Fever

Six

Clutching the flask of Michelle’s blood, Charles hurried through the foyer of the Weinburger Institute. He ignored greetings by the coy receptionist and the security guard and ran down the corridor to his lab.

“Thanks for coming back,” taunted Ellen. “I could have used some help injecting the mice with the Canceran.”

Charles ignored her, carrying the vial of Michelle’s blood over to the apparatus they used to separate the cellular components of blood. He began the complicated process of priming the unit.

Bending down to peer at Charles beneath the glassware shelving, Ellen watched for a moment. “Hey,” she called. “I said I could have used some help…”

Charles switched on a circulatory pump.

Wiping her hands, Ellen came around the end of the workbench, curious to see the object of Charles’s obvious intense concentration. “I finished injecting the first batch of mice,” she repeated when she was close enough to be absolutely certain Charles could hear her.

“Wonderful,” said Charles without interest. Carefully he introduced an aliquot of Michelle’s blood into the machine. Then he switched on the compressor.

“What are you doing?” Ellen followed all his movements.

“Michelle has myeloblastic leukemia,” said Charles. He spoke evenly, like he was giving the weather report.

“Oh, no!” gasped Ellen. “Charles, I’m so sorry.” She wanted to reach out and comfort him but she restrained herself.

“Amazing, isn’t it?” laughed Charles. “If the day’s disasters had remained localized to the problems here at the Weinburger, I’d probably just cry. But with Michelle’s illness, everything is a bit overwhelming. Christ!”

Charles’s laughter had a hollow ring to it but it struck Ellen as somewhat inappropriate.

“Are you all right?” asked Ellen.

“Wonderful,” said Charles as he opened their small refrigerator for clinical reagents.

“How does Michelle feel?”

“Pretty good right now but she has no idea of what she’s in for. I’m afraid it’s going to be bad.”

Ellen found herself at a loss for words. She blankly watched Charles as he went about completing his test. Finally she found her tongue. “Charles, what are you doing?”

“I have some of Michelle’s blood. I’m going to see if our method of isolating a cancer antigen works on her leukemic cells. It gives me the mistaken impression I’m doing something to help her.”

“Oh, Charles,” said Ellen sympathetically. There was something pitiful about the way he acknowledged his vulnerability. Ellen knew how much of an activist he was and Charles had told her the feeling of powerlessness was what had been the hardest for him when Elizabeth was ill. He had been forced to just sit and watch her die. And now Michelle!

“I’ve decided we aren’t going to stop our own work,” said Charles. “We’ll continue while we work on Canceran. Work nights if we have to.”

“But Morrison is very insistent about exclusively concentrating on Canceran,” said Ellen. “In fact, he came by while you were out to emphasize that.” For a moment Ellen debated about telling Charles the real reason Morrison stopped by, but with everything else that had happened, she was afraid to.

“I couldn’t care less what Morrison says. With Michelle’s illness, cancer has, once again, become more than a metaphysical concept for me. Our work has so much more promise than developing another chemotherapeutic agent. Besides, Morrison doesn’t even have to know what we’re doing. We’ll do the Canceran work and he’ll be happy.”

“I’m not sure you realize how much the administration is counting on Canceran,” said Ellen. “I really don’t think it’s advisable to go against them on this, particularly when the reason is personal.”

For a moment Charles froze, then he exploded. He slammed his open palm against the slate countertop with such force that several beakers tumbled off the overhead shelves. “That’s enough,” he yelled to punctuate his blow. “I’ve had enough of people telling me what to do. If you don’t want to work with me, then just get the fuck out of here!”

Abruptly Charles turned back to his work, running a nervous hand through his disheveled hair. For a few moments he worked in silence, then without turning he said, “Don’t just stand there; get me the radioactive labeled nucleotides.”

Ellen walked over to the radioactive storage area. As she opened the lock, she noticed that her hands were trembling. Obviously Charles was just barely in control of himself. She wondered what she was going to say to Dr. Morrison. She was certain she wanted to say something, because as her fear abated her anger grew. There was no excuse for Charles to treat her as he did. She wasn’t a servant.

She brought the chemicals over and arrayed them on the counter.

“Thank you,” he said simply, as if nothing had happened. “As soon as we have some B-lymphocytes I want to incubate them with the tagged nucleotides and some of the leukemic cells.”

Ellen nodded. She couldn’t keep pace with such rapid emotional changes.

“While I was driving over here, I had an inspiration,” continued Charles. “The biggest hurdle in our work has been this blocking factor and our inability to elicit an antibody response to the cancer antigen in the cancerous animal. Well, I have an idea; I was trying to think of ways of saving time. Why not inject the cancer antigen into a related, noncancerous animal where we can be absolutely certain of an antibody response? What do you think about that?”

Ellen scrutinized Charles’s face. Within seconds he’d metamorphosed from an infuriated child to the dedicated researcher. Ellen guessed that it was his way of dealing with the tragedy of Michelle.

Without waiting for an answer, Charles went on: “As soon as the noncancerous animal is immune to the cancer antigen, we’ll isolate the responsible T-lymphocytes, purify the transfer factor protein, and transfer sensitivity to the cancerous animal. It’s so fundamentally simple, I can’t believe we didn’t think of it before. Well… what’s your impression?”

Ellen shrugged. In truth she was fearful of saying anything. Although the basic premise sounded promising, Ellen knew that the mysterious transfer factor did not work well in the animal systems they were using; in fact, it worked best with humans. But technical questions were not foremost in her mind. She wondered if it would be too obvious if she excused herself and went directly up to Dr. Morrison’s office.

“How about getting the polyethylene glycol?” said Charles. “We’re going to want to set up the equipment to produce a hybridoma with Michelle’s T-lymphocytes. Also call the animal room and tell them we want a fresh batch of control mice, which we’ll inject with the mammary tumor antigen. God, I wish there were more than twenty-four hours in a day.”

“Pass the mashed potatoes,” said Jean Paul after debating with himself for several minutes whether to break the silence that had descended over the dinner table. No one had spoken since he announced that the duck he’d put in the garage was “deader than a doorknob, stiff as a board.” Ultimately his hunger had decided the issue.

“I’ll trade you for the pork chops,” said Chuck, tossing his head to remove some stringy hair from his eyes.

The boys exchanged platters. There was the clink of silver against china.

Gina Lorenzo, Cathryn’s mother, eyed her daughter’s family. Cathryn resembled her. They each had the same bony prominence on the bridge of the nose and the same large, expressive mouth. The major difference, other than the obvious twenty-plus years, was that Gina was so much heavier. She admitted she was twenty pounds overweight but in actuality it was more like sixty. Pasta was Gina’s passion and she was not one to deny herself.

Lifting the bowl of fettucini, Gina gestured as if she were about to add to Cathryn’s untouched plate. “You need some nourishment.”

Forcing a smile, Cathryn shook her head no.

“What’s the matter? You don’t like it?” asked Gina.

“It’s wonderful,” said Cathryn. “I’m just not very hungry.”

“You gotta eat,” said Gina. “You, too, Charles.”

Charles nodded.

“I brought fresh cannolis for dessert,” said Gina.

“Oh, boy!” said Jean Paul.

Dutifully Charles took a bite of the fettucini but his stomach rebelled. He let the pasta sit in his mouth before trying to swallow it. The reality of the day’s disasters had hit him with hurricane force once he’d left the frenzied environment he’d created in the lab. Work had been an emotional anesthetic and he had been sorry when it was time to pick up Chuck and drive home. And Chuck hadn’t helped. Charles had waited until they were out of the Boston rush hour traffic before telling his son that his sister had a very serious kind of leukemia. Chuck’s response had been a simple “Oh!” followed by silence. Then he had asked if there was any chance he might catch it.

At the time Charles did not say anything; he just gripped the steering wheel harder, marveling at the unabashed depths of his oldest son’s selfishness. Not once did Chuck ask how Michelle was doing. And now as Charles watched Chuck gobble his pork chops, he felt like reaching over and throwing the selfish kid out of the house.

But Charles didn’t move. Instead he began mechanically to chew his fettucini, embarrassed at his own thoughts. Chuck was immature. At least Jean Paul reacted appropriately. He’d cried and then asked when Michelle would be home and if he could go and see her. He was a good kid.

Charles looked at Cathryn, who kept her head down, pushing her food around her plate, pretending for her mother’s sake to be eating. He was thankful that he had her. He didn’t think he could handle Michelle’s illness by himself. At the same time he realized how difficult it was for Cathryn. For that reason he had not said anything about the troubles at the institute, nor did he plan to. She had enough to worry about.

“Have some more pork chops, Charles,” said Gina, reaching over and unceremoniously plopping a chop on his full plate.

He had tried to say no but the chop had already entered its ballistic arc. He looked away, trying to stay calm. Charles found Gina trying even under the best of circumstances, especially since the woman had never concealed her disapproval of her only daughter marrying a man thirteen years her senior with three kids. Charles heard another telltale plop and opened his eyes to see his mound of fettucini had grown.

“There,” said Gina. “You need some more meat on your bones.”

Charles restrained himself from grabbing a handful of fettucini and throwing it back into the bowl.

“How do they know Michelle has leukemia?” asked Jean Paul guilelessly.

Everyone turned to Charles, having been afraid to ask the question.

“They looked at her blood, then examined her bone marrow.”

“Bone marrow?” questioned Chuck with disgust. “How do they get bone marrow to look at?”

Charles eyed his son, amazed at how easily Chuck could irritate him. To anyone else, Chuck’s question might seem innocent, but Charles was sure the boy was motivated by morbid interest and not concern for his sister. “They get bone marrow by ramming a largebore needle into the breast bone or the hipbone, then sucking the marrow out,” said Charles, hoping to shock Chuck into sympathy for Michelle.

“Ugh,” said Chuck. “Does it hurt?”

“Terribly,” said Charles.

Cathryn stiffened with a flash of imaginary pain, remembering that she’d been the one to consent to the test.

“God!” said Chuck. “Nobody is ever going to do a bone marrow on me!”

“I’m not so sure,” said Charles without thinking. “Michelle’s doctor wants both of you boys to go in to be tissue-typed. There’s a chance one of you may match Michelle and can be a donor for platelets, granulocytes, or even a marrow transplant.”

“Not me!” said Chuck, putting down his fork. “Nobody is going to stick no needle into my bones. No way!”

Slowly Charles placed his elbows on the table and leaned toward Chuck. “I’m not asking if you’re interested, Charles Jr. I’m telling you that you’re going into Pediatric Hospital to be tissue-typed. Do you understand me?”

“This is hardly a discussion for the dinner table,” interrupted Cathryn.

“Will they really stick a needle into my bone?” asked Jean Paul.

“Charles, please!” shouted Cathryn. “This is no way to talk to Chuck about this kind of thing!”

“No? Well, I’m sick and tired of his selfishness,” cried Charles. “He hasn’t voiced one word of concern for Michelle.”

“Why me?” yelled Chuck. “Why do I have to be a donor? You’re the father. Why can’t you be the donor, or are big-shit doctors not allowed to donate marrow?”

Charles leaped to his feet in blind fury, pointing a quivering finger at Chuck. “Your selfishness is only rivaled by your ignorance. You’re supposed to have had biology. The father only donates half of the chromosomes to a child. There is no way I could match Michelle. If I could I’d change places with her.”

“Sure! Sure!” taunted Chuck. “Talk’s cheap.”

Charles started around the table, but Cathryn leaped up and caught him. “Charles, please,” she said bursting into tears. “Calm down!”

Chuck was frozen in his chair, gripping the sides with white knuckles. He knew that only Cathryn stood between him and disaster.

“In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Ghost,” said Gina, crossing herself. “Charles! Beg the Lord for forgiveness. Don’t abet the devil’s work.”

“Oh, Christ!” shouted Charles. “Now we get a sermon!”

“Don’t tempt the Lord,” said Gina with conviction.

“To hell with God,” shouted Charles, breaking free of Cathryn’s grip. “What kind of God gives a defenseless twelve-year-old leukemia?”

“You cannot question the Lord’s way,” said Gina solemnly.

“Mother!” cried Cathryn. “That’s enough!”

Charles’s face flushed crimson. His mouth voiced some inaudible words before he abruptly spun on his heels, wrenched open the back door, and stormed out into the night. The door slammed with a jolting finality that shook the bric-a-brac in the living room.

Cathryn quickly pulled herself together for the children’s sake, busying herself with clearing the table and keeping her face averted.

“Such blasphemy!” said Gina with disbelief. Her hand was pressed against her bosom. “I’m afraid Charles has opened himself to the devil.”

“How about a cannoli?” asked Jean Paul, carrying his plate to the sink.

With his father gone, Chuck felt a sense of exhilaration. He knew now that he could stand up against his father and win. Watching Cathryn clear the table, he tried to catch her eye. She had to have noticed how he stood his ground, and Chuck certainly noticed how Cathryn had backed him up. Pushing back his chair, he carried his plate to the sink and dutifully ran water over it.

Charles fled from the house with no goal other than to escape the infuriating atmosphere. Crunching through the crusted snow, he ran down toward the pond. The New England weather, true to form, had completely changed. The northeastern storm had blown out to sea and was replaced by an arctic front that froze everything in its tracks. Despite the fact he had been running, he could feel a raw chill, especially since he’d not taken the time to get his coat. Without a conscious decision, he veered left toward Michelle’s playhouse, noting that the change in the wind had effectively eliminated the smell from the chemical factory. Thank God!

After stamping his feet on the porch to remove any snow. Charles bent over and entered the miniature house. The interior was only ten feet long and a central archway divided it roughly in two: one-half was the living room with a built-in banquette; the other the kitchen, with a small table and sink. The playhouse had running water (in the summer) and one electrical outlet. From about age six to nine Michelle had made tea here for Charles on Sunday summer afternoons. The small hotplate she used was still working and Charles switched it on for a little heat.

Sitting down on the banquette, he stretched his legs out and crossed them, conserving as much body heat as possible. Still he soon began to shiver. The doll’s house was only a refuge from the icy wind, not from the cold.

As the solitude had the desired effect, Charles quickly calmed down, admitting that he had handled Chuck badly. Charles knew he had yet to come to terms with the disastrous day. He marveled how he had allowed himself to be lulled into a false sense of security over the last few years. He thought back to the morning… making love with Cathryn. In just twelve hours all the threads of his carefully organized world had unraveled.

Leaning forward so he could look up through the front window, Charles gazed at the canopy of sky. It had become a clear, star-studded night, and he could see forever, out into distant galaxies. The sight was beautiful but lifeless and all at once Charles felt an overwhelming sense of futility and loneliness. His eyes filled with tears, and he leaned back so that he couldn’t see the terrible beauty of the winter sky. Instead he looked out over the snow-covered landscape of the frozen pond. Immediately in front of him was the area of open water Jean Paul had asked about that morning.

Charles marveled at the depths of his loneliness, as if Michelle had already been taken from him. He didn’t understand these feelings although he guessed it might have something to do with guilt; if he had only been more attentive to Michelle’s symptoms; if he had only paid more attention to his family; if he had only carried out his research faster.

He wished he could put everything aside and just work on his own project. Maybe he could find a cure in time for Michelle. But Charles knew that was an impossible goal. Besides, he could not oppose Dr. Ibanez so openly. He could not afford to lose his job or the use of his lab. Suddenly Charles understood the directors’ cleverness in putting him on the Canceran project. Charles was disliked because of his unorthodoxy, but he was respected because of his scientific ability. Charles was a foil who lent the desired legitimacy that the project needed and a perfect scapegoat if the project failed. It was a decision of administrative genius.

In the distance Charles heard Cathryn’s voice calling his name. In the frigid air the sound was almost metallic. Charles didn’t move. One second he felt like crying, the next so weak that physical activity of any sort was impossible. What was he going to do about Michelle? If the chance of a remission faded, could he stand to watch her suffer with the treatment?

He moved over to the window and scraped off the frost his breath had created. Through the clear areas he could see the silver-blue snowscape and the patch of water directly in front of him. Guessing that the temperature was close to zero, Charles began to wonder about that open water. His original explanation to Jean Paul that morning had been that the current prevented it from icing over. But that was when the temperature hovered about the freezing mark. Now it was some thirty degrees below that. Charles wondered whether there was much current at that time of year. In the spring when the snows melted in the mountain to the north, the river raged and the pond rose by a foot-and-a-half. Then there would be current, not now.

Suddenly Charles was aware of a sweet aromatic smell. It had been there all the time but had not penetrated his consciousness until that moment. It was vaguely familiar, but out of context. He’d smelled it before, but where?

Eager for a distraction, Charles began to sniff around. The odor was about equal in intensity in the two rooms and strongest near the floor. Sniffing repeatedly, Charles tried to place the smell in his past. Suddenly it came to him: organic chemistry lab in college! He was smelling an organic solvent like benzene, toluene, or xylene. But what was it doing in the playhouse?

Braving the cold wind, Charles went out into the knife-sharp night. With his right hand he clutched his sweater tightly around his neck. Outside the aromatic odor was diminished because of the wind, but by bending down at the side of the playhouse, Charles determined the smell was coming from the partially frozen mud around and under the structure. Making his way down to the pond’s edge, Charles scooped up some of the icy water and brought it to his nose. There was no mistaking it: the smell was coming from the pond.

He followed the gradual curve of the pond, walking along the edge of the open water to the point where it merged with the inlet from the river. Bending down again, he brought some water to his nose. The odor was stronger. Breaking into a jog, Charles followed the inlet to the juncture with the Pawtomack River. It, too, was unfrozen. Again, Charles brought a sample to his nose. The odor was even more intense. The smell was coming from the river. Standing up, shaking from the cold, Charles stared upstream. Recycle, Ltd., the plastic/rubber recycling plant was up there. Charles knew from his chemistry background that benzene was used as a solvent for both plastics and rubber.

Benzene!

A powerful thought gripped his mind: Benzene causes leukemia; in fact it causes myeloblastic leukemia! Turning his head, Charles’s eyes followed the trail of the unfrozen, open water. It led directly to the playhouse: the one spot Michelle had spent more time than any other.

Like a crazed man, Charles sprinted for the house. The uneven snow tripped him and he fell headlong, landing on his chest with his palms outstretched. He was unhurt save for a cut on his chin. Picking himself up, he ran more slowly.

When he reached the house, he thundered up the back steps and banged open the door.

Cathryn, already taut as a tightened bowstring, involuntarily shrieked as Charles hurled himself breathlessly into the kitchen. The dish she was holding slipped from her hands and shattered on the floor.

“I want a container,” gasped Charles, ignoring Cathryn’s reaction.

Gina appeared at the door to the dining room, her face reflecting terror. Chuck materialized behind her, then pushed past to gain access to the kitchen. He stepped between Charles and Cathryn. He didn’t care if his father was bigger than he was.

Charles’s breathing was labored. After a few seconds, he was able to repeat his request.

“A container?” asked Cathryn who’d regained some of her composure. “What kind of a container?”

“Glass,” said Charles. “Glass with a tight top.”

“What for?” asked Cathryn. It seemed like an absurd request.

“For pond water,” said Charles.

Jean Paul appeared beside Gina who stuck out her arm to keep him from entering the kitchen.

“Why do you want pond water?” asked Cathryn.

“Christ!” managed Charles. “Is this an interrogation?” He started for the refrigerator.

Chuck tried to step in his way, but Charles merely swept the boy out of his path. Chuck stumbled, and Cathryn grabbed his arm, keeping him from falling.

Charles turned at the commotion and saw Cathryn restraining his son. “What the hell is going on here?” he demanded.

Chuck struggled for an instant, glaring at his father.

Charles looked from one face to another. Gina and Jean Paul looked shocked; Chuck, furious; and Cathryn, frightened. But no one spoke. It was as if the scene was a freeze frame in a motion picture. Charles shook his head in disbelief and turned his attention to the refrigerator.

He pulled out a jar of apple juice and closed the door. Without a moment’s hesitation he dumped the remaining contents down the sink, rinsed the jar thoroughly, and yanked his sheepskin coat off its hook. At the door he turned to glance at his family. No one had moved. Charles had no idea what was happening but since he knew what he wanted to do, he left, closing the door on the strange scene.

Releasing her hold on Chuck, Cathryn stared blankly at the door, her mind going over the disturbing discussion she’d had with Dr. Keitzman and Dr. Wiley. She’d thought their questions about Charles’s emotions had been ridiculous, but now she wasn’t so sure. Certainly, flying out of the house in anger in the dead of winter without a coat, only to return a half hour later in great excitement, looking for a container for pond water, was curious at best.

“I’d never let him hurt you,” said Chuck. He pushed back his hair with a nervous hand.

“Hurt me?” said Cathryn, taken by surprise. “Your father’s not going to hurt me!”

“I’m afraid he’s let in the devil,” said Gina. “Once he’s done that, you can’t tell what he’s going to do.”

“Mother, please!” cried Cathryn.

“Is Charles going to have a nervous breakdown?” teased Jean Paul from the doorway.

“He’s already had one,” answered Chuck.

“That’s enough of that,” said Cathryn sternly. “I don’t want to hear any disrespect for your father. Michelle’s illness has upset him terribly.”

Cathryn directed her attention to the broken dish. Was Charles having a nervous breakdown? Cathryn decided she’d discuss the possibility with Dr. Wiley in the morning. It was a terrifying thought.

Gingerly crossing the partially frozen mud, Charles approached the water’s edge, then filled the jar. He screwed the cap on tightly before running back to the house.

Although the suddenness of his arrival surprised Cathryn, it had nowhere near the effect of his previous entrance. By the time Charles got to the refrigerator, Cathryn could react, and she reached out and grasped his arm.

“Charles, tell me what you are doing.”

“There’s benzene in the pond,” hissed Charles, shaking off her grasp. He put the jar of pond water in the refrigerator. “And you can smell it in the playhouse.”

Charles whirled back to the door. Cathryn ran after him, managing to get hold of his coat. “Charles, where are you going? What’s the matter with you?”

With unnecessary force, Charles wrenched his coat free. “I’m going to Recycle, Ltd. That’s where the goddamn benzene is coming from. I’m sure of it.”