Fever

Seven

Charles pulled the red Pinto off Main Street and stopped in front of the gate in the hurricane fence surrounding Recycle, Ltd. The gate was unlocked and opened easily. He stepped back into his car and drove into the factory’s parking area.

The evening shift couldn’t have been too large because there were only a half dozen or so beat-up cars near the entrance to the old brick mill building. To the left of the factory, the huge piles of discarded tires rose up like miniature snowcapped mountains. Between the used tires and the building were smaller heaps of plastic and vinyl debris. To the right of the factory was a rubbish-strewn, empty lot bisected by the hurricane fence that ran down to the Pawtomack River. Beyond the fence the deserted mill buildings stretched for a quarter of a mile to the north.

As soon as Charles got out of his car, he was enveloped by the same stench that had assaulted his house that morning. It amazed him that people could live to the immediate west of town, the direction of the prevailing winds. Locking the car, he started toward the entrance, an unimposing aluminum storm door. Above it,

was written in block letters. Taped to the inside of the glass was a cardboard sign which said: INQUIRIES, followed by a local telephone number.

Charles tried the door, which was unlocked. If he had thought the odor bad outside, inside it was far worse. He found himself choking on the heavy, chemical-laden air in a small office of sorts. It was a plywood-veneer paneled room with a beat-up Formica counter that held a wire letter basket and a stainless steel bell, the kind you hit with the palm of your hand. Charles did just that, but the noise was swallowed up by the hisses and rumbles coming from within the factory proper.

Charles decided to try the inner door. At first it wouldn’t open but when he pulled more forcibly it swung inward. As soon as it opened, Charles saw why it was insulated. It was as if it were a portal into hell itself. The combination of stench and noise was overpowering.

Charles entered a huge two-story-high room, poorly lit and dominated by a row of gigantic pressure-cooker-type apparatus. Metal ladders and catwalks ascended and crisscrossed in bewildering confusion. Large, clanking conveyor belts brought in piles of plastic and vinyl debris mixed with all sorts of disagreeable trash. The first people Charles saw were a pair of sweating men in sleeveless undershirts, with black-smudged faces like coal miners, sorting out the glass, wooden objects, and empty cans from the plastic.

“Is there a manager here?” yelled Charles, trying to be heard over the din.

One of the men looked up for an instant, indicated that he couldn’t hear, then went back to his sorting. Apparently the conveyor belt didn’t stop and they had to keep up with it. At the end of the belt was a large hopper which, when full, would rise up, position itself over an available pressure cooker, and dump its contents of plastic scrap. Charles saw a man with a large, scimitarlike knife up on the catwalk slit open two bags of chemicals, one white, the other black. With what appeared like great effort he dumped the two bags into the ovens in a great cloud of dust. For a moment the man disappeared from view. When he reappeared, he had closed the hatch and activated the steam, sending a fresh mixture of smoke, odor, and noise into the room.

Although Charles couldn’t get anyone’s attention, no one asked him to leave, either. Boldly he skirted the conveyor belts, keeping his eyes on the floor which was strewn with trash and puddles of oil and grease. He passed a cinder-block wall housing the automated machinery bringing in the tires to be melted down. It was from this area that the smell that Charles associated with the factory originated. Up close it was far more powerful.

Just beyond the wall, Charles found a large wire cage secured with a stout padlock. It was obviously a storeroom because Charles could see shelving with spare parts, tools, and containers of industrial chemicals. The walls were made of the same material that formed the hurricane fence outside. Charles put his fingers through the mesh to support himself while he scanned the labels on the containers. He found what he was looking for directly in front of him. There were two steel drums with benzene stenciled on the sides. There were also the familiar skull and crossbone decals warning that the contents were poisonous. As he looked at the drums, Charles was shaken by a new wave of rage.

A hand gripped Charles’s shoulder and he spun about, flattening himself against the wire mesh.

“What can I do for you?” yelled a huge man trying to be heard over the thunderous din of the machinery. But the instant he spoke, a whistle blew above one of the plastic pressure cookers as it completed its cycle, making further conversation impossible. It burst open and belched forth an enormous amount of black, viscous, depolymerized plastic. The hot liquid was poured into cooling vats sending up billows of acrid vapors.

Charles looked at the man in front of him. He was a full head taller than Charles. His perspiring face was so pudgy that his eyes were mere slits. He was dressed like the other men Charles had seen. His sleeveless undershirt was stretched over a beer belly of awesome dimensions. The man was supporting a dolly, and Charles noticed his massive forearms were professionally tattooed with hula dancers. On the back of his left hand was a swastika that he had apparently done himself.

As soon as the noise level sank to its usual deafening pitch, the worker tried again. “You checking our chemicals?” He had to shout.

Charles nodded.

“I think we need more carbon black,” yelled the man.

Charles realized that the man thought he belonged there.

“What about the benzene?” yelled Charles.

“We got plenty of benzene. That comes in the hundred-gallon drums.”

“What do you do with it after you use it?”

“You mean the ‘spent’ benzene? C’mere, I’ll show you.”

The man leaned his dolly against the wire cage and led Charles across the main room, between two of the rubber ovens where the radiant heat was intense. They ducked under an overhang and entered a hallway that led to a lunch room where the noise was somewhat less. There were two picnic tables, a soda dispenser, and a cigarette machine. Between the soda dispenser and the cigarette machine was a window. The man brought Charles over to it and pointed outside. “See those tanks out there?”

Charles cupped his hands around his eyes and peered out. About fifty feet away and quite close to the riverbank were two cylindrical tanks. Even with the bright moon, he couldn’t see any details.

“Does any of the benzene go in the river?” asked Charles, turning back to the worker.

“Most of it is trucked away to God-knows-where. But you know those disposal companies. When the tanks get too full, we drain them into the river; it’s no problem. We do it at night and it washes right away. Goes out to the ocean. To tell you the truth…” The man leaned over as if he were telling a secret: “I think that fucking disposal company dumps it into the river, too. And they charge a goddamn fortune.”

Charles felt his jaw tighten. He could see Michelle in the hospital bed with the IV running into her arm.

“Where’s the manager?” asked Charles, suddenly displaying his anger.

“Manager?” questioned the worker. He regarded Charles curiously.

“Foreman, supervisor. Whoever’s in charge,” snapped Charles.

“You mean the super,” said the worker. “Nat Archer. He’s in his office.”

“Show me where it is,” ordered Charles.

The worker regarded Charles quizzically, then turned and retraced their route to the main room where he indicated a windowed door at the end of a metal catwalk one flight up. “Up there,” he said simply.

Ignoring the worker, Charles ran for the metal stairs. The worker watched him for a moment, then turned and picked up an in-house telephone.

Outside of the office, Charles hesitated for a moment, then tried the door. It opened easily and he entered. The office was like a soundproofed crow’s nest with windows that looked out on the whole operation. As Charles came through the door, Nat Archer twisted in his chair, then stood up smiling in obvious puzzlement.

Charles was about to shout at the man when he realized he knew him. He was the father of Steve Archer, a close friend of Jean Paul’s. The Archers were one of Shaftesbury’s few black families.

“Charles Martel!” said Nat, extending his hand. “You’re about the last person I expected to come through that door.” Nat was a friendly, outgoing man who moved in a slow, controlled fashion, like a restrained athlete.

Taken off balance in finding someone he knew, Charles stammered that he wasn’t making a social call.

“Okay,” said Nat, eyeing Charles more closely. “Why don’t you sit down?”

“I’ll stand,” said Charles. “I want to know who owns Recycle, Ltd.”

Nat hesitated. When he finally spoke he sounded wary. “Breur Chemicals of New Jersey is the parent company. Why do you ask?”

“Who’s the manager here?”

“Harold Dawson out on Covered Bridge Road. Charles, I think you should tell me what this is all about. Maybe I can save you some trouble.”

Charles examined the foreman who’d folded his arms across his chest, assuming a stiff, defensive posture in contrast to his initial friendliness.

“My daughter was diagnosed to have leukemia today.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” said Nat, confusion mixing with empathy.

“I’ll bet you are,” said Charles. “You people have been dumping benzene into the river. Benzene causes leukemia.”

“What are you talking about? We haven’t been dumping benzene. The stuff gets hauled away.”

“Don’t give me any of your bullshit,” snapped Charles.

“I think you’d better get your ass out of here, man.”

“I’ll tell you what I’m going to do,” fumed Charles. “I’m going to see that this shithole factory gets closed down!”

“What’s the matter with you? You crazy or something? I told you we don’t dump nothing.”

“Hah! That big guy downstairs with the tattoos specifically told me you dumped benzene. So don’t try to deny it.”

Nat Archer picked up his phone. He told Wally Crab to get up to his office on the double. Dropping the receiver onto the cradle he turned back to Charles. “Man, you gotta have your head examined. Coming in here in the middle of the night, spoutin’ off about benzene. What’s the matter? Nothing good on the tube tonight? I mean I’m sorry about your kid. But really, you’re trespassing here.”

“This factory is a hazard to the whole community.”

“Yeah? Well, I’m not so sure the community agrees with you.”

Wally Crab came through the door as if he expected a fire. He skidded to a halt.

“Wally, this man says you told him we dumped benzene in the river.”

“Hell no!” said Wally, out of breath. “I told him the benzene is taken away by the Draper Brothers Disposal.”

“You fucking liar!” shouted Charles.

“Nobody calls me a fucking liar,” growled Wally, starting for Charles.

“Ease off!” yelled Nat, putting a hand on Wally’s chest.

“You told me,” shouted Charles pointing an accusing finger in Wally’s angered face, “when the tanks are too full, you drain them into the river at night. That’s all I need. I’m going to shut this place down.”

“Cool it!” yelled Nat, releasing Wally and grasping Charles’s arm instead. He started walking Charles to the door.

“Get your hands off me,” Charles shouted as he pulled free. Then he shoved Nat away from him.

Nat recovered his balance and thrust Charles back against the wall of the small office.

“Don’t you ever touch me again,” said Nat.

Charles had the intuitive sense to stay still.

“Let me give you some advice,” said Nat. “Don’t cause trouble around here. You’re trespassing, and if you ever come back, you’ll be very sorry. Now get the hell out of here before we throw you out.”

For a minute Charles didn’t know if he wanted to run or fight. Then, realizing he had no choice, he turned and went thundering down the metal stairs, and through the nightmarish mechanical maze on the main floor. He strode through the office and burst outside, thankful for the cold and relatively clean air of the parking lot. Once in the car, he gunned the engine mercilessly before shooting out through the gate.

The farther he got from Recycle, Ltd., the less fear he felt and the more anger and humiliation. Pounding the steering wheel, he vowed he’d destroy the factory for Michelle’s sake no matter what it took. He tried to think of how he would go about doing it, but he was too irate to think clearly. The institute had a law firm on retainer; perhaps he’d start there.

Charles pulled off 301 into his driveway, pushing the accelerator to the floor, spinning the wheels and shooting gravel up inside the fenders. The car skidded first to one side and then the other. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the lace curtains of one of the living room windows part and Cathryn’s face come into view for a second. He skidded to a stop just beyond the back porch and turned off the ignition.

He sat for a moment, gripping the steering wheel, hearing the engine cool off in the icy air. The reckless drive had calmed his emotions and gave him a chance to think. Perhaps it had been stupid to charge up to Recycle, Ltd. at that time of night, although he had to admit he’d accomplished one thing: he knew for certain where the benzene in the pond was coming from. Yet now that he thought about it, he recognized that the real issue was taking care of Michelle and making the hard decisions about treatment. As a scientist he knew that the mere presence of benzene in the pond did not constitute proof that it had caused Michelle’s leukemia. No one had yet proved that benzene caused leukemia in humans, only in animals. Besides, Charles recognized that he was using Recycle, Ltd. to divert the hostility and anger caused by Michelle’s sickness.

Slowly he got out of the car, wishing once again that he’d worked faster over the last four to five years on his own research so that now he might have something to offer his daughter. Immersed in thought, he was startled when Cathryn met him in the doorway. Her face was awash with fresh tears, her chest trembling as she fought to control her sobs.

“What’s wrong?” asked Charles with horror. His first reaction was that something had happened to Michelle.

“Nancy Schonhauser called,” Cathryn managed to say. “Little Tad died this evening. That poor dear child.”

Charles reached out and drew his wife to him, comforting her. At first he felt a sense of relief as if Michelle had been spared. But then he remembered that the boy lived on the Pawtomack River just as they did, only closer to town.

“I thought I’d go over to see Marge,” continued Cathryn. “But she’s been hospitalized herself. She collapsed when they told her about Tad. Do you think I should go over to their house anyway and see if there is something I can do?”

Charles was no longer listening. Benzene caused aplastic anemia as well as leukemia! He’d forgotten about Tad. Now Michelle was no longer a single, isolated case of bone marrow disease. Charles wondered how many other families living along the course of the Pawtomack River had been struck. All the anger Charles had felt earlier returned in an overwhelming rush, and he broke free from Cathryn.

“Did you hear me?” asked Cathryn, abandoned in the center of the room. She watched Charles go over to the telephone directory, look up a number, and dial. He seemed to have forgotten she was there. “Charles,” called Cathryn. “I asked you a question.”

He looked at her uncomprehendingly until the connection went through. Then he directed his attention to the phone. “Is this Harold Dawson?” demanded Charles.

“It is,” returned the manager.

“My name is Dr. Charles Martel,” said Charles. “I was down at Recycle, Ltd. tonight.”

“I know,” said Harold. “Nat Archer called me a while ago. I’m sorry for any discourtesies you experienced. I wish you had made your visit during regular hours so I could have seen you.”

“Discourtesies don’t bother me,” snapped Charles. “But dumping toxic waste, like benzene, into the river does.”

“We are not dumping anything into the river,” said Harold emphatically. “All our toxic chemical permits have been filed with the EPA and are up to date.”

“Permits,” scoffed Charles. “There is benzene in the river and one of your workers said Recycle’s been dumping it. And benzene is damn toxic. My daughter has just come down with leukemia and a child just upriver from me died today of aplastic anemia. That’s no coincidence. I’m going to shut you people down. I hope to God you have a lot of insurance.”

“These are wild, irresponsible accusations,” said Harold evenly. “I should tell you that Recycle, Ltd. is a marginal operation of Breur Chemical Corporation and they maintain this facility because they feel they are doing the community a service. I can assure you that if they thought otherwise, they would close the factory down themselves.”

“Well, it goddamn well ought to be closed,” shouted Charles.

“One hundred and eighty workers in this town might disagree,” answered Harold, losing patience. “If you cause trouble, mister, I can guarantee you’ll get trouble.”

“I…” began Charles but he realized he was holding a dead phone. Harold Dawson had hung up.

“God!” Charles shouted as he furiously shook the receiver.

Cathryn took the phone away and replaced it in its cradle. She’d only heard Charles’s side of the conversation, but it had upset her. She forced him to sit down at the kitchen table, and she shooed her mother away when she’d appeared at the door. Her face was streaked with tears, but she was no longer crying.

“I think you’d better tell me about the benzene,” said Cathryn.

“It’s a poison,” fumed Charles. “It depresses the bone marrow somehow.”

“And you don’t have to eat it to be poisoned?”

“No. You don’t have to ingest it. All you have to do is inhale it. It goes directly into the bloodstream. Why did I have to make that playhouse out of the old ice shed?”

“And you think it could have caused Michelle’s leukemia?”

“I certainly do. Apparently she’s been inhaling benzene all the time she’s played there. Benzene causes the rare kind of leukemia that she has. It’s too much of a coincidence. Especially with Tad’s aplastic anemia.”

“The benzene could have caused that?”

“Absolutely.”

“And you think Recycle has been putting benzene into the river?”

“I know they have. That’s what I found out tonight. And they’re going to pay. I’ll get the place shut down.”

“And how are you going to do that?”

“I don’t know yet. I’ll talk to some people tomorrow. I’ll get in touch with the EPA. Somebody is going to want to hear about it.”

Cathryn studied Charles’s face, thinking of Dr. Keitzman’s and Dr. Wiley’s questions. “Charles,” began Cathryn, marshaling her courage. “This is all interesting and probably important but it seems to me that it’s a little inappropriate at this time.”

“Inappropriate?” echoed Charles with disbelief.

“Yes,” said Cathryn. “We’ve just learned that Michelle has leukemia. I think that the primary focus should be taking care of her, not trying to get a factory shut down. There will always be time for that, but Michelle needs you now.”

Charles stared at his young wife. She was a survivor, coping in a difficult situation with great effort. How could he hope to make her understand that the core of the problem was that he really didn’t have anything to offer Michelle except love? As a cancer researcher he knew too much about Michelle’s disease; as a physician he couldn’t be lured into false hope by the panoply of modern medicine; as a father he was terrified of what Michelle was going to face because he’d gone through a similar situation with his first wife. Yet Charles was an activist. He had to do something, and Recycle, Ltd. was there to keep from facing the reality of Michelle’s illness and his deteriorating situation at the Weinburger Institute.

Charles recognized that he couldn’t communicate all this to Cathryn because she probably wouldn’t understand it and if she did it would undermine her own hopes. Despite their intense love for each other, Charles accepted that he’d have to bear his burdens alone. The thought was crushing, and he collapsed in Cathryn’s arms.

“It’s been a terrible day,” whispered Cathryn, holding Charles as tightly as she could. “Let’s go to bed and try to sleep.”

Charles nodded, thinking, If I had only worked faster…

By a process so gradual as to be imperceptible, Michelle became aware that her room was lighter. The shade over the window now appeared dark with a light border rather than white with a dark border. Along with the gradual increase in illumination, the coming day was also heralded by the increased activity in the hallway. Michelle’s door was open about six inches and the shaft of yellow incandescent light that came through had been a meager comfort for her during the interminable night.

Michelle wondered when Charles or Cathryn would come. She hoped it would be soon because she wanted, more than anything else, to go home to her own room, her own house. She couldn’t understand why she had had to stay in the hospital because after her dinner, which she had barely eaten, no one had done anything to her other than look in and check that she was OK.

Swinging her legs over the side of the bed, Michelle pushed herself into a sitting position. She closed her eyes and steeled herself against a rush of dizziness. The movement exacerbated her nausea which had troubled her all night. Once she’d even gotten up when her saliva had pooled beneath her tongue, and she was afraid she was going to vomit. Holding on to the sides of the toilet, she’d retched but hadn’t brought up anything. Afterwards, it had taken all her strength to get back into bed.

Michelle was certain she’d not slept at all. Besides the waves of nausea, she also had pains in her joints and abdomen, as well as chills. The fever, which had gone away the previous afternoon, was back.

Slowly Michelle slid off the bed onto her feet, gripping the IV pole. Pushing the pole in front of her, she began to shuffle to the bathroom. The plastic IV tubing still went into her left arm, which she kept as immobile as possible. She knew there was a needle on the end of the tubing and she was afraid that if she moved her arm, the needle would pierce her in some damaging way.

After going to the toilet, Michelle returned to her bed and climbed in. There was no way she could feel any more lonely or miserable.

“Well, well,” beamed a redheaded nurse as she came bustling into the room. “Awake already. Aren’t we industrious?” She snapped up the window shade unveiling the new day.

Michelle watched her but didn’t speak.

The nurse went around the other side of the bed and plucked a thermometer out of a narrow stainless steel cup. “What’s the matter, cat got your tongue?” She flicked the thermometer, examined it, bent down, and poked it into Michelle’s mouth. “Be back in a jiffy.”

Waiting until the nurse was out the door, Michelle pulled the thermometer out of her mouth. She did not want anyone to know she still had a fever in case that might keep her in the hospital. She held the thermometer in her right hand, near to her face so that when the nurse came back, she would be able to put it into her mouth quickly.

The next person through the door was a false alarm. Michelle got the thermometer back into her mouth, but it was a man in a dirty white coat with hundreds of pens stuffed in his pocket. He carried a wire basket filled with glass test tubes with different-colored tops. He had strips of rubber tubing looped through the edges of his basket. Michelle knew what he wanted: blood.

She watched, terrified, as he made his preparations. He put a rubber tube about her arm so tight that her fingers hurt and roughly wiped the inside of her elbow with an alcohol swab, even the tender spot where they’d taken blood the day before. Then using his teeth, he pulled the cap off a needle. Michelle wanted to scream. Instead, she turned her head to hide silent tears. The rubber was unsnapped, which caused about as much pain as when it was put on. She heard a glass tube drop into the wire basket. Then she felt another stab as he yanked the needle out. He applied a cotton ball to the puncture site, bent her arm so that it pressed against the cotton, and gathered up his things. He left without saying a single word.

With one arm holding the cotton ball and the other with the IV, Michelle felt totally immobilized. Slowly she unbent her arm. The cotton ball rolled aside revealing an innocent red puncture mark surrounded by a black-and-blue area.

“Okay,” said the redheaded nurse, coming through the door. “Let’s see what we’ve got.”

Michelle remembered with panic that the thermometer was still in her mouth.

Deftly the nurse extracted it, noted the temperature, then dropped it into the metal container on Michelle’s night table. “Breakfast will be up in a moment,” she said cheerfully, but she didn’t mention Michelle’s fever. She left with the same abruptness with which she’d arrived.

“Oh, Daddy, please come and get me,” said Michelle to herself. “Please hurry.”

Charles felt his shoulder being shaken. He tried to ignore it because he wanted to continue sleeping, but the shaking continued. When he opened his eyes he saw Cathryn, already robed, standing by the bed holding out a steaming mug of coffee. Pushing himself up on one elbow, Charles took the coffee.

“It’s seven o’clock,” said Cathryn with a smile.

“Seven?” Charles glanced at the face of the alarm clock, thinking that oversleeping was not the way to increase the pace of his research efforts.

“You were sleeping so soundly,” said Cathryn, kissing his forehead, “that I didn’t have the heart to wake you earlier. We’ve got a big breakfast waiting downstairs.”

Charles knew that she was making an effort to sound gay.

“Enjoy your coffee,” said Cathryn. She started for the door. “Gina got up and made it before I was even awake.”

Charles glanced down at the mug in his hands. The fact that Gina was still there was irritating enough. He did not want to have to feel beholden to her the first thing in the morning, but then he was holding the coffee and he knew she’d ask how it was and gloat over the fact that she’d arisen when everyone else was still asleep.

Charles shook his head. Such annoying thoughts were not the way to begin the day. He tasted the coffee. It was hot, aromatic, and stimulating. He admitted that he enjoyed it and decided to tell Gina before she’d have a chance to ask, and then thank her for getting up before the others, before she had a chance to tell them.

Carrying his coffee mug, Charles padded down the hall to Michelle’s room. He paused outside of the door, then slowly pushed it open. He had half hoped to see his young daughter safely sleeping in her bed, but of course her bed was neatly made, her books and memorabilia compulsively arranged, her room as neat as a pin. “All right,” said Charles to himself, as if he were bargaining with an all-powerful arbiter, “she has myeloblastic leukemia. Just let her case be sensitive to current treatment. That’s all I ask.”

Breakfast was a strained affair, overshadowed by Gina’s forced ebullience and Charles’s reserve. One fed the other in a self-fulfilling prophecy until Gina was chatting nonstop and Charles perfectly silent. Cathryn interrupted with complicated plans about who was going to do what, when. Charles stayed out of the domestic decision making and concentrated on planning his day’s work at the institute. The first thing he wanted to do was check the well mice injected with the cancer antigen for signs of immunological activity. Most likely there would be no response with such a light dose and he would prepare to give them another challenge that afternoon. Then he would check the mice injected with the Canceran and reinject them. Then he would start work on a computer simulation of the way he envisioned the blocking factor worked.

“Charles, is that agreeable to you?” asked Cathryn.

“What?” questioned Charles. He’d tuned out all conversation.

“I will ride with you in the Pinto this morning, and you can drop me at the hospital. Chuck will take the station wagon, drop off Jean Paul, and drive himself to Northeastern. Gina has agreed to stay here and make dinner.”

“I’ll make your favorite,” said Gina enthusiastically, “gnocchi.”

Gnocchi! Charles didn’t even know what gnocchi was.

“If I want to leave early,” continued Cathryn to Charles, “I can go over to Northeastern and pick up the station wagon. Otherwise I’ll come back with you. What do you say?”

Charles couldn’t figure out how all these elaborate plans were making things any easier. The old method of his driving the boys and leaving the station wagon for Cathryn seemed far more simple, but he didn’t care. In fact, if he decided to work that night, maybe it would be best if Chuck had the car because then Cathryn could come home with him in the afternoon.

“Fine with me,” said Charles, finding himself watching Chuck who was in his usual breakfast posture, studying the cereal box as if it were Scripture. The boy was wearing the same clothes as yesterday and looked just as bad.

“I got a call from the business office yesterday,” said Charles.

“Yeah, I gave them the number,” said Chuck without looking up.

“I made arrangements at the bank for a loan,” said Charles. “Should be available in a day or so, then the bill will be paid.”

“Good,” said Chuck, flipping the box so he could study the nutritional values on the side panel.

“Is that all you have to say? Good?” Charles turned his head toward Cathryn with a look that said: “Can you believe this kid?”

Chuck pretended he hadn’t heard the question.

“I think we should be going,” said Cathryn, getting to her feet and collecting the milk and butter to put into the refrigerator.

“Just leave everything,” said Gina magnanimously. “I’ll take care of it.”

Charles and Cathryn were the first out of the house. A pale winter sun hung low in the southeastern sky. As cold as it was inside the Pinto, Cathryn was relieved to get out of the biting wind.

“Damn,” said Charles, blowing on his fingers. “I forgot the pond water.”

For Cathryn’s sake, Charles started the car, which was no easy task, before running back into the kitchen for the jar of pond water. He carefully wedged it behind his seat to keep it from spilling before he climbed into the car and fumbled with his seat belt.

Cathryn watched this procedure with the pond water with a certain misgiving. After her little talk to Charles the night before she’d hoped that he would concentrate on Michelle. But Charles had acted strangely from the moment she’d awakened him that morning. Cathryn had the scary feeling that her family was coming apart at the seams.

Watching Charles’s silent profile as he drove, Cathryn began multiple conversations but abandoned each for various reasons, mostly because she feared any discussion would trigger her husband’s temper.

When Route 301 merged with Interstate 93, Cathryn finally forced herself to speak: “How do you feel today, Charles?”

“Huh? Oh fine. Just fine.”

“You seem so quiet. It’s not like you.”

“Just thinking.”

“About Michelle?”

“Yes, and also my work.”

“You’re not still thinking of Recycle, Ltd., are you?”

Charles glanced at Cathryn for a moment, then turned his attention to the road ahead. “A little. I still think the place is a menace, if that’s what you mean.”

“Charles, there isn’t something you’re not telling me, is there?”

“No,” said Charles too quickly. “What makes you ask that?”

“I don’t know,” admitted Cathryn. “You seem so far away since we heard about Michelle. Your mood seems to change so quickly.” Cathryn’s eyes darted over to watch Charles’s reaction to her last comment. But Charles just drove on, and if there had been a reaction, Cathryn missed it.

“I guess I just have a lot on my mind,” said Charles.

“You’ll share it with me, won’t you, Charles? I mean that’s what I’m here for. That’s why I wanted to adopt the children. I want you to share everything with me.” Cathryn reached over and put her hand on Charles’s thigh.

Charles concentrated on the road in front of him. Cathryn was voicing a conviction he’d held until yesterday, but now he realized that he couldn’t share everything. His background as a physician had imparted experiences that Cathryn could not comprehend. If Charles told what he knew about the course of Michelle’s illness, she’d be devastated.

Taking a hand from the steering wheel, Charles placed it over Cathryn’s. “The children don’t know how lucky they are,” he said.

They rode in silence for a while. Cathryn wasn’t satisfied, but she didn’t know what else to say. In the far distance she could just make out the top of the Prudential building. The traffic began to increase, and they had to slow to forty miles per hour.

“I don’t know anything about tissue-typing and all that,” said Cathryn, breaking the silence. “But I don’t think we should force Chuck to do something he doesn’t want to do.”

Charles glared at Cathryn for a moment.

“I’m sure he will come around,” she continued when she realized that Charles wasn’t going to speak. “But he has to agree on his own.”

Charles took his hand off Cathryn’s and gripped the steering wheel. The mere mention of Chuck was like stoking a smoldering fire. Yet what Cathryn was saying was undeniably true.

“You can’t force someone to be altruistic,” said Cathryn. “Especially Chuck, because it will only strengthen the worries he has about his sense of self.”

“A sense of self is all he has,” said Charles. “He didn’t voice the slightest concern about Michelle. Not one word.”

“But he feels it,” said Cathryn. “It’s just hard for him to express those feelings.”

Charles laughed cynically. “I wish I believed it. He’s just goddamned selfish. Did you notice his overwhelming appreciation when I told him I’d applied for a loan for his tuition?”

“What did you want him to do? Cartwheels?” returned Cathryn. “The tuition was supposed to be paid months ago.”

Charles set his jaw. “Fine,” he said to himself. “You want to side with the little bastard… just fine!”

Cathryn was instantly sorry she’d said what she had even though it was true. Reaching over, she put her hand on his shoulder. She wanted to draw Charles out, not shut him up. “I’m sorry I said that, but Charles, you have to understand that Chuck doesn’t have your personality. He’s not competitive and he’s not the most handsome boy. But basically he’s a good kid. It’s just very hard growing up in your shadow.”

Charles glanced sideways at his wife.

“Whether you know it or not,” said Cathryn, “you’re a hard act to follow. You’ve been successful in everything you’ve tried.”

Charles did not share that opinion. He could have rattled off a dozen episodes in which he’d failed miserably. But that wasn’t the issue: it was Chuck.

“I think the kid’s selfish and lazy, and I’m tired of it. His response to Michelle’s illness was all too predictable.”

“He has a right to be selfish,” said Cathryn. “College is the ultimate selfish experience.”

“Well, he’s certainly making the best of it.”

They came to the stop-and-go traffic where 193 joined the southeast expressway and Storrow Drive. Neither spoke as they inched forward.

“This isn’t what we should be worrying about,” said Cathryn finally.

“You’re right,” sighed Charles. “And you’re right about not forcing Chuck. But if he doesn’t do it, he’s going to wait a long time before I pay his next college bill.”

Cathryn looked sharply at Charles. If that wasn’t coercion, she had no idea what was.

Although at that time of morning there were few visitors, the hospital itself was in full swing, and Charles and Cathryn had to dodge swarms of gurneys moving tiny bedridden patients to and from their various tests. Cathryn felt infinitely more comfortable with Charles at her side. Still her palms were wet, which was her usual method of showing anxiety.

As they passed the bustling nurses’ station on Anderson 6, the charge nurse caught sight of them and waved a greeting. Charles stepped over to the counter.

“Excuse me,” said Charles. “I’m Dr. Martel. I was wondering if my daughter started her chemotherapy.” He purposefully kept his voice natural, emotionless.

“I believe so,” said the nurse, “but let me check.”

The clerk who’d overheard the conversation handed over Michelle’s chart.

“She got her Daunorubicin yesterday afternoon,” said the nurse. “She got her first oral dose of Thioguanine this morning, and she’ll start with the Cytarabine this afternoon.”

The names jolted Charles but he forced himself to keep smiling. He knew too well the potential side effects and the information silently echoed in his head. “Please,” said Charles to himself. “Please, let her go into remission.” Charles knew that if it would happen, it would happen immediately. He thanked the nurse, turned, and walked toward Michelle’s room. The closer he got, the more nervous he became. He loosened his tie and unbuttoned the top button of his shirt.

“It’s nice the way they have decorated to brighten the atmosphere,” remarked Cathryn, noticing the animal decals for the first time.

Charles stopped for a moment outside the door, trying to compose himself.

“This is it,” said Cathryn, thinking that Charles was uncertain of the room number. She pushed open the door, entered, and pulled Charles in behind her.

Michelle was propped up in a sitting position with several pillows behind her back. At the sight of Charles, her face twisted and she burst into tears. Charles was shocked at her appearance. Although he had not thought it possible, she looked even paler than she had the day before. Her eyes had visibly sunk into their sockets and were surrounded by circles so dark they looked like she had black eyes. In the air hung the rank smell of fresh vomit.

Charles wanted to run and hold her, but he couldn’t move. The agony of his inadequateness held him back, although she lifted her arms to him.

Her disease was too powerful, and he had nothing to offer her, just like with Elizabeth eight years earlier. The nightmare had returned. In an avalanche of horror, Charles recognized that Michelle was not going to get better. Suddenly he knew without the slightest doubt that all the palliative treatment in the world would not touch the inevitable progression of her illness. Under the weight of this knowledge Charles staggered, taking a step back from the bed.

Although Cathryn did not understand, she saw what was happening and she ran to fill Michelle’s outstretched arms. Looking over Cathryn’s shoulder, Michelle met her father’s eyes. Charles smiled weakly but Michelle decided that he was angry with her.

“It’s so good to see you,” said Cathryn, looking into Michelle’s face. “How are you?”

“I’m fine,” managed Michelle, checking her tears. “I just want to go home. Can I go home, Daddy?”

Charles’s hands shook as he approached the foot of the bed. He steadied them on the metal frame.

“Maybe,” said Charles evasively. Maybe he should just take her out of the hospital; take her home and keep her comfortable; maybe that was best.

“Michelle, you have to stay here until you’re well,” Cathryn said hurriedly. “Dr. Wiley and Dr. Keitzman are going to see that you get better just as soon as possible. I know it’s hard for you, and we miss you terribly, but you have to be a big girl.”

“Please, Daddy,” said Michelle.

Charles felt helpless and indecisive, two unfamiliar and unnerving emotions.

“Michelle,” said Cathryn. “You have to stay in the hospital. I’m sorry.”

“Why? Daddy,” pleaded Michelle, “what’s wrong with me?”

Charles vainly looked at Cathryn for help, but she was silent. He was the physician.

“I wish we knew,” said Charles, hating himself for lying, yet incapable of telling the truth.

“Is it the same thing that my real mother had?” asked Michelle.

“No,” said Charles quickly. “Absolutely not.” Even that was a half lie; although Elizabeth had lymphoma, she died in a terminal leukemic crisis. Charles felt cornered. He had to get away to think.

“What is it then?” demanded Michelle.

“I don’t know,” said Charles as he guiltily checked his watch. “That’s why you’re here. To find out. Cathryn is going to stay with you to keep you company. I’ve got to get to the lab. I’ll be back.”

Without any warning, Michelle abruptly retched. Her slender body heaved, and she threw up a small amount of her recently consumed breakfast. Cathryn tried to get out of the way but some of the vomit got on her left sleeve.

Charles responded instantly by stepping into the corridor and yelling for a nurse. An aide only two doors down came flying in, expecting a crisis, and was pleased to discover it was a false alarm.

“Don’t you worry, princess,” said the woman casually, pulling off the soiled top sheet. “We’ll have it cleaned up in a second.”

Charles put the back of his hand against Michelle’s forehead. It was moist and hot. Her fever was still there. Charles knew what caused the vomiting; it was the medicine. He felt a wave of anxiety wash over him. The small room was making him feel claustrophobic.

Michelle grabbed his hand and held it as if she’d slipped at the edge of an abyss and Charles was her only salvation. She looked into the blue eyes that were mirrors of her own. But she thought she saw firmness instead of acquiescence; irritation instead of understanding. She let go of the hand and fell back onto the pillow.

“I’ll be over later, Michelle,” said Charles, upset that the medicine was already causing potentially dangerous side effects. To the aide Charles said: “Does she have something ordered for nausea and vomiting?”

“Indeed she does,” said the nurse. “There is a standing order for Compazine PRN. I’ll get her some in a minute.”

“Is it a needle?” cried Michelle.

“No, it’s a pill,” said the aide. “Provided your tummy keeps it down. If not, then it will have to go in your rump.” She gave Michelle’s foot a playful squeeze.

“I’ll just walk Charles to the elevator, Michelle,” said Cathryn, seeing Charles start for the door. She caught up with him in the hall, grabbing his arm. “Charles, what is the matter with you?”

Charles didn’t stop.

“Charles!” cried Cathryn, yanking him around to face her. “What is it?”

“I’ve got to get out of here,” said Charles, nervously stroking his hair. “I can’t stand to see Michelle suffer. She looks terrible. I don’t know what to do. I’m not sure she should get any of that medicine.”

“No medicine?” cried Cathryn. Instantly she remembered that Dr. Keitzman and Dr. Wiley were worried that Charles might interrupt Michelle’s treatment.

“Her vomiting,” said Charles angrily. “That’s only the beginning.” Charles started to say that he was sure Michelle was not going to go into remission, but he held his tongue. There would be time for more bad news for Cathryn and for the present he did not want to destroy the hope.

“But the medicine is her only chance,” pleaded Cathryn.

“I’ve got to go,” said Charles. “Call me if there is any change. I’ll be at the lab.”

Cathryn watched Charles rush down the crowded corridor. He didn’t even wait for the elevator. She saw him duck into the stairwell instead. When Dr. Wiley told her that they were going to rely on her strength, she had no idea what he’d meant. Now she was beginning to comprehend.