It was their turn. A nurse who looked like she stepped out of a 1950s Doris Day movie called out Michelle’s name and held the door open. Michelle gripped her stepmother’s hand as they entered the inner office. Cathryn wasn’t sure which one of them was more tense.
Dr. Wiley looked up from a chart, peering over half glasses. Cathryn had never met Dr. Jordan Wiley, but all the children knew him. Michelle had told Cathryn that she remembered coming to him for the chicken pox four years ago when she was eight. Cathryn was immediately taken by the attractiveness of the man. He was in his late fifties and exuded that comfortably paternal air that people traditionally associate with doctors. He was a tall individual with closely cropped graying hair and a bushy gray mustache. He wore a small, hand-tied red bow tie which gave him a unique, energetic look. His hands were large but gentle as he placed the chart on his desk and leaned forward.
“My, my,” said Dr. Wiley. “Miss Martel, you have become a lady. You look very beautiful, a little pale, but beautiful. Now introduce me to your new mother.”
“She’s not my new mother,” said Michelle indignantly. “She’s been my mother for over two years.”
Both Cathryn and Dr. Wiley laughed and after a moment’s indecision, Michelle joined them, although she was not sure she got the joke.
“Please, sit down,” said Dr. Wiley, motioning to the chairs facing his desk. As a consummate clinician, Dr. Wiley had started the examination the moment Michelle had entered his office. Besides her pallor, he’d noticed the girl’s tentative gait, her slumped posture, the glazed look to her blue eyes. Spreading open her chart, which he’d reviewed earlier, he picked up a pen. “Now then, what seems to be the trouble?”
Cathryn described Michelle’s illness with Michelle adding comments here and there. Cathryn said that it had started gradually with fever and general malaise. They’d thought she’d had the flu, but it would not go away. Some mornings she’d be fine; others she’d feel terrible. Cathryn concluded by saying that she’d decided it would be best to have Michelle checked in case she needed some antibiotics or something.
“Very well,” said Dr. Wiley. “Now I’d like some time alone with Michelle. If you don’t mind, Mrs. Martel.” He came around from behind his desk and opened the door to the waiting room.
Momentarily nonplussed, Cathryn got to her feet. She had expected to stay with Michelle.
Dr. Wiley smiled warmly and, as if reading her mind, said, “Michelle will be fine with me; we’re old friends.”
Giving Michelle’s shoulder a little squeeze, Cathryn started for the waiting room. At the door she paused. “How long will you be? Do I have time to visit a patient?”
“I think so,” said Dr. Wiley. “We’ll be about thirty minutes or so.”
“I’ll be back before that, Michelle,” called Cathryn. Michelle waved and the door closed.
Armed with some directions from the nurse, Cathryn retraced her steps back to the main lobby. It wasn’t until she entered the elevator that her old fear of hospitals returned. Staring at a sad little girl in a wheelchair, Cathryn realized that pediatric hospitals were particularly unnerving. The concept of a sick child made her feel weak. She tried to concentrate on the floor indicator above the doors, but a powerful, incomprehensible urge drew her eyes back to the sick child. When the doors opened on the fifth floor and she stepped off, her legs felt rubbery and her palms were sweaty.
Cathryn was heading for the Marshall Memorial isolation unit, but the fifth floor also contained the general intensive care unit and the surgical recovery room. In her emotionally sensitive state, Cathryn was subjected to all the sights and sounds associated with acute medical crisis. The beep of the cardiac monitors mixed with the cries of terrified children. Everywhere there was a profusion of tubes, bottles, and hissing machines. It was an alien world populated with a bustling staff who seemed, to Cathryn, to be unreasonably detached from the horror around them. The fact that these children were being helped in the long run was lost on Cathryn.
Pausing to catch her breath in a narrow hallway lined with windows, Cathryn realized that she was crossing from one building to another within the medical center. The hall was a peaceful bridge. She was alone for a moment until a man in a wheelchair with DISPATCHER written across the back motored past her. Glass test tubes and jars filled with all sorts of body fluid samples jangled in a metal rack. He smiled, and Cathryn smiled back. She felt better. Fortified, she continued on.
The Marshall Memorial isolation unit was easier for Cathryn to deal with. All the doors to the rooms were closed and there were no patients to be seen. Cathryn approached the nurses’ station which seemed more like a ticket counter at a modern airport than the nerve center for a hospital ward. It was a large square area with a bank of TV monitors. A clerk looked up and cheerfully asked if he could help her.
“I’m looking for the Schonhauser boy,” said Cathryn.
“Five twenty-one,” said the clerk pointing.
Cathryn thanked him and walked over to the closed door. She knocked softly. “Just go right in,” called the clerk. “But don’t forget your gown.”
Cathryn tried the door. It opened and she found herself in a small anteroom with shelving for linen and other supplies, a medicine locker, a sink, and a large soiled-laundry hamper. Beyond the hamper was another closed door containing a small glass window. Before Cathryn could move, the inner door opened and a gowned, masked figure stepped into the room. With rapid movements the individual discarded the paper mask and hood in the trash. It was a young nurse with red hair and freckles.
“Hi,” she said. The gloves went into the trash, the gown into the hamper. “You going in to see Tad?”
“I was hoping to,” said Cathryn. “Is Mrs. Schonhauser in there, too?”
“Yup, she’s here every day, poor woman. Don’t forget your gown. Very strict reverse precautions.”
“I…” started Cathryn, but the harried nurse was already through the door.
Cathryn searched through the shelves until she found the hoods and the masks. She put them on, feeling ridiculous. The gown was next but she put it on like a coat. The rubber gloves were more difficult and she never got the left one all the way on. With the half-empty fingers dangling from her hand, she opened the inner door.
The first thing she saw was a large plastic enclosure like a cage surrounding the bed. Although the plastic fragmented the image, Cathryn was able to make out Tad Schonhauser’s form. In the raw fluorescent light the boy was a pale, slightly greenish color. There was a low hiss of oxygen. Marge Schonhauser was seated to the left of the bed, reading by the window.
“Marge,” whispered Cathryn.
The masked and gowned woman looked up. “Yes?” she said.
“It’s Cathryn.”
“Cathryn?”
“Cathryn Martel.”
“For goodness sake,” said Marge when she was able to associate the name. She got up and put her book down. Taking Cathryn’s hand, she led her back into the anteroom. Before the door closed behind them Cathryn looked back at Tad. The boy had not moved although his eyes were open.
“Thank you for coming,” said Marge. “I really appreciate it.”
“How is he?” asked Cathryn. The strange room, the gowning… it wasn’t encouraging.
“Very bad,” said Marge. She pulled off her mask. Her face was drawn and tense; her eyes red and swollen. “He had a marrow transplant twice from Lisa but it hasn’t worked. Not at all.”
“I spoke to Nancy this morning,” said Cathryn. “I had no idea he was this sick.” Cathryn could sense the emotion within Marge. It was just beneath the surface like a volcano, ready to erupt.
“I’d never even heard of aplastic anemia,” said Marge, trying to laugh. But the tears came instead. Cathryn found herself crying in sympathy, and the two women stood there for several minutes weeping on each other’s shoulder. Finally Marge sighed, pulled back slightly, and looked at Cathryn’s face. “Oh, it is good of you to come. You don’t know how much I appreciate it. One of the difficult things about serious illness is that people ignore you.”
“But I had no idea,” repeated Cathryn remorsefully.
“I’m not blaming you,” said Marge. “I just mean people in general. I suppose they just don’t know what to say or maybe they are afraid of the unknown, but it happens when you need people the most.”
“I’m terribly sorry,” said Cathryn, at a loss for something to say. She wished she’d called weeks ago. Marge was older than she, closer to Charles’s age. But they got along well, and Marge had been gracious and helpful when Cathryn had first come to Shaftesbury. The other New Englanders had been very cold.
“I don’t mean to take it out on you,” said Marge, “but I feel so upset. The doctors told me this morning that Tad might be terminal. They’re trying to prepare me. I don’t want him to suffer, but I don’t want him to die.”
Cathryn was stunned. Terminal? Die? These were words that referred to old people, not to a young boy who just a few weeks ago was in their kitchen bursting with life and energy. With difficulty she resisted an urge to run back downstairs. Instead she hugged Marge.
“I just can’t help but ask why,” sobbed Marge, struggling to control herself and allowing Cathryn to hold her. “They say the good Lord has His reasons, but I’d like to know why. He was such a good boy. It seems so unfair.”
Marshaling her strength, Cathryn began to talk. She hadn’t planned what she was going to say. It just came out. She talked about God and death in a way that surprised her because she wasn’t religious in the traditional sense. She’d been brought up a Catholic and had even talked briefly of becoming a nun when she was ten. But during college she had rebelled against the ritual of the Church and had become an agnostic of sorts, not bothering to examine her beliefs. Yet she must have made sense because Marge responded; whether it was to the content or just the human companionship, Cathryn didn’t know. But Marge calmed down and even managed a weak smile.
“I’ve got to go,” said Cathryn finally. “I’ve got to meet Michelle. But I’ll be back and I’ll call tonight, I promise.” Marge nodded and kissed Cathryn before going back in with her son. Cathryn stepped out into the hall. She stood by the door breathing rapidly. The hospital had lived up to her fears after all.
“It doesn’t seem to me that we have a whole lot of choice,” said Ellen as she put her coffee mug on the counter. She was sitting on a laboratory stool, looking down at Charles who was slumped in his chair before his desk. “It’s a shame to have to slow down on our work at this point, but what can we do? Maybe we should have kept Morrison informed of our progress.”
“No,” said Charles. His elbows were on the desk, his face in his hands, his coffee untouched. “If we’d done that he would have stopped us a dozen times to write some goddamned paper. We’d be years behind.”
“That’s the only way this could have been avoided,” said Ellen. She reached out and put her hand on Charles’s arm. Perhaps more than anyone, she realized how difficult this was for him. He detested any interference with his work, particularly an administrative interference. “But you’re right. If they had known what we were doing, they would have been in here every day.” She kept her hand on his arm. “It will be all right. We’ll just slow down a little.”
Charles looked up into Ellen’s eyes, which were so dark that the pupils merged with the irises. He was acutely aware of her hand. Since their affair she’d scrupulously avoided touching him. Now in the same morning she’d accused him of insensitivity and held his arm: such confusing signals. “This Canceran nonsense is going to take some time,” he said. “Six months to a year, and that’s only if everything goes very smoothly.”
“Why not do Canceran and our own work?” said Ellen. “We can extend our hours, work nights. I’ll be willing to do it for you.”
Charles stood up. Work nights? He looked at this woman whom he vaguely remembered sleeping with; it seemed so long ago. Her skin had been that same olive color as Elizabeth’s and Michelle’s. Although he had been physically attracted to Ellen, it had never seemed right with her; they were partners, coworkers, colleagues, not lovers. It had been an awkward affair; their lovemaking clumsy, like adolescents. Cathryn wasn’t as beautiful as Ellen but from the beginning it was more comfortable, more fulfilling.
“I’ve got a better idea,” said Charles. “Why don’t I go over Morrison’s head to the director and just lay the cards on the table, explain that it’s infinitely more important for us to stay with our own work.”
“I can’t imagine it will help,” cautioned Ellen. “Morrison told you the decision came from the board of directors. Dr. Ibanez is not going to reverse that. I think you’re just asking for trouble.”
“And I think it’s worth the risk. Help me get the lab books together. I’ll show him what we’ve been doing.”
Ellen slid off her stool and walked toward the door to the hall.
“Ellen?” called Charles, surprised by her actions.
She didn’t stop. “Just do what you want, Charles. You always do anyway.” The door closed behind her.
Charles’s first impulse was to go after her. But the impulse cooled quickly. He’d expected her support. Besides, he had more important things to do than worry about Ellen’s moods and behavior. Angrily, he put her out of his mind and concentrated on getting the main protocol book from his desk and the most recent data books from the workbench. Rehearsing what he would say, Charles headed back up the fire stairs.
The row of administrative secretaries warily monitored his progress down the hall. The entire group knew that he had been ordered to take over the Canceran study and that he wasn’t happy with the idea.
Charles ignored the stares although he felt like a wolf in a chicken coop as he approached Dr. Carlos Ibanez’s secretary, Miss Veronica Evans. Befitting her status, her area was separated from the rest of the room with paneled dividers. She’d been at the Weinburger even longer than Ibanez. She was a well-groomed woman of hefty proportions and indeterminate late middle age.
“I’d like to see the director,” said Charles in a no-nonsense voice.
“Do you have an appointment?” No one intimidated Miss Evans.
“Just tell him I’m here,” said Charles.
“I’m afraid…” began Miss Evans.
“If you don’t tell him I’m here, I’m going to barge right in.” Charles’s voice was stiffly controlled.
Marshaling one of her famous, disdainful expressions, Miss Evans reluctantly got up and disappeared within the inner office. When she reappeared, she merely held the door ajar and motioned Charles inside.
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.