The two boys looked at the small pool of blood, then at their food, trying to decide what effect the episode had on their appetites. Cathryn came running back, pulled a tray of ice cubes from the freezer, then rushed back to the living room.
“Ugh,” said Chuck. “You couldn’t get me to be a doctor if you paid me a million dollars. I can’t stand blood.”
“Michelle always manages to be the center of attention,” said Jean Paul.
“You can say that again.”
“Michelle always manages to . . .” repeated Jean Paul. It was easy and fun to ride Chuck.
“Shut up, stupid.” Chuck got up and threw the remains of his Grape-Nuts down the disposal. Then, skirting the blood on the floor, he headed up to his room.
After four mouthfuls, Jean Paul finished his cereal and put his dish in the sink. With a paper towel, he wiped up Michelle’s blood.
“Good gravy,” said Charles as he went outside through the kitchen door. The storm had brought a northeast wind, and with it the stench of burnt rubber from the recycling plant. “What a stink.”
“What a shit hole of a place to live,” said Chuck.
Charles’s frayed emotions bristled at the impudence, but he refrained from saying anything. It had already been a bad enough morning. Setting his jaw, he tucked his chin into his sheepskin jacket to keep out the blowing snow and trudged toward the barn.
“As soon as I can, I’m going to head for California,” said Chuck, following in Charles’s footsteps. There was about an inch of new snow.
“Dressed the way you are, you’ll fit in perfectly,” said Charles.
Jean Paul, bringing up the rear, laughed, his breath coming in concentrated puffs of vapor. Chuck spun and shoved Jean Paul off the shoveled pathway, into the deeper snow. There were some angry words but Charles ignored them. It was too cold to pause. The little gusts of wind felt abrasive and the smell was awful. It hadn’t always been that way. The rubber plant had opened in ’71, a year after he and Elizabeth had bought the house. The move had really been Elizabeth’s idea. She wanted her children to grow up in clear, crisp air of the country. What an irony, thought Charles, as he unlocked the barn. But it wasn’t too bad. They could only smell the plant when the wind came from the northeast and, thankfully, that wasn’t very often.
“Damn,” said Jean Paul, staring down at the pond. “With this new snow, I’m going to have to shovel my hockey rink all over again. Hey, Dad, how come the water never freezes around Michelle’s playhouse?”
Leaving the piece of pipe against the door to keep it open, Charles looked out over the pond. “I don’t know. I never thought about it. Must be something to do with the current because the area of open water connects with the inlet from the river, and the inlet isn’t frozen either.”
“Ugh,” said Chuck, pointing beyond the playhouse. There on the apron of frozen mud surrounding the pond was a dead mallard. “Another dead duck. I guess they can’t stand the smell, either.”
“That’s strange,” said Charles. “We haven’t seen ducks for several years. When we first moved here I used to hunt them from Michelle’s playhouse. Then they disappeared.”
“There’s another one,” cried Jean Paul. “But he’s not dead. It’s flopping around.”
“Looks drunk,” said Chuck.
“Come on, let’s go help it.”
“We haven’t much time,” cautioned Charles.
“Oh, come on.” Jean Paul took off over the crusted snow.
Neither Charles nor Chuck shared Jean Paul’s enthusiasm, but they followed just the same. When they reached him, he was bending over the poor creature who was in the throes of a seizure.
“God, it’s got epilepsy!” said Chuck.
“What’s wrong with him, Dad?” asked Jean Paul.
“I haven’t the faintest idea. Avian medicine is not one of my strongest subjects.”
Jean Paul bent down to try to restrain the bird’s pitiful spasms and jerks.
“I’m not sure you should touch it,” said Charles. “I don’t know if psittacosis is carried by ducks.”
“I think we should just kill it and put it out of its misery,” said Chuck.
Charles glanced at his older son, whose eyes were glued to the sick bird. For some reason Chuck’s suggestion struck Charles as cruel even though it was probably correct.
“Can I put it in the barn for the day?” pleaded Jean Paul.
“I’ll get my air rifle and put it out of its misery,” said Chuck. It was his turn to get back at Jean Paul.
“No!” commanded Jean Paul. “Can I put it in the barn, Dad? Please?”
“All right,” said Charles, “but don’t touch it. Run up and get a box or something.”
Jean Paul took off like a rabbit. Charles and Chuck faced each other over the sick bird. “Don’t you feel any compassion?” asked Charles.
“Compassion? You’re asking me about compassion after what you do to all those animals in the lab? What a joke!”
Charles studied his son. He thought he saw more than disrespect. He thought he saw hatred. Chuck had been a mystery to Charles from the day he reached puberty. With some difficulty he suppressed the urge to slap the boy.
With his usual resourcefulness, Jean Paul had found a large cardboard box as well as an old pillow. He’d cut open the pillow and filled the box with the feathers. Using the collapsed pillow as a protective rag, he picked up the duck and put it into the box. As he explained it to Charles, the feathers would both protect the duck from injuring himself if he had another seizure and keep it warm. Charles nodded his approval and they all climbed into the car.
The five-year-old red, rusted Pinto complained as Charles turned the key. Because of a series of holes in the muffler the Pinto sounded like an AMX tank when it finally started. Charles backed out of the garage, slid down the drive, and turned north on Interstate 301, heading toward Shaftesbury. As the old car picked up speed, Charles felt relief. Family life could never be made to run smoothly. At least in the lab the variables had a comforting predictability and problems lent themselves to the scientific method. Charles was growing less and less appreciative of human capriciousness.
“All right!” he shouted. “No music!” He switched off the radio. The two boys had been fighting over which station to hear. “A little quiet contemplation is a good way to begin the day.”
The brothers looked at each other and rolled their eyes.
Their route took them along the Pawtomack River and they got glimpses of the water as it snaked its way through the countryside. The closer they got to Shaftesbury, the more intense the stench became from Recycle, Ltd. The first view of the town was the factory’s smokestack spewing its black plume into the air. A harsh whistle shattered the silence as they came abreast of the plant, signaling a changing of shift.
Once past the chemical plant the odor disappeared as if by magic. The abandoned mills loomed on their left as they proceeded up Main Street. Not a person was in sight. It was like a ghost town at six forty-five in the morning. Three rusting steel bridges spanned the river, additional relics of the progressive era before the great war. There was even a covered bridge but no one used that. It was totally unsafe and kept up just for the tourists. The fact that no tourists ever came to Shaftesbury hadn’t dawned on the town fathers.
Jean Paul got out at the regional high school at the northern end of town. His eagerness to start his day was apparent in the rapid way he said good-bye. Even at that hour a group of his friends were waiting, and they entered the school together. Jean Paul was on the J.V. basketball team and they had to practice before classes. Charles watched his younger son disappear, then pulled the car out into the street heading toward I-93 and the trip into Boston. They didn’t hit traffic until they were in Massachusetts.
For Charles, driving had a hypnotic effect. Usually his mind trailed off into the complexities of antigens and antibodies, protein structure and formation while he operated the car by some lower, more primitive par
ts of his brain. But today he began to find himself sensitive to Chuck’s habitual silence, then irritated by it. Charles tried to imagine what was on his older son’s mind. But try as he could, he realized he had absolutely no idea. Snatching quick looks at the bored, expressionless face, he wondered if Chuck thought about girls. Charles realized that he didn’t even know if Chuck dated.
“How is school going?” asked Charles as casually as possible.
“Fine!” said Chuck, immediately on guard.
Another silence.
“You know what you’re going to major in?”
“Nah. Not yet.”
“You must have some idea. Don’t you have to start planning next year’s schedule?”
“Not for a while.”
“Well, what course do you enjoy the most this year?”
“Psychology, I guess.” Chuck looked out the passenger window. He didn’t want to talk about school. Sooner or later they’d get around to chemistry.
“Not psychology,” said Charles, shaking his head.
Chuck looked at his father’s cleanly shaven face, his broad but well-defined nose, his condescending way of speaking with his head tilted slightly back. He was always so sure of himself, quick to make judgments, and Chuck could hear the derision in his father’s voice as he pronounced the word “psychology.” Chuck worked up his courage and asked: “What’s wrong with psychology?” This was one area in which Chuck was convinced his father was not an expert.
“Psychology is a waste of time,” said Charles. “It’s based on a fundamentally false principle, stimulus-response. That’s just not how the brain works. The brain is not a blank tabula rasa, it’s a dynamic system, generating ideas and even emotions often irrespective of the environment. You know what I mean?”
“Yeah!” Chuck looked away. He had no idea what his father was talking about, but as usual it sounded good. And it was easier to agree, which is what he did for the next fifteen minutes while Charles maintained an impassioned monologue about the defects of the behavioral approach to psychology.
“How about coming over to the lab this afternoon?” said Charles after an interval of silence. “My work has been going fabulously, and I think I’m close to a breakthrough of sorts. I’d like to share it with you.”
“I can’t today,” said Chuck quickly. The last thing he wanted was to be shepherded around the institute where everyone kowtowed to Charles, the famous scientist. It always made him feel uncomfortable, especially since he didn’t understand a thing that Charles was doing. His father’s explanations always started so far above Chuck’s head that he was in constant terror of a question which could reveal the depths of his ignorance.
“You can come at any time at all, at your convenience, Chuck.” Charles had always wished he could share his enthusiasm for his research with Chuck, but Chuck had never shown any interest. Charles had thought that if the boy could see science in action, he’d be irresistibly drawn to it.
“No. I got a lab and then some meetings.”
“Too bad,” said Charles. “Maybe tomorrow.”
“Yeah, maybe tomorrow,” said Chuck.
Chuck got out of the car on Huntington Avenue and, after a perfunctory good-bye, walked away in the wet Boston snow. Charles watched him go. He looked like some late-sixties caricature, out of place even among his peers. The other students seemed brighter, more attentive to their appearance, and almost invariably in groups. Chuck walked by himself. Charles wondered if Chuck had been the most severely hurt by Elizabeth’s illness and death. He’d hoped that Cathryn’s presence would have helped, but ever since the wedding, Chuck had become more withdrawn and distant. Putting the car in gear, Charles headed across the Fenway toward Cambridge.
TWO
Crossing the Charles River via the Boston University Bridge, he began to plan his day. It was infinitely easier to deal with the complications of intracellular life than the uncertainties of child rearing. At Memorial Drive Charles turned right, then after a short distance, left into the parking area of the Weinburger Research Institute. His spirits began to rise.
As he got out of his car, he noticed a significant number of cars already there, which was unusual at that time of the morning; even the director’s blue Mercedes was in its spot. Mindless of the weather, Charles stood for a moment puzzling over all the cars, then started toward the institute. It was a modern four-storied, brick-and-glass structure, somewhat akin to the nearby Hyatt Hotel but without the pyramid profile. The site was directly on the Charles River and nestled between Harvard and M.I.T., and directly across from the campus of Boston University. No wonder the institute had no trouble locating recruits.
The receptionist saw Charles approach through the mirrored glass and pressed a button, sliding open the thick glass door. Security was tight because of the value of the scientific instrumentation as well as the nature of some of the research, particularly the genetic research. Charles started across the carpeted reception area, saying good morning to the newly acquired and coy Miss Andrews, who tilted her head down and watched Charles from beneath her carefully plucked eyebrows. Charles wondered how long she would last. The life of receptionists at the institute was very short.
With an exaggerated double take, Charles stopped at the main hall and stepped back so he could see into the waiting room. In a haze of cigarette smoke a small crowd of people were milling about excitedly.
“Dr. Martel . . . Dr. Martel,” called one of the men.
Surprised to hear his name, Charles stepped into the room and was instantly engulfed by people, all talking at the same time. The man who had first called to Charles stuck a microphone just inches from his nose.
“I’m from the Globe,” shouted the man. “Can I ask you a few questions?”
Pushing the microphone to the side, Charles began a retreat to the hall.
“Dr. Martel, is it true you’re going to take over the study?” shouted a woman grabbing onto Charles’s coat pocket.
“I don’t give interviews,” shouted Charles as he broke from the small crowd. Inexplicably the reporters stopped at the threshold of the waiting room.
“What the hell is going on?” muttered Charles as he slowed to a fast walk. He hated the media. Elizabeth’s illness had for some reason attracted the attention of the press and Charles had felt repeatedly raped as their private tragedy had been “trivialized” for people to read while having their morning coffee. He entered his lab and slammed the door.
Ellen Sheldon, Charles’s laboratory assistant for the last six years, jumped. She’d been concentrating in the stillness of the lab while setting up the equipment to separate serum proteins. As usual she had arrived at seven fifteen to prepare for Charles’s invariable arrival at seven forty-five. By eight Charles liked to be into the day’s work, especially now that things were going so well.
“If I slammed the door like that, I’d never hear the end of it,” said Ellen, irritated. She was a darkly attractive woman of thirty who wore her hair piled on her head except for vagrant wisps which trailed down alongside her neck. When he’d hired her, Charles got some jealous kidding from his colleagues, but in truth, Charles had not appreciated her exotic beauty until he’d worked with her for several years. Her individual features were not exceptional; it was the whole package that was intriguing. But as far as Charles was concerned, the most important aspects were her intellect, her eagerness, and her superb training at M.I.T.
“I’m sorry if I scared you,” said Charles, hanging up his coat. “There’s a bunch of reporters out there, and you know how I feel about reporters.”
“We all know how you feel about reporters,” agreed Ellen, going back to work.
Charles sat down at his desk and began going through his papers. His laboratory was a large rectangular room with a private office connected by a door in the back. Charles had eschewed the office and put a functional metal desk in the lab, converting the office into an animal room. The main animal area was a separate wing off the back of t
he institute, but Charles wanted some of his experimental animals nearby in order to closely supervise their care. Good experimental results depended heavily on good care of the animals and Charles was particularly attentive to details.
“What are all the reporters doing here anyway?” asked Charles. “Did our fearless leader make some scientific breakthrough in his bathtub last night?”
“Be a little more generous,” scolded Ellen. “Someone has to do the administrative work.”
“Excuse me,” said Charles with sarcastic exaggeration.
“Actually, it is something serious,” said Ellen. “The episode with Brighton was leaked to the New York Times.”
“These new generation doctors certainly like publicity,” said Charles, shaking his head in disgust. “I thought that after that rave review in Time magazine a month ago he would have been satisfied. What the hell did he do?”
“Don’t tell me you haven’t heard?” said Ellen incredulously.
“Ellen, I come here to work. You of all people should know that.”
“True. But this Brighton situation . . . Everybody knows about it. It’s been the in-house gossip for at least a week.”
“If I didn’t know you better, I’d think you were trying to hurt my feelings. If you don’t want to tell me, don’t. In fact, from your tone of voice, I’m beginning to think I’d rather not know.”
“Well, it’s bad,” agreed Ellen. “The head of the animal department reported to the director that Dr. Thomas Brighton had been sneaking into the animal lab and substituting healthy mice for his own cancer-carrying animals.”
“Wonderful,” said Charles with sarcasm. “Obviously the idea was to make his drug appear miraculously effective.”
“Exactly. Which is all the more interesting because it’s been his drug, Canceran, that has gotten him all the recent publicity.”
“And his position here at the institute,” added Charles, as he felt his face redden with contempt. He’d disapproved of all the publicity Dr. Thomas Brighton had garnered, but when he’d voiced his opinion he’d realized people had thought he was jealous.