Acceptable Risk

3

Monday, July 18, 1994

As usual, Edward Armstrong’s lab at the Harvard Medical Complex on Longfellow Avenue was the scene of frenzied activity. There was the appearance of bedlam with white-coated people scurrying every which way among a futuristic array of high-technology equipment. But the sense of disorder was only for the uninitiated. For the informed it was a known fact that high science was in continual progress.

Ultimately it all depended on Edward, although he was not the only scientist who was working in the string of rooms affectionately referred to as Armstrong’s Fiefdom. Because of his notoriety as a genius, his celebrity as a synthetic chemist, and his prominence as a neuroscientist, applications for staff, doctorate, and postdoctorate positions greatly outnumbered the positions that Edward had been able to carve out of his chronically limited space, budget, and schedule. Consequently, Edward got the best and the brightest staff and students.

Other professors called Edward a glutton for punishment. Not only did he have the largest cadre of graduate students: he insisted on teaching an undergraduate basic chemistry course, even during the summer. He was the only full professor who did so. As he explained it, he felt an obligation to stimulate the young minds of the day at the earliest time possible.

Striding back from having delivered one of his famous undergraduate lectures, Edward entered his domain through one of the lab’s side doors. Like an animal feeder at a zoo he was immediately mobbed by his graduate students. They were all working on separate aspects of Edward’s overall goal of elucidating the mechanisms of short-and long-term memory. Each had a problem or a question that Edward answered in staccato fashion, sending them back to their benches to continue their research efforts.

With the last question answered, Edward strode over to his desk. He didn’t have a private office, a concept he disdained as a frivolous waste of needed space. He was content with a corner containing a work surface, a few chairs, a computer terminal, and a file cabinet. He was accompanied by his closest assistant, Eleanor Youngman, a postdoc who’d been with him for four years.

“You have a visitor,” Eleanor said as they arrived at Edward’s desk. “He’s waiting at the departmental secretary’s desk.”

Edward dumped his class materials and exchanged his tweed jacket for a white lab coat. “I don’t have time for visitors,” he said.

“I’m afraid this one you have to see,” Eleanor said.

Edward glanced at his assistant. She was sporting one of those smiles that suggested she was about to burst out laughing. Eleanor was a spirited, bright blonde from Oxnard, California, who looked like she belonged with the surfing set. Instead she had earned her Ph.D. in biochemistry from Berkeley by the tender age of twenty-three. Edward found her invaluable, not only because of her intelligence, but also because of her commitment. She worshiped Edward, convinced he would make the next quantum leap in understanding neurotransmitters and their role in emotion and memory.

“Who in heaven’s name is it?” Edward asked.

“It’s Stanton Lewis,” Eleanor said. “He cracks me up every time he comes in here. This time he told me he wants me to invest in a new chemistry magazine to be called Bonding with a foldout Molecule of the Month. I never know when he’s serious.”

“He’s not serious,” Edward said. “He’s flirting with you.”

Edward quickly glanced through his mail. There was nothing earth-shattering. “Any problems in the lab?” he asked Eleanor.

“I’m afraid so,” she said. “The new capillary electrophoresis system which we’ve been using for micellar electrokinetic capillary chromatography is being temperamental again. Should I call the rep from Bio-rad?”

“I’ll take a look at it,” he said. “Send Stanton over. I’ll take care of both problems at the same time.”

Edward attached his radiation dosimeter to the lapel of his coat and wound his way over to the chromatography unit. He began fiddling with the computer that ran the machine. Something definitely wasn’t right. The machine kept defaulting to its original setup menu.

Absorbed in what he was doing, Edward didn’t hear Stanton approach. He was unaware of his presence until Stanton slapped him on the back.

“Hey, sport!” Stanton said, “I’ve got a surprise for you that’s going to make your day.” He handed Edward a slick, plastic-covered brochure.

“What’s this?” Edward asked as he took the booklet.

“It’s what you’ve been waiting for: the Genetrix prospectus,” Stanton said.

Edward let out a chuckle and shook his head. “You’re too much,” he said. He put the prospectus aside and redirected his attention to the chromatography unit computer.

“How’d your date with nurse Kim go?” Stanton asked.

“I enjoyed meeting your cousin,” Edward said. “She’s a terrific woman.”

“Did you guys sleep together?” Stanton asked.

Edward spun around. “That’s hardly an appropriate question.”

“My goodness,” Stanton said with a big smile. “Rather touchy I’d say. Translated that means you guys hit it off, otherwise you wouldn’t be so sensitive.”

“I think you are jumping to conclusions,” Edward said with a stutter.

“Oh, come off it,” Stanton said. “I know you too well. It’s the same way you were in medical school. Anything to do with the lab or science, you’re like Napoleon. When it comes to women you’re like wet spaghetti. I don’t understand it. But anyway, come clean. You guys hit it off, didn’t you?”

“We enjoyed each other’s company,” Edward admitted. “In fact, we had dinner Friday night.”

“Perfect,” Stanton said. “As far as I’m concerned that’s as good as sleeping together.”

“Don’t be so crass.”

“Truly,” Stanton said cheerfully. “The idea was to get you beholden to me and now you are. The price, my dear friend, is that you have to read this prospectus.” Stanton lifted the brochure from where Edward had irreverently tossed it. He handed it back to Edward.

Edward groaned. He realized he’d given himself away. “All right,” he said. “I’ll read the blasted thing.”

“Good,” Stanton said. “You should know something about the company because I’m also in a position to offer you seventy-five thousand dollars a year plus stock options to be on the scientific advisory board.”

“I don’t have time to go to any damn meetings,” Edward said.

“Who’s asking you to come to any meetings,” Stanton said. “I just want your name on the IPO offering.”

“But why?” Edward asked. “Molecular biology and biotech are not my bailiwick.”

“Chrissake!” Stanton said. “How can you be so innocent? You’re a scientific celebrity. It doesn’t matter you know clit about molecular biology. It’s your name that counts.”

“I wouldn’t say I know clit about molecular biology,” Edward said irritably.

“Now don’t get touchy with me,” Stanton said. Then he pointed to the machine Edward was working on. “What the hell is that?”

“It’s a capillary electrophoresis unit,” Edward said.

“What the hell does it do?”

“It’s a relatively new separation technology,” Edward said. “It’s used to separate and identify compounds.”

Stanton fingered the molded plastic of the central unit. “What makes it new?”

“It’s not entirely new,” Edward said. “The principles are basically the same as conventional electrophoresis, but the narrow diameter of the capillaries precludes the necessity of an anticonvection agent because heat dissipation is so efficient.”

Stanton raised his hand in mock self-defense. “Enough,” he said. “I give up. You’ve overwhelmed me. Just tell me if it works.”

“It works great,” Edward said. He looked back at the machine. “At least it usually works great. At the moment something is wrong.”

“Is it plugged in?” Stanton asked.

Edward shot him an exasperated look.

“Just trying to be helpful,” Stanton joked.

Edward raised the top of the machine and peered in at the carousels. Immediately he saw that one of the capped sample vials was blocking the carousel’s movement. “Well, isn’t this pleasant,” he said. “The thrill of the positive diagnosis of a remedial problem.” He adjusted the vial. The carousel immediately advanced. Edward closed the lid.

“So I can count on you to read the prospectus,” Stanton said. “And think about the offer.”

“The idea of getting money for nothing bothers me,” Edward said.

“But why?” Stanton said. “If star athletes can sign on with sneaker companies, why can’t scientists do the equivalent?”

“I’ll think about it,” Edward said.

“That’s all I can ask,” Stanton said. “Give me a call after you read the prospectus. I’m telling you, I can make you some money.”

“Did you drive over here?” Edward asked.

“No, I walked from Concord,” Stanton said. “Of course I drove. What a feeble attempt at changing the subject.”

“How about giving me a lift over to the main Harvard campus,” Edward said.

Five minutes later Edward slid into the passenger seat of Stanton’s 500 SEL Mercedes. Stanton started the engine and made a quick U turn. He’d parked on Huntington Avenue near the Countway Medical Library. They traveled around the Fenway and then along Storrow Drive.

“Let me ask you something,” Edward said after a period of silence. “The other night at dinner you made reference to Kim’s ancestor, Elizabeth Stewart. Do you know for a fact that she’d been hanged as a witch, or is the story a family rumor that has been around so long that people have come to believe it?”

“I can’t swear to it,” Stanton said. “I’ve just accepted what I’d heard.”

“I can’t find her name in any of the standard treatises on the subject,” Edward said. “And there is no dearth of them.”

“I heard the story from my aunt,” Stanton said. “According to her the Stewarts have been keeping it a secret since time immemorial. So it’s not as if it’s something they’ve dreamed up to enhance their reputation.”

“All right, let’s assume it happened,” Edward said. “Why the devil would it matter now? It’s so long ago. I mean I could understand for a generation or so, but not three hundred years.”

Stanton shrugged. “Beats me,” he said. “But I probably shouldn’t have mentioned it. My aunt will have my head if she hears I’ve been bantering it about.”

“Even Kim was reluctant to talk about it at first,” Edward said.

“That’s probably because of her mother, my aunt,” Stanton said. “She’s always been a stickler for reputation and all that social garbage. She’s a very proper lady.”

“Kim took me out and showed me the family compound,” Edward said. “We even went inside the house where Elizabeth was supposed to have lived.”

Stanton glanced at Edward. He shook his head in admiration. “Wow!” he said. “You work fast, you tiger.”

“It was all very innocent,” Edward said. “Don’t let your gutter imagination carry you away. I found it fascinating, and it has awakened Kim’s interest in Elizabeth.”

“I’m not sure her mother is going to like that,” Stanton said.

“I might be able to help the family’s response to the affair,” Edward said. He opened a bag he had on his lap and lifted out one of the plastic containers he and Kim had brought back from Salem. He explained to Stanton what it contained.

“You must really be in love,” Stanton said. “Otherwise you wouldn’t be taking all this time and trouble.”

“My idea is that if I can prove that ergotism was at the heart of the Salem witch craze,” Edward said, “it would remove any possible remaining stigma people felt who were associated with the ordeal, particularly the Stewarts.”

“I still contend you must be in love,” Stanton said. “That’s too theoretical a justification for all this effort. I can’t get you to do squat for me even with the promise of lucre.”

Edward sighed. “All right,” he said. “I suppose I have to admit that as a neuroscientist I’m intrigued by the possibility of a hallucinogen causing the Salem affair.”

“Now I can understand,” Stanton said. “The Salem witchcraft story has a universal appeal. You don’t have to be a neuroscientist.”

“The entrepreneur as a philosopher,” Edward remarked with a laugh. “Five minutes ago I would have considered that an oxymoron. Explain to me the universal appeal.”

“The affair is ghoulishly seductive,” Stanton said. “People like that sort of stuff. It’s like the pyramids of Egypt. There has to be more to them than mere piles of stone. They are a window on the supernatural.”

“I’m not sure I agree,” Edward said as he put away his dirt sample. “As a scientist I’m merely searching for a scientific explanation.”

“Oh, bull,” Stanton said.

Stanton dropped Edward off on Divinity Avenue in Cambridge. Just before Edward closed the door he reminded him once more about the Genetrix prospectus.

Edward skirted Divinity Hall and entered the Harvard biological labs. From a departmental secretary he got directions to Kevin Scranton’s lab. He found his thin, bearded friend busy in his office. Kevin and Edward had gone to Wesleyan together but hadn’t seen each other since Edward had returned to Harvard to teach.

They spent the first ten minutes rehashing old times before Edward got down to the reason for his visit. He put the three containers on the corner of Kevin’s desk.

“I want you to see if you can find Claviceps purpurea,” Edward said.

Kevin picked up one of the containers and opened the lid. “Can you tell me why?” he asked. He fingered a small amount of the dirt.

“You’d never guess,” Edward said. He then told Kevin how he’d obtained the samples and the background concerning the Salem witch trials. He didn’t mention the Stewart family name, thinking he owed as much to Kim.

“Sounds intriguing,” Kevin said when Edward finished his story. Kevin stood up and proceeded to make a wet mount of a small sample of the dirt.

“I thought it could make a cute little paper for Science or Nature,” Edward said. “Provided we find spores from Claviceps.”

Kevin slipped the wet mount under his office microscope and began scanning the sample. “Well, there are plenty of spores in here, but of course that’s not unusual.”

“How’s the best way to see if they’re Claviceps or not?” Edward asked.

“There are several ways,” Kevin said. “How soon do you want an answer?”

“As soon as possible,” Edward said.

“DNA would take some time,” Kevin said. “There are probably three to five thousand different fungal species in each sample. Besides, the most definitive method would be if we can grow some Claviceps. The problem is, it’s not that easy. But I’ll give it a shot.”

Edward stood up. “I’d appreciate whatever you can do.”

Taking a minute to collect herself, Kim raised her gloved hand so that her bare forearm could push her hair off her forehead. It had been a typically busy day in the surgical intensive-care unit, rewarding yet intense. She was exhausted and looking forward to getting off in another twenty minutes. Unfortunately her moment of relaxation was interrupted. Kinnard Monihan came into the unit with a sick patient.

Kim as well as the other nurses who were momentarily free lent a hand getting the new admission settled. Kinnard helped as did an anesthesiologist who’d come in with him.

While they worked, Kim and Kinnard avoided eye contact. But Kim was acutely aware of his presence, especially when their efforts on the patient’s behalf brought them side by side. Kinnard was a tall, wiry man of twenty-eight with sharply angular features. He was light on his feet and agile, more like a boxer in training than a doctor in the middle of a surgical residency.

With the patient settled, Kim headed for the central desk. She felt a hand on her arm, and she turned to look up into Kinnard’s dark, intense eyes.

“You’re not still angry?” Kinnard asked. He had no trouble bringing up sensitive issues right in the middle of the intensive-care unit.

Feeling a wave of anxiety, Kim looked away. Her mind was a muddle of conflicted emotion.

“Don’t tell me you’re not even going to talk to me,” Kinnard said. “Aren’t you carrying your hurt feelings a bit too far?”

“I warned you,” Kim began when she found her voice. “I told you that things would be different if you insisted on going on your fly-fishing trip when we’d planned to go to Martha’s Vineyard.”

“We never made definite plans for the Vineyard,” Kinnard said. “And I hadn’t anticipated Dr. Markey offering to include me on the camping trip.”

“If we hadn’t made plans,” Kim said, “how come I had arranged to have the time off? And how come I’d called my family’s friends and arranged to stay in their bungalow?’ ‘

“We’d only mentioned it once,” Kinnard said.

“Twice,” Kim said. “And the second time I told you about the bungalow.”

“Listen,” Kinnard said. “It was important for me to go on the camping trip. Dr. Markey is the number-two man in the department. Maybe you and I had a little miscommunication, but it shouldn’t cause all this angst.”

“What makes it even worse is that you don’t feel contrite in the slightest,” Kim said. Her face reddened.

“I’m not going to apologize when I don’t think I did anything wrong,” Kinnard said.

“Fine,” Kim said. She started for the central desk again. Kinnard again restrained her.

“I’m sorry you are upset,” Kinnard said. “I really thought you’d have calmed down by now. Let’s talk about it more on Saturday night. I’m not on call. Maybe we could have dinner and see a show.”

“I’m sorry, but I already have plans,” Kim said. It was untrue, and she felt her stomach tighten. She hated confrontations and knew she wasn’t good at them. Any type of discord affected her viscerally.

Kinnard’s mouth dropped open. “Oh, I see,” he said. His eyes narrowed.

Kim swallowed. She could tell he was angry.

“This is a game that two can play,” he said. “There’s someone I’ve been thinking about dating. This is my opportunity.”

“Who?” Kim asked. The second the question came out of her mouth she regretted it.

Kinnard gave her a malicious smile and walked off.

Concerned about losing her composure, Kim retreated to the privacy of the storeroom. She was shaking. After a few deep breaths she felt more in control and ready to get back to work. She was about to return to the unit when the door opened and Marsha Kingsley, her roommate, walked in.

“I happened to overhear that encounter,” Marsha said. She was a petite, spirited woman with a mane of auburn hair which she wore in a bun while working in the surgical intensive-care unit. Not only were Kim and Marsha roommates, they were also SICU colleagues.

“He’s an ass,” Marsha said. She knew the history of Kim’s relationship with Kinnard better than anyone. “Don’t let that egotist get your goat.”. Marsha’s sudden appearance disarmed Kim’s control over her tears. “I hate confrontations,” Kim said.

“I think you handled yourself exemplarily,” Marsha said. She handed Kim a tissue.

“He wouldn’t even apologize,” Kim said. She wiped her eyes.

“He’s an insensitive bum,” Marsha said supportively.

“I don’t know what I did wrong,” Kim said. “Up until recently I thought we’d had a good relationship.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” Marsha said. “It’s his problem. He’s too selfish. Look at the comparison between his behavior and Edward’s. Edward’s been sending you flowers every day.”

“I don’t need flowers every day,” Kim said.

“Of course not,” Marsha said. “It’s the thought that counts. Kinnard doesn’t think of your feelings. You deserve better.”

“Well, I don’t know about that,” Kim said. She blew her nose. “Yet one thing is for sure. I have to make some changes in my life. What I’m thinking of doing is to move up to Salem. I’ve got the idea to fix up an old house on the family compound I inherited with my brother.”

“That’s a great idea,” Marsha said. “It will be good for you to have a change of scene, especially with Kinnard living on Beacon Hill.”

“That was my thought,” Kim said. “I’m heading up there right after work. How about coming along? I’d love the company, and maybe you’d have some good ideas about what to do with the place.”

“Give me a rain check,” Marsha said. “I’ve got to meet some people at the apartment.”

After finishing work and giving a report, Kim left the hospital. She climbed into her car and drove out of town. There was a little traffic, but it moved quickly, particularly after she passed over the Tobin Bridge. Her first stop was her childhood home on Marblehead Neck.

“Anybody here?” Kim called out as she entered the foyer of the French château-style home. It was beautifully sited directly on the ocean. There were some superficial similarities between it and the castle, although it was far smaller and more tasteful.

“I’m in the sunroom, dear,” Joyce answered from afar.

Skirting the main stairs, Kim walked down the long central corridor and out into the room in which her mother spent most of her time. It was indeed a sunroom with glass on three sides. It faced south overlooking the terraced lawn, but to the east it had a breathtaking vista over the ocean.

“You’re still in your uniform,” Joyce said. Her tone was deprecatory, as only a daughter could sense.

“I came directly from work,” Kim said. “I wanted to avoid the traffic.”

“Well, I hope you haven’t brought any hospital germs with you,” Joyce said. “That’s all I need right now is to get sick again.”

“I don’t work in infectious disease,” Kim said. “Where I work in the unit there’s probably less bacteria than here.”

“Don’t say that,” Joyce snapped.

The two women didn’t look anything alike. Kim favored her father in terms of facial structure and hair. Joyce’s face was narrow, her eyes deeply set, and her nose slightly aquiline. Her hair had once been brunette but was now mostly gray. She’d never colored it. Her skin was as pale as white marble despite the fact that it was almost midsummer.

“I notice you are still in your dressing gown,” Kim said. She sat on a couch across from her mother’s chaise.

“There was no reason for me to dress,” Joyce said. “Besides, I haven’t been feeling well.”

“I suppose that means that Dad is not here,” Kim said. Over the years she’d learned the pattern.

“Your father left last evening on a short business trip to London,” Joyce said.

“I’m sorry,” Kim said.

“It doesn’t matter,” Joyce said. “When he’s here, he ignores me anyway. Did you want to see him?”

“I’d hoped to,” Kim said.

“He’ll be back Thursday,” Joyce said. “If it suits him.”

Kim recognized her mother’s martyred tone of voice. “Did Grace Traters go along with him?” Kim asked. Grace Traters was Kim’s father’s personal assistant in a long line of personal assistants.

“Of course Grace went along,” Joyce said angrily. “John can’t tie his shoes without Grace.”

“If it bothers you, why do you put up with it, Mother?” Kim asked.

“I have no choice in the matter,” Joyce said.

Kim bit her tongue. She could feel herself getting upset. She felt sorry for her mother on the one hand for what she had to deal with and angry with her on the other for her playing the victim. Her father had always had affairs, some more open than others. It had been going on for as long as Kim could remember.

Changing the subject, Kim asked about Elizabeth Stewart.

Joyce’s reading glasses dropped off the end of her nose where they had been precariously perched. They dangled against her bosom from a chain around her neck.

“What a strange question,” Joyce said. “Why on earth are you inquiring about her?”

“I happened to stumble across her portrait in Granddad’s wine cellar,” Kim said. “It rather startled me, especially since I seem to have the same color eyes. Then I realized I knew very little about her. Was she really hanged for witchcraft?”

“I’d rather not talk about it,” Joyce said.

“Oh, Mother, why on earth not?” Kim asked.

“It’s simply a taboo subject,” Joyce said.

“You should remind your nephew Stanton,” Kim said. “He brought it up at a recent dinner party.”

“I will indeed remind him,” Joyce said. “That’s inexcusable. He knows better.”

“How can it be a taboo subject after so many years?” Kim asked.

“It’s not something to be proud of,” Joyce said. “It was a sordid affair.”

“I did some reading about the Salem witch trials yesterday,” Kim said. “There’s a lot of material available. But Elizabeth Stewart is never mentioned. I’m beginning to wonder if she was involved.”

“It’s my understanding she was involved,” Joyce said. “But let’s leave it at that. How did you happen to come across her portrait?”

“I was in the castle,” Kim said. “I went to the compound on Saturday. I have it in mind to fix up the old house and live in it.”

“Why in heaven’s name would you want to do that?” Joyce asked. “It’s so small.”

“It could be charming,” Kim said. “And it’s larger than my current apartment. Besides, I want to get out of Boston.”

“I’d think it would be an enormous job to make it habitable,” Joyce said.

“That’s part of the reason I wanted to talk to Father,” Kim said. “Of course he’s not around. I have to say, he has never been around when I needed him.”

“He wouldn’t have any idea about such a project,” Joyce said. “You should talk to George Harris and Mark Stevens. They are the contractor and the architect who just finished the renovation in this house, and the project couldn’t have gone any better. They work as a team, and their office is conveniently located in Salem.

“The other person you should talk to is your brother, Brian.”

“That goes without saying,” Kim said.

“You call your brother from here,” Joyce said. “While you’re doing that, I’ll get the phone number of the contractor and the architect.”

Joyce climbed out of her chaise and disappeared. Kim smiled as she lifted the phone onto her lap. Her mother never ceased to amaze her. One minute she could be the epitome of self-absorbed immobility, the next a whirlwind of activity, totally involved in someone else’s project. Intuitively Kim knew what the problem was: her mother didn’t have enough to do. Unlike her friends she’d never gotten involved in volunteer activities.

Kim glanced at her watch as the call went through and tried to guess the time in London. Not that it mattered. Her brother was an insomniac who worked at night and slept in snatches during the day like a nocturnal creature.

Brian answered on the first ring. After they had exchanged hellos, Kim described her idea. Brian’s response was overwhelmingly positive, and he encouraged her to go ahead with the plan. He thought it would be much better to have someone on the property. Brian’s only question was about the castle and all its furnishings.

“I’m not going to touch that place,” Kim said. “We’ll attack that when you come back.”

“Fair enough,” Brian said.

“Where’s Father?” Kim asked.

“John’s at the Ritz,” Brian said.

“And Grace?”

“Don’t ask,” Brian said. “They’ll be back Thursday.”

While Kim was saying goodbye to Brian, Joyce reappeared and wordlessly handed her a scrap of paper with a local phone number. As soon as Kim hung up from Brian, Joyce told her to dial the number.

Kim dialed. “Who should I ask for?” she said.

“Mark Stevens,” Joyce said. “He’s expecting your call. I phoned him on the other line while you were speaking with Brian.”

Kim felt a mild resentment toward her mother’s interference, but she didn’t say anything. She knew Joyce was only trying to be helpful. Yet Kim could remember times when she was in middle school and had to fight to keep her mother from writing her school papers.

The conversation with Mark Stevens was short. Having learned from Joyce that Kim was in the area, he suggested they meet at the compound in half an hour. He said he’d have to see the property in order to advise her intelligently. Kim agreed to meet with him.

“If you decide to renovate that old house, at least you’ll be in good hands,” Joyce said after Kim had hung up.

Kim got to her feet. “I’d better be going,” she said. Despite a conscious attempt to suppress it, Kim felt irritation returning toward her mother. It was the interference and lack of privacy that bothered her. She recalled her mother asking Stanton to fix her up after telling him Kim had broken off her relationship with Kinnard.

“I’ll walk you out,” Joyce said.

“There’s no need, Mother,” Kim said.

“I want to,” Joyce said.

They started down the long hall.

“When you speak with your father about the old house,” Joyce said, “I advise you not to bring up the issue about Elizabeth Stewart. It will only irritate him.”

“Why would it irritate him?” Kim demanded.

“Don’t get upset,” Joyce said. “I’m just trying to keep peace in the family.”

“But it is ridiculous,” Kim snapped. “I don’t understand.”

“I only know that Elizabeth came from a poor farming family from Andover,” Joyce said. “She wasn’t even an official member of the church.”

“As if that matters today,” Kim said. “The irony is that within months of the affair there were public apologies from some of the jury members and justices because they realized innocent people had been executed. And here we are three hundred years later refusing to even talk about our ancestor. It doesn’t make any sense. And why isn’t her name in any of the books?”

“Obviously it’s because the family didn’t want it to be,” Joyce said. “I don’t think the family thought she was innocent. That’s why it’s an affair that should be left in the closet.”

“I think it’s a bunch of rubbish,” Kim said.

Kim got into her car and drove off Marblehead Neck. When she got into Marblehead proper she had to force herself to slow down. Thanks to a vague sense of unease and vexation, she’d been driving much too fast. As she passed the Witch House in Salem, she put words to her thoughts, and admitted to herself that her curiosity about Elizabeth and the witch trials had gone up a notch despite her mother’s warnings, or perhaps because of them.

When Kim pulled up to the family compound gate, a Ford Bronco was parked at the side of the road. As she got out of her car with the keys to the gate’s padlock, two men climbed from the Bronco. One was stocky and muscular as if he worked out with weights on a daily basis. The other was borderline obese and seemed to be out of breath merely from the effort of getting out of the car.

The heavyset man introduced himself as Mark Stevens and the muscular man as George Harris. Kim shook hands with both of them.

Kim unlocked the gate and got back into her car. With her in the lead, they drove to the old house. They all climbed out of their vehicles in unison.

“This is fabulous,” Mark said. He was mesmerized by the building.

“Do you like it?” Kim asked. She was pleased by his response.

“I love it,” Mark said.

The first thing they did was walk around the house to examine the exterior. Kim explained the idea of putting a new kitchen and bathroom in the lean-to portion and leaving the main part of the building essentially unchanged.

“You’ll need heat and air conditioning,” Mark said. “But that should be no problem.”

After touring the exterior they all went inside. Kim showed them the whole house, even the cellar. The men were particularly impressed with the way the main beams and joists were joined.

“It’s a solid, well-built structure,” Mark said.

“What kind of job would it be renovating it?” Kim asked.

“There wouldn’t be any problem,” Mark said. He looked at George, who nodded in agreement.

“I think it will be a fantastic little house,” George said. “I’m psyched.”

“Can it be done without damaging the historical aspect of the building?” Kim asked.

“Absolutely,” Mark said. “We can hide all the ductwork, piping, and electric in the lean-to and in the cellar. You won’t see it.”

“We’ll dig a deep trench to bring in utilities,” George said. “They’ll come in beneath the existing foundation so we will not have to disturb it. The only thing I’d recommend is pouring a concrete basement floor.”

“Can the job be done by September first?” Kim asked.

Mark looked at George. George nodded and said it wouldn’t be a problem as long as they used custom cabinetry.

“I have one suggestion,” Mark said. “The main bathroom is best situated in the lean-to as you have suggested. But we could also put a small half-bath on the second floor between the two bedrooms without causing any damage. I think it would be convenient.”

“Sounds good,” Kim said. “When could you start?”

“Immediately,” George said. “In fact, to get it done by the first of September we’ll have to start tomorrow.”

“We’ve done a lot of work for your father,” Mark said. “We could run this job just like we’ve done the others. We’ll bill you for time and materials plus profit.”

“I want to do it,” Kim said with newfound resolve. “Your enthusiasm has overcome any of my reservations. What do we have to do to get started?”

“We’ll start right away on a verbal agreement,” Mark said. “We’ll draw up contracts that can be signed later.”

“Fine,” Kim said. She stuck out her hand and shook hands with both men.

“We’ll have to stay for a while to get measurements,” Mark said.

“Be my guest,” Kim said. “As for the contents of the house, they can be stored up at the garage of the main house. The garage is open.”

“What about the gate?” George asked.

“If you are starting right away, let’s leave it unlocked,” Kim said.

While the men were busy with their tape measures, Kim wandered outside. From fifty feet away she looked at the house and acknowledged that it was indeed darling. Immediately she began to think about the fun of decorating it and debated with herself what colors to paint the bedrooms. Such details excited her about the project, but the excitement immediately conjured up Elizabeth’s name. All at once Kim found herself wondering how Elizabeth had felt when she first saw the house and when she first moved into it. She wondered if Elizabeth had been equally as excited.

Returning back inside, Kim told Mark and George that she would be up in the main house if they needed her.

“We have plenty to keep us busy for the moment,” Mark said. “But I’ll have to talk with you tomorrow. Could you give me your phone number?”

Kim gave both her apartment and work numbers. Then she left the old house, climbed in her car, and drove up to the castle. Thinking about Elizabeth had stimulated her to spend a little time looking through the old papers.

Kim opened the front door and left it slightly ajar in case Mark or George came looking for her. Inside she debated between the attic and the wine cellar. Remembering the seventeenth-century bill of lading she’d found on Saturday in the wine cellar, she decided to return there.

Striding through the great room and traversing the dining room, Kim pulled open the heavy oak door. As she started down the granite steps she became aware that the door had closed with a dull thud behind her.

Kim stopped. She had the sudden realization that it was far different being alone in the huge old house than it had been with Edward. She heard distant creaks and groans as the house adjusted to the heat of the day. Turning around, Kim looked up at the door with the irrational fear that it had somehow locked, trapping her in the basement.

“You’re being ridiculous,” Kim said out loud. Yet she couldn’t shake the concern about the door. Finally she mounted the stairs. She leaned against the door, and as she expected, it opened. She let it close again.

Chiding herself for her overly active imagination, Kim descended and strode into the depths of the wine cellar. She hummed a favorite tune, but her equanimity was a façade. Despite efforts to the contrary, she was still spooked by the surroundings. The massive house seemed to make the air heavy and breathing difficult. And as she’d already noticed, it was far from silent.

Kim forced herself to ignore her discomfiture. Still humming the same song, she entered the cell where she’d found the seventeenth-century bill of lading. On Saturday she’d searched through the drawer where she’d found the document, but now she began to search through the rest of the file cabinet.

It didn’t take her long to grasp how difficult searching through the Stewart papers was to be. She was dealing with one file cabinet out of literally scores. Each drawer was completely full, and she painstakingly had to go through document by document. Many of the papers were entirely written by hand and some were difficult to decipher. On others it was impossible to find a date. To make things worse, the light from the torchlike sconces was far from adequate. Kim resolved that on future forays to the wine, cellar she’d bring additional lighting.

After only going through a single drawer, Kim gave up. Most of the documents where she could find a date were from the late eighteenth century. Hoping there might be some order to the mess, she began randomly opening drawers and sampling, looking for something significantly older. It was in the top drawer of a bureau near the door to the hall that she made her first find.

What got her attention initially were scattered bills of lading from the seventeenth century: each a little older than the one she’d shown to Edward on Saturday. Then she found a whole packet of them tied with a string. Although they were handwritten, the script was graceful and clear, and all of them had dates. They dealt mostly with furs, timber, fish, rum, sugar, and grain. In the middle of the packet was an envelope. It was addressed to Ronald Stewart. The handwriting was different; it was stiff and erratic.

Kim carried the envelope out into the hall where the light was better. She slid the letter out and unfolded it. It was dated y 21st June 1679. It was difficult to read.

Sir:

There hath been several days synce your letter hath arrived. I hath had much discourse with y family over your fancy for our beloved daughter Elizabeth who is a high spirited gyrl. If it be God’s will ye shall have her hand in marriage provided ye shall give me work and move y family to Salem Town. Y threat of Indian raids hath made it a hazard to our lyves here in Andover and caused us much Disquietude. Ye humble servant,

James Flanagan.

Kim slowly slipped the letter back into the envelope. She was dismayed, even shocked. She didn’t think of herself as a feminist, yet this letter offended her and made her feel like one. Elizabeth had been chattel to be bargained away. Kim’s sympathy for her forebear, which had been on the rise, now soared.

Returning to the cell, Kim put the letter on top of the bureau where she’d found it and began looking more carefully through the drawer. Oblivious to the time and her surroundings, she went through every slip of paper. Although she found a few more contemporary bills of lading, she found no more letters. Undaunted, she started on the second drawer. It was then that she heard the unmistakable sound of footsteps above her.

Kim froze. The vague fear she’d experienced when she’d first descended into the wine cellar came back with a vengeance. Only now it was fueled by more than just the spookiness of the huge, empty house. Now it was compounded by the guilt of trespassing into a forbidden and troubled past.

Consequently, her imagination ran wild, and as the footsteps passed directly overhead, her mental image was of some fearful ghost. She thought it might even be her dead grandfather, coming to exact revenge for her insolent and presumptuous attempt to uncover guarded secrets.

The sound of the footsteps receded then merged with the house’s creaks and groans. Kim was beset by two conflicting impulses: one was to flee blindly from the wine cellar; the other was to hide among the file cabinets and bureaus. Unable to decide, she did neither. Instead she stepped silently to the door of the cell and peeked around the jamb, looking down the long corridor toward the granite steps. At that moment she heard the door to the wine cellar creak open. She couldn’t see the door, but she was sure it was what she’d heard.

Paralyzed with fear, Kim helplessly watched as black shoes and trousers appeared and came relentlessly down the steps. Halfway they stopped. Then a figure bent down and a backlit, featureless face appeared.

“Kim?” Edward called. “Are you down here?”

Kim’s first response was to let out a sigh. Until then, she hadn’t been aware she’d been holding her breath. Leaning against the wall of the cell for support, since her legs felt tremulous, she called out to Edward to let him know where she was. In a few moments his large frame filled the doorway.

“You scared me,” Kim said as calmly as she could manage. Now that she knew it was Edward, she was acutely embarrassed by the extent of her terror.

“I’m sorry,” Edward said falteringly. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

“Why didn’t you call out sooner?” Kim asked.

“I did,” Edward said. “Several times. First when I came through the front door and again in the great room. I think the wine cellar must be insulated.”

“I suppose it is,” Kim said. “What are you doing here, anyway? I certainly didn’t expect you.”

“I tried to call you at your apartment,” Edward said. “Marsha told me you drove out here with the idea of fixing up the old house. On the spur of the moment I decided to come. I feel responsible since I was the one who suggested it.”

“That was considerate,” Kim said. Her pulse was still racing.

“I’m really sorry for having scared you,” Edward said.

“Never mind,” Kim said. “It’s my fault for letting my stupid imagination take over. I heard your footsteps and thought you were a ghost.”

Edward made an evil face and turned his hands into claws. Kim playfully socked him in the shoulder and told him he wasn’t funny.

They both felt relieved. The tension that existed evaporated.

“So you’ve started on the Elizabeth Stewart search,” Edward said. He eyed the open drawer of the bureau. “Did you find anything?”

“As a matter of fact I have,” Kim said. She stepped over to the bureau and handed Edward James Flanagan’s letter to Ronald Stewart.

Edward carefully slipped the note from the envelope. He held it close to the light. It took him as much time to read it as it had taken Kim.

“Indian raids in Andover!” Edward commented. “Can you imagine? Life certainly was different back then.”

Edward finished the letter and handed it back to Kim. “Fascinating,” he said.

“Doesn’t it upset you at all?” Kim asked.

“Not particularly,” Edward said. “Should it?”

“It upset me,” Kim said. “Poor Elizabeth had even less say about her tragic fate than I’d imagined. Her father was using her as a bargaining chip in a business deal. It’s deplorable.”

“I think you might be jumping to conclusions,” Edward said. “Opportunity as we know it didn’t exist in the seventeenth century. Life was harsher and more tenuous. People had to team up just to survive. Individual interests weren’t a high priority.”

“That doesn’t warrant making a deal with your daughter’s life,” Kim said. “It sounds as if her father were treating her like a cow or some other piece of property.”

“I still think you could be reading too much into it,” Edward said. “Just because there was a deal between James and Ronald doesn’t necessarily mean that Elizabeth didn’t have any say whether she wanted to marry Ronald or not. Also, you have to consider that it might have been a great source of comfort and satisfaction for her to know that she was providing for the rest of her family.”

“Well, maybe so,” Kim said. “Trouble is, I know what ultimately happened to her.”

“You still don’t know for sure if she was hanged or not,” Edward reminded her.

“That’s true,” Kim said. “But this letter at least suggests one reason she might have been vulnerable to being accused as a witch. From the reading I’ve done, people in Puritan times were not supposed to change their station in life, and if they did, they were automatically suspected of not following God’s will. Elizabeth’s sudden rise from a poor farmer’s daughter to a comparatively wealthy merchant’s wife certainly fits that category.”

“Vulnerability and actually being accused are two different things,” Edward said. “Since I haven’t seen her name in any of the books, I’m dubious.”

“My mother suggested that the reason she’s not mentioned is because the family went to great lengths to keep her name out of it. She even implied the reason was because the family considered Elizabeth guilty.”

“That’s a new twist,” Edward said. “But it makes sense in one regard. People in the seventeenth century believed in witchcraft. Maybe Elizabeth practiced it.”

“Wait a second,” Kim said. “Are you suggesting Elizabeth was a witch? My idea was that she was guilty of something, like changing her status, but certainly not that she considered herself a sorceress.”

“I mean maybe she practiced magic,” Edward said. “Back then there was white magic and black magic. The difference was that white magic was for good things, like curing a person or an animal. Black magic, on the other hand, had a malicious intent and was called witchcraft. Obviously there could have been times when it was a matter of opinion if some potion or charm represented white magic or black magic.”

“Well, maybe you have a point,” Kim said. She thought for a moment, then shook her head. “I don’t buy it. My intuition tells me otherwise. I have a feeling Elizabeth was an entirely innocent person caught in a terrible tragedy by some insidious trick of fate. Whatever the trick was, it must have been awful, and the fact that her memory has been treated so dreadfully just compounds the injustice.” Kim glanced around at the file cabinets, bureaus, and boxes. “The question is: could the explanation of whatever it was lie in this sea of documents?”

“I’d say that finding this personal letter is auspicious,” Edward said. “If there’s one, there’s got to be more. If you’re going to find the answer it will most likely be in personal correspondence.”

“I just wish there were some chronological order to these papers,” Kim said.

“What about the old house?” Edward asked. “Did you make any decisions about fixing it up?”

“I did,” Kim said. “Come on, I’ll explain it to you.”

Leaving Edward’s car parked at the castle, they drove over to the old house in Kim’s. With great enthusiasm Kim took Edward on a tour and explained that she was going to follow his original suggestion of putting the modern conveniences in the lean-to portion. The most important bit of new information was the placement of a half-bath between the bedrooms.

“I think it will be marvelous house,” Edward said as they exited the building. “I’m jealous.”

“I’m excited about it,” Kim said. “What I’m really looking forward to is the decorating. I think I’ll arrange to take some vacation time and even personal time off in September to devote full time to it.”

“You’ll do it all by yourself?” Edward asked.

“Absolutely,” Kim said.

“Admirable,” Edward said. “I know I couldn’t do it.”

They climbed into Kim’s car. Kim hesitated starting the engine. They could see the house through the front windshield.

“Actually I’ve always wanted to be an interior decorator,” Kim said wistfully.

“No kidding?” Edward said.

“It was a missed opportunity,” Kim said. “My main interest when I was growing up was always art in some form or fashion, especially in high school. Back then, I’d have to say, I was a whimsical artist type and hardly a member of the in-group.”

“I certainly wasn’t part of the in-group either,” Edward said.

Kim started the car and turned it around. They headed for the castle.

“Why didn’t you become an interior decorator?” Edward asked.

“My parents talked me out of it,” Kim said. “Particularly my father.”

“I’m confused,” Edward said. “Friday at dinner you said you and your father were never close.”

“We weren’t close, but he still had a big effect on me,” Kim said. “I thought it was my fault we weren’t close. So I spent a lot of effort trying to please him, even to the point of going into nursing. He wanted me to go into nursing or teaching because he felt they were ‘appropriate.’ He certainly didn’t think interior design was appropriate.”

“Fathers can have a big effect on kids,” Edward said. “I had a similar compulsion to please my father. When I think about it, it was kind of crazy. I should have just ignored him. The problem was that he made fun of me because of my stutter and lack of ability in competitive sports. I suppose I was a disappointment to him.”

They arrived at the castle, and Kim pulled up next to Edward’s car. Edward started to get out, but then he sat back in the seat.

“Have you eaten?” he asked.

Kim shook her head.

“Me neither,” he said. “Why don’t we drive into Salem and see if we can find a decent restaurant?”

“You’re on,” Kim said.

They drove out of the compound and headed toward town. Kim was the first to speak. “I attribute my lack of social confidence in college directly to my relationship with my parents,” she said. “Could it have been the same for you?”

“I wouldn’t doubt it,” Edward said.

“It’s amazing how important self-esteem is,” Kim said, “and it’s a little scary how easily it can be undermined with children.”

“Even with adults,” Edward said. “And once it is undermined it affects behavior, which in turn affects self-esteem. The problem is that it can become functionally autonomous and biochemically determined. That’s the argument for drugs: to break the vicious cycle.”

“Are we talking about Prozac again?” Kim asked.

“Indirectly,” Edward said. “Prozac can positively affect self-esteem in some patients.”

“Would you have taken Prozac in college if it had been available?” Kim asked.

“I might have,” Edward admitted. “It would have made a difference in my experience.”

Kim glanced briefly across at Edward. She had the feeling he’d just told her something personal. “You don’t have to answer this,” she said, “and maybe I shouldn’t ask, but have you ever tried Prozac yourself?”

“I don’t mind answering,” Edward said. “I did use it for a time a couple of years ago. My father died, and I became moderately depressed. It was a reaction I didn’t expect considering our history. A colleague suggested I try Prozac, and I did.”

“Did it help the depression?” Kim asked.

“Most definitely,” Edward said. “Not immediately but eventually. But most interestingly it also gave me an unexpected dose of assertiveness. I’d not anticipated it, so it couldn’t have been a placebo effect. I also liked it.”

“Any side effects?” Kim asked.

“A few,” Edward said. “But nothing terrible and certainly acceptable in relation to the depression.”

“Interesting,” Kim said sincerely.

“I hope my admission of psychotropic drug use in the face of your pharmacological Puritanism doesn’t alarm you.”

“Don’t be silly,” Kim said. “Quite the contrary. I respect your forthrightness. Besides, who would I be to judge? I’ve never taken Prozac, but I did have some psychotherapy during college. I’d say that makes us even.”

Edward laughed. “Right!” he said. “We’re both crazy!”

They found a small, popular local restaurant that served fresh fish. It was crowded, and they were forced to sit on stools at the bar. They each had baked scrod and iced mugs of draft beer. For dessert there was old-fashioned Indian pudding with ice cream.

After the boisterous pub-like atmosphere they both enjoyed the silence of the car as they drove back to the compound. However, as they passed through the gate, Kim sensed that Edward had become demonstrably nervous. He fidgeted, brushing his hair off his forehead.

“Is something wrong?” Kim asked.

“No,” Edward said, but his stutter had returned.

Kim pulled up next to his car. She put on the emergency brake but left the engine running. She waited, knowing there was something on Edward’s mind.

Edward finally blurted out: “Would you like to come over to my apartment when we get back to the city?”

The invitation threw Kim into a quandary. She sensed the courage it took for Edward to invite her, and she didn’t want him to feel rejected. At the same time she thought of the needs of the patients she’d be facing in the morning. Ultimately her professionalism won out. “I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s a bit too late tonight. I’m exhausted; I’ve been up since six.” In an attempt to make light of the situation she added: “Besides, it’s a school night and I haven’t finished my homework.”

“We could turn in early,” Edward said. “It is just a little after nine.”

Kim was both surprised and uneasy. “I think maybe things are moving a little too swiftly for me,” she said. “I’ve felt very comfortable with you, but I don’t want to rush things.”

“Of course,” Edward said. “Obviously I’ve also felt comfortable with you.”

“I do enjoy your company,” Kim said. “And I’m off Friday and Saturday this week if that works with your schedule.”

“How about dinner on Thursday night?” Edward said. “It won’t be a school night.”

Kim laughed. “It’ll be a pleasure,” she said. “And I’ll make it a point to have all my homework done.”