other he dreaded seeing her because he was going to have to come to terms with her diagnosis. And in that sense he knew too much. She would see it in his face.
   The elevator stopped. The doors opened. Ahead stretched a pale blue hall with pictures of animals affixed like decals directly on the paint. It was busy with pajama-clad children of a variety of ages, nurses, parents, even hospital maintenance men grouped about a stepladder fixing the lights.
   Dr. Wiley led them down the hall, skirting the ladder and passing the busy nurses’ station. The charge nurse, seeing Dr. Wiley from behind the chart racks, scurried out and caught up with them. Charles glanced down at the floor and watched his feet. It was as if he were looking at someone else. Cathryn was beside him with her arm thrust under his.
   Michelle had a single room, painted the same shade of pastel blue as the hallway. On the left wall beside the door to the lavatory was a large, dancing hippopotamus. At the end of the room was a shaded window. To the right was a closet, a bureau, a night table, and a standard hospital bed. At the head of the bed was a stainless steel pole supporting a small plastic bag as well as an IV bottle. The plastic tubing snaked down and entered Michelle’s arm. She turned from looking out the window when she heard the group enter.
   “Hello, peanuts,” said Dr. Wiley brightly. “Look who I brought to see you.”
   At the first glimpse of his daughter, Charles’s dread of seeing her vanished in a wave of affection and concern. He rushed up to her and scooped her head in his arms, pressing her face against his. She responded by throwing her free arm around his neck and squeezing.
   Cathryn stepped around the bed to the opposite side. She caught Charles’s eye and saw that he was struggling to hold back tears. After a few minutes, he reluctantly released his hold, lowering Michelle’s head to the pillow, and smoothing out her rich, dark hair to form a fan about her pale face. Michelle reached out for Cathryn’s hand and grasped it tightly.
   “How are you?” asked Charles. He was afraid that his precarious emotional state was apparent to Michelle.
   “I feel fine now,” said Michelle, obviously overjoyed to see her parents. But then her face clouded and turning to Charles, she asked: “Is it true, Daddy?”
   Charles’s heart leaped in his chest. She knows, he thought with alarm. He glanced at Dr. Keitzman and tried to remember what he had said about the proper psychological approach.
   “Is what true?” asked Dr. Wiley casually, coming to the foot of the bed.
   “Daddy?” pleaded Michelle. “Is it true I have to stay overnight?”
   Charles blinked, at first unwilling to believe that Michelle wasn’t asking him to confirm the diagnosis. Then when he was sure she didn’t know she had leukemia, he smiled with relief. “Just for a few nights,” he said.

   “But I don’t want to miss school,” said Michelle.
   “Don’t you worry about school,” said Charles with a nervous laugh. He eyed Cathryn for a moment who also laughed in the same hollow fashion. “It’s important that you stay here for some tests so that we can find out what’s causing your fever.”
   “I don’t want any more tests,” said Michelle, her eyes widening in fright. She’d had enough pain.
   Charles was struck by how tiny her body was in the hospital bed. Her narrow arms looked incredibly frail as they poked out of the sleeves of the hospital gown. Her neck, which had always seemed substantial, now looked about the size of his forearm; she had the appearance of a delicate and vulnerable bird. Charles knew that somewhere in the heart of her bone marrow was a group of her own cells waging war against her body. And there was nothing he could do to help her—absolutely nothing.
   “Dr. Wiley and Dr. Keitzman will only do the tests they absolutely need,” said Cathryn, stroking Michelle’s hair. “You’re going to have to be a big girl.”
   Cathryn’s comment awakened a sense of protectiveness in Charles. He recognized he couldn’t do anything for Michelle, but at least he could protect her from unnecessary trauma. He knew too well that patients with rare diseases were often subjected to all sorts of physical harassment at the whim of the attending physician. With his right hand, Charles twisted the soft plastic bottle so he could see the label. Platelets. With his hand still holding the bottle, he turned to Dr. Wiley.
   “We felt she needed platelets immediately,” said Dr. Wiley. “Hers were only about twenty thousand.”
   Charles nodded.
   “Well, I’ve got to be going,” said Dr. Keitzman. Grasping one of Michelle’s feet through the covers he said, “I’ll be seeing you later, Miss Martel. Also there will be a few other doctors coming in to talk to you sometime today. We’ll be giving you some medicine in that tube, so keep your arm nice and still.”
   Charles peered at the plastic tube: Daunorubicin! A fresh wave of fear washed over him, accompanied by a new urge to reach down and snatch his beloved daughter from the clutches of the hospital. An irrational thought passed through his mind: maybe the whole nightmare would disappear if he got Michelle away from all these people.
   “I’m available anytime at all if you’d like to speak to me,” said Dr. Keitzman as he moved to the door.
   Cathryn acknowledged the offer with a smile and a nod. She noticed that Charles didn’t look up from Michelle. Instead he sat on the edge of the bed and whispered something in her ear. Cathryn hoped his silence would not further antagonize the oncologist.
   “I’ll be right outside,” said Dr. Wiley, following Dr. Keitzman. The charge nurse who hadn’t spoken left, too.
   In the hall Dr. Keitzman slowed his steps, giving Dr. Wiley a chance to catch up. Together they walked toward the nurses’ station.
   “I think Charles Martel is going to make this a very difficult case,” said Dr. Keitzman.
   “I’m afraid you’re right,” agreed Dr. Wiley.
   “If it weren’t for that poor sick child, I’d tell Martel to stuff it,” said Dr. Keitzman. “Could you believe that bullshit about withholding chemotherapy? God! You’d think that someone in his position would know about the advances we’ve made with chemotherapy, especially in lymphocytic leukemia and Hodgkin’s.”
   “He knows,” said Dr. Wiley. “He’s just angry. It’s understandable, particularly when you know he’s been through all this when his wife died.”
   “I still resent his behavior. He is a physician.”
   “But he’s in pure research,” said Dr. Wiley. “He’s been away from clinical medicine for almost ten years. It’s a good argument for researchers to keep one foot in clinical medicine to keep their sense of perspective alive. After all, taking care of people is what it’s all about.”
   They reached the nurses’ station, and both men leaned on the counter surveying the busy scene about them with unseeing eyes.
   “Charles’s anger did scare me for a moment,” admitted Dr. Wiley. “I thought he’d totally lost control.”
   “He wasn’t much better in my office,” said Dr. Keitzman, shaking his head. “I’ve dealt with anger before, as I’m sure you have, but not like this. People get angry at fate, not the diagnosing physicians.”
   The two men watched an OR orderly skillfully navigate a gurney carrying a recent post-op down the corridor from the patient elevator. For a moment they didn’t talk. The gurney carrying the child from recovery disappeared into one of the rooms, and several nurses hurried after it.
   “Are you thinking about what I am?” asked Dr. Keitzman.
   “Probably. I’m wondering just how stable Dr. Charles Martel is.”
   “Then we’re thinking the same thing,” said Dr. Keitzman. “Those sudden mood shifts in my office.”
   Dr. Wiley nodded. “Even given the circumstances, his reaction seemed inappropriate. But he’s always been an odd duck. Lives someplace in the middle of nowhere in New Hampshire. He claimed it was his first wife’s idea but after she died, he didn’t move. And now he’s got this wife living up there, too. I don’t know. To each his own, I guess.”
   “His new wife seems fine.”
   “Oh, she’s a peach. Adopted the kids, treats them like her own. I was afraid when they got married that she’d bit off more than she could chew, but she’s adapted remarkably. She was devastated when I told her Michelle had leukemia, but I was pretty sure she’d deal with it better than Charles. In fact, that’s why I told her first.”
   “Maybe we should talk just to her for a moment,” suggested Dr. Keitzman. “What do you think?”
   “Let’s try.” Dr. Wiley turned to face the nurses’ station. “Miss Shannon! Could you come over here for a moment?”
   The charge nurse came over to the two doctors. Dr. Wiley explained that they wanted to speak to Mrs. Martel without her husband and asked her if she wouldn’t mind going down to Michelle’s room and trying to engineer it.
   As they watched Miss Shannon walk briskly down the hall, Dr. Keitzman’s facial muscles jumped. “It goes without saying that the child is desperately ill.”
   “I thought as much when I saw her peripheral blood smear,” said Dr. Wiley. “Then when I saw her bone marrow, I was sure.”
   “She could be a very rapidly terminating case, I’m afraid,” said Dr. Keitzman. “I think she already has central nervous system involvement. Which means we have to commence treatment today. I want Dr. Nakano and Dr. Sheetman to see her right away. Martel is right about one thing. Her chance of a remission is very slim.”
   “But you still have to try,” said Dr. Wiley. “At times like these I don’t envy you your specialty.”
   “Of course I’ll try,” said Dr. Keitzman. “Ah, here comes Mrs. Martel.”
   Cathryn had followed Miss Shannon out into the hall, half-expecting to see Marge Schonhauser because the nurse had said someone was asking to see her. She hadn’t been able to think of anyone else who knew that she was in the hospital. Once clear of the room, however, Miss Shannon confided that the doctors wanted to speak to her alone. It sounded ominous.
   “Thank you for coming out,” said Dr. Wiley.
   “It’s all right,” said Cathryn, her eyes darting from one man to the next. “What’s wrong?”
   “It’s about your husband,” began Dr. Keitzman cautiously. He paused, trying to choose his words carefully.
   “We’re concerned that he may interfere in Michelle’s treatment,” Dr. Wiley finished the thought. “It’s hard for him. First he knows too much about the disease himself. Then he already has watched someone he loved die despite chemotherapy.”
   “It’s not that we don’t understand his feelings. We just feel Michelle should have every chance at remission regardless of the side effects.”
   Cathryn examined the narrow, hawklike features of Dr. Keitzman and the broad, rounded face of Dr. Wiley. They were outwardly so different yet similar in their intensity. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”
   “We’d just like you to give us some idea of his emotional state,” said Dr. Keitzman. “We’d like to have some idea of what to expect.”
   “I think he will be fine,” assured Cathryn. “He had a lot of trouble adjusting when his first wife died, but he never interfered with her treatment.”
   “Does he often lose his temper as he did today?” asked Keitzman.
   “He’s had an awful shock,” said Cathryn. “I think it’s understandable. Besides, ever since his first wife died, cancer research has been his passion.”
   “It’s a terrible irony,” agreed Dr. Wiley.
   “But what about the kind of emotional outburst he demonstrated today?” asked Dr. Keitzman.
   “He does have a temper,” said Cathryn, “but he usually keeps it under control.”
   “Well, that’s encouraging,” said Dr. Keitzman. “Maybe it’s not going to be so difficult after all. Thank you, Mrs. Martel. You’ve been most helpful, especially since I know you, too, have had a terrible shock. I’m sorry if we’ve said anything disturbing but we’ll do our best for Michelle, I can assure you of that.” Turning to Dr. Wiley, he said, “I’ve got to get things rolling. I’ll speak to you later.” He moved quickly, almost at a run, and was out of sight in seconds.
   “He has some strange mannerisms,” said Dr. Wiley, “but you couldn’t get a better oncologist. He’s one of the top people in the world in childhood leukemia.”
   “I was afraid he was going to abandon us when Charles acted up,” said Cathryn.
   “He’s too good of a doctor for that,” said Dr. Wiley. “He’s only concerned about Charles because of your husband’s attitude to chemotherapy, and aggressive treatment has to be started right away to get her into a remission.”
   “I’m sure Charles won’t interrupt her treatment,” said Cathryn.
   “Let’s hope not,” said Dr. Wiley. “But we’re going to count on your strength, Cathryn.”
   “My strength?” questioned Cathryn, aghast. “Hospitals and medical problems aren’t my strong points.”
   “I’m afraid you’ll have to overcome that,” said Dr. Wiley. “Michelle’s clinical course could be very difficult.”
   At that moment she caught sight of Charles emerging from Michelle’s room. He spotted Cathryn and started toward the nurses’ station. Cathryn ran down to meet him. They stood for a moment in a silent embrace, drawing strength from each other. When they started back toward Dr. Wiley, Charles seemed more in control.
   “She’s a good kid,” he said. “Christ, all she’s worried about is staying overnight. Said she wanted to be home in the morning to make the orange juice. Can you believe that?”
   “She feels responsible,” said Cathryn. “Until I arrived she was the woman of the house. She’s afraid of losing you, Charles.”
   “It’s amazing what you don’t know about your own children,” said Charles. “I asked her if she minded if I went back to the lab. She said no, as long as you stayed here, Cathryn.”
   Cathryn was touched. “On the way to the hospital we had a little talk, and for the first time I felt she really accepted me.”
   “She’s lucky to have you,” said Charles. “And so am I. I hope you don’t mind my leaving you here. I hope you understand. I feel such a terrible powerlessness. I’ve got to do something.”
   “I understand,” said Cathryn. “I think you’re right. There isn’t anything you can do right now and it would be better if you can get your mind on something else. I’ll be happy to stay. In fact, I’ll call my mother. She’ll come over and take care of things.”
   Dr. Wiley watched the couple come toward him, pleased to see their open affection and mutual support. The fact that they were acknowledging and sharing their grief was healthy; it was a good sign and it encouraged him. He smiled, somewhat at a loss for what to say as they arrived. He had to get back to his office which he knew was in chaos, but he wanted to be there if they still needed him.
   “Do you have any extra of Michelle’s blood?” asked Charles. His voice was businesslike, matter-of-fact.
   “Probably,” said Dr. Wiley. It wasn’t a question he had expected. Charles had the uncanny ability to unnerve him.
   “Where would it be?” asked Charles.
   “In the clinical lab,” said Dr. Wiley.
   “Fine. Let’s go.” Charles started toward the elevator.
   “I’ll stay here with Michelle,” said Cathryn. “I’ll call if there is any news. Otherwise I’ll see you home for dinner.”
   “Okay.” He strode off purposefully.
   Confused, Dr. Wiley hurried after Charles, nodding a quick good-bye to Cathryn. His encouragement regarding Charles’s behavior was quickly undermined. Charles’s mood had apparently tumbled off on a new and curious tangent. His daughter’s blood? Well, he was a physician.

Six

   Clutching the flask of Michelle’s blood, Charles hurried through the foyer of the Weinburger Institute. He ignored greetings by the coy receptionist and the security guard and ran down the corridor to his lab.
   “Thanks for coming back,” taunted Ellen. “I could have used some help injecting the mice with the Canceran.”
   Charles ignored her, carrying the vial of Michelle’s blood over to the apparatus they used to separate the cellular components of blood. He began the complicated process of priming the unit.
   Bending down to peer at Charles beneath the glassware shelving, Ellen watched for a moment. “Hey,” she called. “I said I could have used some help…”
   Charles switched on a circulatory pump.
   Wiping her hands, Ellen came around the end of the workbench, curious to see the object of Charles’s obvious intense concentration. “I finished injecting the first batch of mice,” she repeated when she was close enough to be absolutely certain Charles could hear her.
   “Wonderful,” said Charles without interest. Carefully he introduced an aliquot of Michelle’s blood into the machine. Then he switched on the compressor.
   “What are you doing?” Ellen followed all his movements.
   “Michelle has myeloblastic leukemia,” said Charles. He spoke evenly, like he was giving the weather report.
   “Oh, no!” gasped Ellen. “Charles, I’m so sorry.” She wanted to reach out and comfort him but she restrained herself.
   “Amazing, isn’t it?” laughed Charles. “If the day’s disasters had remained localized to the problems here at the Weinburger, I’d probably just cry. But with Michelle’s illness, everything is a bit overwhelming. Christ!”
   Charles’s laughter had a hollow ring to it but it struck Ellen as somewhat inappropriate.
   “Are you all right?” asked Ellen.
   “Wonderful,” said Charles as he opened their small refrigerator for clinical reagents.
   “How does Michelle feel?”
   “Pretty good right now but she has no idea of what she’s in for. I’m afraid it’s going to be bad.”
   Ellen found herself at a loss for words. She blankly watched Charles as he went about completing his test. Finally she found her tongue. “Charles, what are you doing?”
   “I have some of Michelle’s blood. I’m going to see if our method of isolating a cancer antigen works on her leukemic cells. It gives me the mistaken impression I’m doing something to help her.”
   “Oh, Charles,” said Ellen sympathetically. There was something pitiful about the way he acknowledged his vulnerability. Ellen knew how much of an activist he was and Charles had told her the feeling of powerlessness was what had been the hardest for him when Elizabeth was ill. He had been forced to just sit and watch her die. And now Michelle!
   “I’ve decided we aren’t going to stop our own work,” said Charles. “We’ll continue while we work on Canceran. Work nights if we have to.”
   “But Morrison is very insistent about exclusively concentrating on Canceran,” said Ellen. “In fact, he came by while you were out to emphasize that.” For a moment Ellen debated about telling Charles the real reason Morrison stopped by, but with everything else that had happened, she was afraid to.
   “I couldn’t care less what Morrison says. With Michelle’s illness, cancer has, once again, become more than a metaphysical concept for me. Our work has so much more promise than developing another chemotherapeutic agent. Besides, Morrison doesn’t even have to know what we’re doing. We’ll do the Canceran work and he’ll be happy.”
   “I’m not sure you realize how much the administration is counting on Canceran,” said Ellen. “I really don’t think it’s advisable to go against them on this, particularly when the reason is personal.”
   For a moment Charles froze, then he exploded. He slammed his open palm against the slate countertop with such force that several beakers tumbled off the overhead shelves. “That’s enough,” he yelled to punctuate his blow. “I’ve had enough of people telling me what to do. If you don’t want to work with me, then just get the fuck out of here!”
   Abruptly Charles turned back to his work, running a nervous hand through his disheveled hair. For a few moments he worked in silence, then without turning he said, “Don’t just stand there; get me the radioactive labeled nucleotides.”
   Ellen walked over to the radioactive storage area. As she opened the lock, she noticed that her hands were trembling. Obviously Charles was just barely in control of himself. She wondered what she was going to say to Dr. Morrison. She was certain she wanted to say something, because as her fear abated her anger grew. There was no excuse for Charles to treat her as he did. She wasn’t a servant.
   She brought the chemicals over and arrayed them on the counter.
   “Thank you,” he said simply, as if nothing had happened. “As soon as we have some B-lymphocytes I want to incubate them with the tagged nucleotides and some of the leukemic cells.”
   Ellen nodded. She couldn’t keep pace with such rapid emotional changes.
   “While I was driving over here, I had an inspiration,” continued Charles. “The biggest hurdle in our work has been this blocking factor and our inability to elicit an antibody response to the cancer antigen in the cancerous animal. Well, I have an idea; I was trying to think of ways of saving time. Why not inject the cancer antigen into a related, noncancerous animal where we can be absolutely certain of an antibody response? What do you think about that?”
   Ellen scrutinized Charles’s face. Within seconds he’d metamorphosed from an infuriated child to the dedicated researcher. Ellen guessed that it was his way of dealing with the tragedy of Michelle.
   Without waiting for an answer, Charles went on: “As soon as the noncancerous animal is immune to the cancer antigen, we’ll isolate the responsible T-lymphocytes, purify the transfer factor protein, and transfer sensitivity to the cancerous animal. It’s so fundamentally simple, I can’t believe we didn’t think of it before. Well… what’s your impression?”
   Ellen shrugged. In truth she was fearful of saying anything. Although the basic premise sounded promising, Ellen knew that the mysterious transfer factor did not work well in the animal systems they were using; in fact, it worked best with humans. But technical questions were not foremost in her mind. She wondered if it would be too obvious if she excused herself and went directly up to Dr. Morrison’s office.
   “How about getting the polyethylene glycol?” said Charles. “We’re going to want to set up the equipment to produce a hybridoma with Michelle’s T-lymphocytes. Also call the animal room and tell them we want a fresh batch of control mice, which we’ll inject with the mammary tumor antigen. God, I wish there were more than twenty-four hours in a day.”

   “Pass the mashed potatoes,” said Jean Paul after debating with himself for several minutes whether to break the silence that had descended over the dinner table. No one had spoken since he announced that the duck he’d put in the garage was “deader than a doorknob, stiff as a board.” Ultimately his hunger had decided the issue.
   “I’ll trade you for the pork chops,” said Chuck, tossing his head to remove some stringy hair from his eyes.
   The boys exchanged platters. There was the clink of silver against china.
   Gina Lorenzo, Cathryn’s mother, eyed her daughter’s family. Cathryn resembled her. They each had the same bony prominence on the bridge of the nose and the same large, expressive mouth. The major difference, other than the obvious twenty-plus years, was that Gina was so much heavier. She admitted she was twenty pounds overweight but in actuality it was more like sixty. Pasta was Gina’s passion and she was not one to deny herself.
   Lifting the bowl of fettucini, Gina gestured as if she were about to add to Cathryn’s untouched plate. “You need some nourishment.”
   Forcing a smile, Cathryn shook her head no.
   “What’s the matter? You don’t like it?” asked Gina.
   “It’s wonderful,” said Cathryn. “I’m just not very hungry.”
   “You gotta eat,” said Gina. “You, too, Charles.”
   Charles nodded.
   “I brought fresh cannolis for dessert,” said Gina.
   “Oh, boy!” said Jean Paul.
   Dutifully Charles took a bite of the fettucini but his stomach rebelled. He let the pasta sit in his mouth before trying to swallow it. The reality of the day’s disasters had hit him with hurricane force once he’d left the frenzied environment he’d created in the lab. Work had been an emotional anesthetic and he had been sorry when it was time to pick up Chuck and drive home. And Chuck hadn’t helped. Charles had waited until they were out of the Boston rush hour traffic before telling his son that his sister had a very serious kind of leukemia. Chuck’s response had been a simple “Oh!” followed by silence. Then he had asked if there was any chance he might catch it.
   At the time Charles did not say anything; he just gripped the steering wheel harder, marveling at the unabashed depths of his oldest son’s selfishness. Not once did Chuck ask how Michelle was doing. And now as Charles watched Chuck gobble his pork chops, he felt like reaching over and throwing the selfish kid out of the house.
   But Charles didn’t move. Instead he began mechanically to chew his fettucini, embarrassed at his own thoughts. Chuck was immature. At least Jean Paul reacted appropriately. He’d cried and then asked when Michelle would be home and if he could go and see her. He was a good kid.
   Charles looked at Cathryn, who kept her head down, pushing her food around her plate, pretending for her mother’s sake to be eating. He was thankful that he had her. He didn’t think he could handle Michelle’s illness by himself. At the same time he realized how difficult it was for Cathryn. For that reason he had not said anything about the troubles at the institute, nor did he plan to. She had enough to worry about.
   “Have some more pork chops, Charles,” said Gina, reaching over and unceremoniously plopping a chop on his full plate.
   He had tried to say no but the chop had already entered its ballistic arc. He looked away, trying to stay calm. Charles found Gina trying even under the best of circumstances, especially since the woman had never concealed her disapproval of her only daughter marrying a man thirteen years her senior with three kids. Charles heard another telltale plop and opened his eyes to see his mound of fettucini had grown.
   “There,” said Gina. “You need some more meat on your bones.”
   Charles restrained himself from grabbing a handful of fettucini and throwing it back into the bowl.
   “How do they know Michelle has leukemia?” asked Jean Paul guilelessly.
   Everyone turned to Charles, having been afraid to ask the question.
   “They looked at her blood, then examined her bone marrow.”
   “Bone marrow?” questioned Chuck with disgust. “How do they get bone marrow to look at?”
   Charles eyed his son, amazed at how easily Chuck could irritate him. To anyone else, Chuck’s question might seem innocent, but Charles was sure the boy was motivated by morbid interest and not concern for his sister. “They get bone marrow by ramming a largebore needle into the breast bone or the hipbone, then sucking the marrow out,” said Charles, hoping to shock Chuck into sympathy for Michelle.
   “Ugh,” said Chuck. “Does it hurt?”
   “Terribly,” said Charles.
   Cathryn stiffened with a flash of imaginary pain, remembering that she’d been the one to consent to the test.
   “God!” said Chuck. “Nobody is ever going to do a bone marrow on me!”
   “I’m not so sure,” said Charles without thinking. “Michelle’s doctor wants both of you boys to go in to be tissue-typed. There’s a chance one of you may match Michelle and can be a donor for platelets, granulocytes, or even a marrow transplant.”
   “Not me!” said Chuck, putting down his fork. “Nobody is going to stick no needle into my bones. No way!”
   Slowly Charles placed his elbows on the table and leaned toward Chuck. “I’m not asking if you’re interested, Charles Jr. I’m telling you that you’re going into Pediatric Hospital to be tissue-typed. Do you understand me?”
   “This is hardly a discussion for the dinner table,” interrupted Cathryn.
   “Will they really stick a needle into my bone?” asked Jean Paul.
   “Charles, please!” shouted Cathryn. “This is no way to talk to Chuck about this kind of thing!”
   “No? Well, I’m sick and tired of his selfishness,” cried Charles. “He hasn’t voiced one word of concern for Michelle.”
   “Why me?” yelled Chuck. “Why do I have to be a donor? You’re the father. Why can’t you be the donor, or are big-shit doctors not allowed to donate marrow?”
   Charles leaped to his feet in blind fury, pointing a quivering finger at Chuck. “Your selfishness is only rivaled by your ignorance. You’re supposed to have had biology. The father only donates half of the chromosomes to a child. There is no way I could match Michelle. If I could I’d change places with her.”
   “Sure! Sure!” taunted Chuck. “Talk’s cheap.”
   Charles started around the table, but Cathryn leaped up and caught him. “Charles, please,” she said bursting into tears. “Calm down!”
   Chuck was frozen in his chair, gripping the sides with white knuckles. He knew that only Cathryn stood between him and disaster.
   “In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Ghost,” said Gina, crossing herself. “Charles! Beg the Lord for forgiveness. Don’t abet the devil’s work.”
   “Oh, Christ!” shouted Charles. “Now we get a sermon!”
   “Don’t tempt the Lord,” said Gina with conviction.
   “To hell with God,” shouted Charles, breaking free of Cathryn’s grip. “What kind of God gives a defenseless twelve-year-old leukemia?”
   “You cannot question the Lord’s way,” said Gina solemnly.
   “Mother!” cried Cathryn. “That’s enough!”

   Charles’s face flushed crimson. His mouth voiced some inaudible words before he abruptly spun on his heels, wrenched open the back door, and stormed out into the night. The door slammed with a jolting finality that shook the bric-a-brac in the living room.
   Cathryn quickly pulled herself together for the children’s sake, busying herself with clearing the table and keeping her face averted.
   “Such blasphemy!” said Gina with disbelief. Her hand was pressed against her bosom. “I’m afraid Charles has opened himself to the devil.”
   “How about a cannoli?” asked Jean Paul, carrying his plate to the sink.
   With his father gone, Chuck felt a sense of exhilaration. He knew now that he could stand up against his father and win. Watching Cathryn clear the table, he tried to catch her eye. She had to have noticed how he stood his ground, and Chuck certainly noticed how Cathryn had backed him up. Pushing back his chair, he carried his plate to the sink and dutifully ran water over it.

   Charles fled from the house with no goal other than to escape the infuriating atmosphere. Crunching through the crusted snow, he ran down toward the pond. The New England weather, true to form, had completely changed. The northeastern storm had blown out to sea and was replaced by an arctic front that froze everything in its tracks. Despite the fact he had been running, he could feel a raw chill, especially since he’d not taken the time to get his coat. Without a conscious decision, he veered left toward Michelle’s playhouse, noting that the change in the wind had effectively eliminated the smell from the chemical factory. Thank God!
   After stamping his feet on the porch to remove any snow. Charles bent over and entered the miniature house. The interior was only ten feet long and a central archway divided it roughly in two: one-half was the living room with a built-in banquette; the other the kitchen, with a small table and sink. The playhouse had running water (in the summer) and one electrical outlet. From about age six to nine Michelle had made tea here for Charles on Sunday summer afternoons. The small hotplate she used was still working and Charles switched it on for a little heat.
   Sitting down on the banquette, he stretched his legs out and crossed them, conserving as much body heat as possible. Still he soon began to shiver. The doll’s house was only a refuge from the icy wind, not from the cold.
   As the solitude had the desired effect, Charles quickly calmed down, admitting that he had handled Chuck badly. Charles knew he had yet to come to terms with the disastrous day. He marveled how he had allowed himself to be lulled into a false sense of security over the last few years. He thought back to the morning… making love with Cathryn. In just twelve hours all the threads of his carefully organized world had unraveled.
   Leaning forward so he could look up through the front window, Charles gazed at the canopy of sky. It had become a clear, star-studded night, and he could see forever, out into distant galaxies. The sight was beautiful but lifeless and all at once Charles felt an overwhelming sense of futility and loneliness. His eyes filled with tears, and he leaned back so that he couldn’t see the terrible beauty of the winter sky. Instead he looked out over the snow-covered landscape of the frozen pond. Immediately in front of him was the area of open water Jean Paul had asked about that morning.
   Charles marveled at the depths of his loneliness, as if Michelle had already been taken from him. He didn’t understand these feelings although he guessed it might have something to do with guilt; if he had only been more attentive to Michelle’s symptoms; if he had only paid more attention to his family; if he had only carried out his research faster.
   He wished he could put everything aside and just work on his own project. Maybe he could find a cure in time for Michelle. But Charles knew that was an impossible goal. Besides, he could not oppose Dr. Ibanez so openly. He could not afford to lose his job or the use of his lab. Suddenly Charles understood the directors’ cleverness in putting him on the Canceran project. Charles was disliked because of his unorthodoxy, but he was respected because of his scientific ability. Charles was a foil who lent the desired legitimacy that the project needed and a perfect scapegoat if the project failed. It was a decision of administrative genius.
   In the distance Charles heard Cathryn’s voice calling his name. In the frigid air the sound was almost metallic. Charles didn’t move. One second he felt like crying, the next so weak that physical activity of any sort was impossible. What was he going to do about Michelle? If the chance of a remission faded, could he stand to watch her suffer with the treatment?
   He moved over to the window and scraped off the frost his breath had created. Through the clear areas he could see the silver-blue snowscape and the patch of water directly in front of him. Guessing that the temperature was close to zero, Charles began to wonder about that open water. His original explanation to Jean Paul that morning had been that the current prevented it from icing over. But that was when the temperature hovered about the freezing mark. Now it was some thirty degrees below that. Charles wondered whether there was much current at that time of year. In the spring when the snows melted in the mountain to the north, the river raged and the pond rose by a foot-and-a-half. Then there would be current, not now.
   Suddenly Charles was aware of a sweet aromatic smell. It had been there all the time but had not penetrated his consciousness until that moment. It was vaguely familiar, but out of context. He’d smelled it before, but where?
   Eager for a distraction, Charles began to sniff around. The odor was about equal in intensity in the two rooms and strongest near the floor. Sniffing repeatedly, Charles tried to place the smell in his past. Suddenly it came to him: organic chemistry lab in college! He was smelling an organic solvent like benzene, toluene, or xylene. But what was it doing in the playhouse?
   Braving the cold wind, Charles went out into the knife-sharp night. With his right hand he clutched his sweater tightly around his neck. Outside the aromatic odor was diminished because of the wind, but by bending down at the side of the playhouse, Charles determined the smell was coming from the partially frozen mud around and under the structure. Making his way down to the pond’s edge, Charles scooped up some of the icy water and brought it to his nose. There was no mistaking it: the smell was coming from the pond.
   He followed the gradual curve of the pond, walking along the edge of the open water to the point where it merged with the inlet from the river. Bending down again, he brought some water to his nose. The odor was stronger. Breaking into a jog, Charles followed the inlet to the juncture with the Pawtomack River. It, too, was unfrozen. Again, Charles brought a sample to his nose. The odor was even more intense. The smell was coming from the river. Standing up, shaking from the cold, Charles stared upstream. Recycle, Ltd., the plastic/rubber recycling plant was up there. Charles knew from his chemistry background that benzene was used as a solvent for both plastics and rubber.
   Benzene!
   A powerful thought gripped his mind: Benzene causes leukemia; in fact it causes myeloblastic leukemia! Turning his head, Charles’s eyes followed the trail of the unfrozen, open water. It led directly to the playhouse: the one spot Michelle had spent more time than any other.
   Like a crazed man, Charles sprinted for the house. The uneven snow tripped him and he fell headlong, landing on his chest with his palms outstretched. He was unhurt save for a cut on his chin. Picking himself up, he ran more slowly.
   When he reached the house, he thundered up the back steps and banged open the door.
   Cathryn, already taut as a tightened bowstring, involuntarily shrieked as Charles hurled himself breathlessly into the kitchen. The dish she was holding slipped from her hands and shattered on the floor.
   “I want a container,” gasped Charles, ignoring Cathryn’s reaction.
   Gina appeared at the door to the dining room, her face reflecting terror. Chuck materialized behind her, then pushed past to gain access to the kitchen. He stepped between Charles and Cathryn. He didn’t care if his father was bigger than he was.
   Charles’s breathing was labored. After a few seconds, he was able to repeat his request.
   “A container?” asked Cathryn who’d regained some of her composure. “What kind of a container?”
   “Glass,” said Charles. “Glass with a tight top.”
   “What for?” asked Cathryn. It seemed like an absurd request.
   “For pond water,” said Charles.
   Jean Paul appeared beside Gina who stuck out her arm to keep him from entering the kitchen.
   “Why do you want pond water?” asked Cathryn.
   “Christ!” managed Charles. “Is this an interrogation?” He started for the refrigerator.
   Chuck tried to step in his way, but Charles merely swept the boy out of his path. Chuck stumbled, and Cathryn grabbed his arm, keeping him from falling.
   Charles turned at the commotion and saw Cathryn restraining his son. “What the hell is going on here?” he demanded.
   Chuck struggled for an instant, glaring at his father.
   Charles looked from one face to another. Gina and Jean Paul looked shocked; Chuck, furious; and Cathryn, frightened. But no one spoke. It was as if the scene was a freeze frame in a motion picture. Charles shook his head in disbelief and turned his attention to the refrigerator.
   He pulled out a jar of apple juice and closed the door. Without a moment’s hesitation he dumped the remaining contents down the sink, rinsed the jar thoroughly, and yanked his sheepskin coat off its hook. At the door he turned to glance at his family. No one had moved. Charles had no idea what was happening but since he knew what he wanted to do, he left, closing the door on the strange scene.
   Releasing her hold on Chuck, Cathryn stared blankly at the door, her mind going over the disturbing discussion she’d had with Dr. Keitzman and Dr. Wiley. She’d thought their questions about Charles’s emotions had been ridiculous, but now she wasn’t so sure. Certainly, flying out of the house in anger in the dead of winter without a coat, only to return a half hour later in great excitement, looking for a container for pond water, was curious at best.
   “I’d never let him hurt you,” said Chuck. He pushed back his hair with a nervous hand.
   “Hurt me?” said Cathryn, taken by surprise. “Your father’s not going to hurt me!”
   “I’m afraid he’s let in the devil,” said Gina. “Once he’s done that, you can’t tell what he’s going to do.”
   “Mother, please!” cried Cathryn.
   “Is Charles going to have a nervous breakdown?” teased Jean Paul from the doorway.
   “He’s already had one,” answered Chuck.
   “That’s enough of that,” said Cathryn sternly. “I don’t want to hear any disrespect for your father. Michelle’s illness has upset him terribly.”
   Cathryn directed her attention to the broken dish. Was Charles having a nervous breakdown? Cathryn decided she’d discuss the possibility with Dr. Wiley in the morning. It was a terrifying thought.

   Gingerly crossing the partially frozen mud, Charles approached the water’s edge, then filled the jar. He screwed the cap on tightly before running back to the house.
   Although the suddenness of his arrival surprised Cathryn, it had nowhere near the effect of his previous entrance. By the time Charles got to the refrigerator, Cathryn could react, and she reached out and grasped his arm.
   “Charles, tell me what you are doing.”
   “There’s benzene in the pond,” hissed Charles, shaking off her grasp. He put the jar of pond water in the refrigerator. “And you can smell it in the playhouse.”
   Charles whirled back to the door. Cathryn ran after him, managing to get hold of his coat. “Charles, where are you going? What’s the matter with you?”
   With unnecessary force, Charles wrenched his coat free. “I’m going to Recycle, Ltd. That’s where the goddamn benzene is coming from. I’m sure of it.”

Seven

   Charles pulled the red Pinto off Main Street and stopped in front of the gate in the hurricane fence surrounding Recycle, Ltd. The gate was unlocked and opened easily. He stepped back into his car and drove into the factory’s parking area.
   The evening shift couldn’t have been too large because there were only a half dozen or so beat-up cars near the entrance to the old brick mill building. To the left of the factory, the huge piles of discarded tires rose up like miniature snowcapped mountains. Between the used tires and the building were smaller heaps of plastic and vinyl debris. To the right of the factory was a rubbish-strewn, empty lot bisected by the hurricane fence that ran down to the Pawtomack River. Beyond the fence the deserted mill buildings stretched for a quarter of a mile to the north.
   As soon as Charles got out of his car, he was enveloped by the same stench that had assaulted his house that morning. It amazed him that people could live to the immediate west of town, the direction of the prevailing winds. Locking the car, he started toward the entrance, an unimposing aluminum storm door. Above it,


RECYCLE, LTD.
UNAUTHORIZED ENTRY FORBIDDEN

   was written in block letters. Taped to the inside of the glass was a cardboard sign which said: INQUIRIES, followed by a local telephone number.
   Charles tried the door, which was unlocked. If he had thought the odor bad outside, inside it was far worse. He found himself choking on the heavy, chemical-laden air in a small office of sorts. It was a plywood-veneer paneled room with a beat-up Formica counter that held a wire letter basket and a stainless steel bell, the kind you hit with the palm of your hand. Charles did just that, but the noise was swallowed up by the hisses and rumbles coming from within the factory proper.
   Charles decided to try the inner door. At first it wouldn’t open but when he pulled more forcibly it swung inward. As soon as it opened, Charles saw why it was insulated. It was as if it were a portal into hell itself. The combination of stench and noise was overpowering.
   Charles entered a huge two-story-high room, poorly lit and dominated by a row of gigantic pressure-cooker-type apparatus. Metal ladders and catwalks ascended and crisscrossed in bewildering confusion. Large, clanking conveyor belts brought in piles of plastic and vinyl debris mixed with all sorts of disagreeable trash. The first people Charles saw were a pair of sweating men in sleeveless undershirts, with black-smudged faces like coal miners, sorting out the glass, wooden objects, and empty cans from the plastic.
   “Is there a manager here?” yelled Charles, trying to be heard over the din.
   One of the men looked up for an instant, indicated that he couldn’t hear, then went back to his sorting. Apparently the conveyor belt didn’t stop and they had to keep up with it. At the end of the belt was a large hopper which, when full, would rise up, position itself over an available pressure cooker, and dump its contents of plastic scrap. Charles saw a man with a large, scimitarlike knife up on the catwalk slit open two bags of chemicals, one white, the other black. With what appeared like great effort he dumped the two bags into the ovens in a great cloud of dust. For a moment the man disappeared from view. When he reappeared, he had closed the hatch and activated the steam, sending a fresh mixture of smoke, odor, and noise into the room.
   Although Charles couldn’t get anyone’s attention, no one asked him to leave, either. Boldly he skirted the conveyor belts, keeping his eyes on the floor which was strewn with trash and puddles of oil and grease. He passed a cinder-block wall housing the automated machinery bringing in the tires to be melted down. It was from this area that the smell that Charles associated with the factory originated. Up close it was far more powerful.
   Just beyond the wall, Charles found a large wire cage secured with a stout padlock. It was obviously a storeroom because Charles could see shelving with spare parts, tools, and containers of industrial chemicals. The walls were made of the same material that formed the hurricane fence outside. Charles put his fingers through the mesh to support himself while he scanned the labels on the containers. He found what he was looking for directly in front of him. There were two steel drums with benzene stenciled on the sides. There were also the familiar skull and crossbone decals warning that the contents were poisonous. As he looked at the drums, Charles was shaken by a new wave of rage.
   A hand gripped Charles’s shoulder and he spun about, flattening himself against the wire mesh.
   “What can I do for you?” yelled a huge man trying to be heard over the thunderous din of the machinery. But the instant he spoke, a whistle blew above one of the plastic pressure cookers as it completed its cycle, making further conversation impossible. It burst open and belched forth an enormous amount of black, viscous, depolymerized plastic. The hot liquid was poured into cooling vats sending up billows of acrid vapors.
   Charles looked at the man in front of him. He was a full head taller than Charles. His perspiring face was so pudgy that his eyes were mere slits. He was dressed like the other men Charles had seen. His sleeveless undershirt was stretched over a beer belly of awesome dimensions. The man was supporting a dolly, and Charles noticed his massive forearms were professionally tattooed with hula dancers. On the back of his left hand was a swastika that he had apparently done himself.
   As soon as the noise level sank to its usual deafening pitch, the worker tried again. “You checking our chemicals?” He had to shout.
   Charles nodded.
   “I think we need more carbon black,” yelled the man.
   Charles realized that the man thought he belonged there.
   “What about the benzene?” yelled Charles.
   “We got plenty of benzene. That comes in the hundred-gallon drums.”
   “What do you do with it after you use it?”
   “You mean the ‘spent’ benzene? C’mere, I’ll show you.”
   The man leaned his dolly against the wire cage and led Charles across the main room, between two of the rubber ovens where the radiant heat was intense. They ducked under an overhang and entered a hallway that led to a lunch room where the noise was somewhat less. There were two picnic tables, a soda dispenser, and a cigarette machine. Between the soda dispenser and the cigarette machine was a window. The man brought Charles over to it and pointed outside. “See those tanks out there?”
   Charles cupped his hands around his eyes and peered out. About fifty feet away and quite close to the riverbank were two cylindrical tanks. Even with the bright moon, he couldn’t see any details.
   “Does any of the benzene go in the river?” asked Charles, turning back to the worker.
   “Most of it is trucked away to God-knows-where. But you know those disposal companies. When the tanks get too full, we drain them into the river; it’s no problem. We do it at night and it washes right away. Goes out to the ocean. To tell you the truth…” The man leaned over as if he were telling a secret: “I think that fucking disposal company dumps it into the river, too. And they charge a goddamn fortune.”
   Charles felt his jaw tighten. He could see Michelle in the hospital bed with the IV running into her arm.
   “Where’s the manager?” asked Charles, suddenly displaying his anger.
   “Manager?” questioned the worker. He regarded Charles curiously.
   “Foreman, supervisor. Whoever’s in charge,” snapped Charles.
   “You mean the super,” said the worker. “Nat Archer. He’s in his office.”
   “Show me where it is,” ordered Charles.
   The worker regarded Charles quizzically, then turned and retraced their route to the main room where he indicated a windowed door at the end of a metal catwalk one flight up. “Up there,” he said simply.
   Ignoring the worker, Charles ran for the metal stairs. The worker watched him for a moment, then turned and picked up an in-house telephone.
   Outside of the office, Charles hesitated for a moment, then tried the door. It opened easily and he entered. The office was like a soundproofed crow’s nest with windows that looked out on the whole operation. As Charles came through the door, Nat Archer twisted in his chair, then stood up smiling in obvious puzzlement.
   Charles was about to shout at the man when he realized he knew him. He was the father of Steve Archer, a close friend of Jean Paul’s. The Archers were one of Shaftesbury’s few black families.
   “Charles Martel!” said Nat, extending his hand. “You’re about the last person I expected to come through that door.” Nat was a friendly, outgoing man who moved in a slow, controlled fashion, like a restrained athlete.
   Taken off balance in finding someone he knew, Charles stammered that he wasn’t making a social call.
   “Okay,” said Nat, eyeing Charles more closely. “Why don’t you sit down?”
   “I’ll stand,” said Charles. “I want to know who owns Recycle, Ltd.”
   Nat hesitated. When he finally spoke he sounded wary. “Breur Chemicals of New Jersey is the parent company. Why do you ask?”
   “Who’s the manager here?”