A Fierce Radiance (16 page)

At any rate, John Smith was right about this: the mass production of penicillin was essentially a fermentation problem. Like making beer, Jamie thought. He’d love a beer with lunch, but probably that was too much to hope for.

On the far side of the room, a shy voice spoke up. “Excuse me, Dr. Bush. I’m John O’Donnell, from Peoria, sir.” Jamie turned to read the man’s identification plaque, as did everyone else in the room. The Northern Regional Research Laboratory of the United States Department of Agriculture, Peoria, Illinois. This was a branch of the government, so the philosophy of research would be different from that of the
pharmaceutical industry. It would be more like that of the Rockefeller Institute. O’Donnell wouldn’t be focused on protecting commercial secrets. On the contrary, he’d feel a responsibility to share his discoveries. “Through trial and error, we’ve landed on an exceptionally successful new food for
Penicillium
. It’s called corn steep liquor.”

“Corn steep liquor?” Bush asked skeptically.

“It’s not a beverage, sir.”

Minor laughter from around the table. Probably Jamie wasn’t the only one who wanted a drink, even though it was only 11:00
AM
.

“Corn steep liquor is what’s left over from the process of making corn starch. The purpose of the agricultural lab in Peoria is to investigate alternate uses for the products of corn, so this is our area of expertise.”

What a remarkable lab that must be, thought Jamie. It was probably fully staffed with obsessives like Tia.

“We’ve had another breakthrough, too, from one of our girls.”

Not for the first time, Jamie wondered about the definition of
girl
. Even though she was a brilliant scientist, Tia would probably be referred to as
a girl
by the men gathered around this table.

“Our girl went to a local food market and found a rotten cantaloupe. This cantaloupe was covered with a strain of mold that turned out to be
Penicillium crysogenum
. This strain of mold loves to eat corn steep liquor. As a result, our production levels for penicillin fluid have gone way up, far surpassing our expectations.”

Corn steep liquor, rotten cantaloupes. How serendipitous scientific research could be, Jamie reflected. Tia could work with
Penicillium
for years and never chance upon its favorite food, corn steep liquor.

“We’re having a problem, though. Corn steep liquor used to be cheap. In fact, it was considered almost worthless. Now the manufacturers are wising up, and the cost is going through the roof.”

“We’ll get you price controls.” Bush turned to his secretary, who sat directly behind him. Tracey Dodd was nearer to sixty than sixteen.
Dressed in a utilitarian wool suit, her thinning gray hair fashioned in a simple, straight cut, she was as far from “a girl” as anyone could be.

“Price controls will certainly keep the idea secret,” said Nick Catalano. The group turned to him. Jamie envied Nick’s ability to state unpleasant facts in humorous ways that made others pay attention without becoming defensive.

“I’m sure there are many uses for corn steep liquor,” Dr. Bush said.

Sheepishly O’Donnell said, “No, there aren’t.”

“Then we’ll create some.” Bush flashed a grin. “We’ll put out some false information. Have a little fun.” He turned to whisper to Andrew Barnett, the security man. Barnett was youthful and dapper, and like his boss, he wore bow ties.

Jamie looked at Nick, to gauge his opinion on the false information issue, but Nick was taking notes. Typical of Nick, to take notes instead of letting the meeting wash over him the way Jamie did. Jamie could spend hours taking notes on every detail in a patient’s reaction to an experiment, but he couldn’t keep his mind on meetings. He was bored the moment he sat down at a conference table.

Nick took his notes, however, not because he enjoyed writing things down, but because it was the only way he knew to keep up. Although he didn’t talk much about his background—what was the point? He’d been an adult for over twenty years now, responsible for himself—he wasn’t born into the world of the Hay-Adams Hotel or the Rockefeller Institute. On the surface, yes, people might think he was born to it: Cornell for undergraduate work, Harvard for medical and graduate school. All done on scholarships, so through the beneficence of others. Sometimes, a voice inside him said, at the mercy of others. The scholarships had covered only tuition. He’d worked hard, in college cafeterias and medical school animal labs, to earn his room and board. His parents would have felt blessed to be able to help him, but they were getting by on factory jobs. Receiving this assignment to be associate coordinator of scientific research on the
government’s penicillin project was an honor Nick didn’t want to lose.

“More coffee, sir?” said a waiter at Nick’s elbow. Nick looked up at the man.
EBENEZER
, his name tag said. A white-haired black man, impeccable in his uniform.

“Yes.” Nick moved the cup closer to the edge of the table for easier access. “Thank you.” Ebenezer poured and gave a half-bow before moving on to the next man.

“Does corn steep liquor travel?” asked Mr. Smith of Pfizer. “Not on its own, I mean.” The wisecrack elicited brief laughter from the executives. “Is it easy to work with? Maybe one of my fellas can pay you a visit in Peoria and find out about it.”

Mr. O’Donnell looked to Dr. Bush for approval.

“Smith will send one of his men from Pfizer out to Peoria to take a look at what you’re up to. And O’Donnell, you’ll go to Brooklyn tomorrow to take a look at what Pfizer’s up to.”

Smith appeared less than pleased at this turn of events.

Inwardly Nick laughed as he imagined O’Donnell’s upcoming tour of Pfizer: no doubt Smith would figure out a way to show his visitor the cafeteria, the mailroom, maybe even the citric acid production facility, but never, ever, anything relating to penicillin. Meanwhile when the Pfizer representative went out to Peoria, O’Donnell would show him everything they had.

George Merck ostentatiously stacked his papers on the polished table and cleared his throat. “One question, if I may, Dr. Bush. Sorry to interrupt.” George Merck was over six feet tall, blond and blue-eyed. Something stolid and overprosperous about him prevented Nick from landing on the word
handsome
to describe him. “Each of us at this table is putting time and resources into penicillin development, with almost nothing to show for it. In this context, I must bring up, on behalf of my colleagues in the industry, the question of patent protection.”

“Glad you mentioned it, George.” Bush’s use of Merck’s first name
was not a friendly gesture. It was patronizing, a bid to show who was in charge. “This topic is next on my list. First I remind all of you that penicillin is a naturally occurring substance.”

Bush’s voice turned soft. The others had to lean forward, straining to hear. Nick had to admire Dr. Bush’s ability to take charge; something he could learn from.

“You and your colleagues know very well that you can’t patent a naturally occurring substance. You’re not making a new airplane engine here. Penicillin isn’t a new type of radio transmitter. So I presume what you’re hoping to patent are your individually developed means of production. Which leads me to a small announcement.”

Bush paused. “Don’t let my apparent…jocularity fool you, gentlemen. These issues are of the utmost urgency. Our troops need penicillin
now
. Immediately. They’re dying without it. Therefore, for the duration, I expect you to share your discoveries with one another, pool your data, and in general behave like upstanding citizens in a nation at war. I will arrange for the Department of Justice to waive all applicable antitrust laws. To codify the formula, the government will take the patents on penicillin’s means of production, when you’ve got some means of production to be patented. This way, I’m glad to remind you, no company will profit from them. I’ll cover your production costs, and the military will buy your penicillin at a fair price when it’s ready. Now that must make you boys happy, doesn’t it?” He leaned back, smoking his pipe, a self-satisfied look on his face.

Jamie thought, Bush can order them to pool their data, he can tell them there won’t be any commercial patents, but they’ll try to find a way around his edicts. In the long run, they’d get what they wanted. Sure, they might make some wartime concessions, but overall the companies would do exactly as they pleased, as they always had. Bush had little or no real enforcement power over them.

After perhaps thirty seconds, George Merck continued in a perfectly reasonable tone. “Let me assure you, Dr. Bush, that we in the
pharmaceutical industry know our duty to the nation and intend to do our duty. Even though penicillin has never actually saved a life. Even though clinical trials have been extremely limited. Even though we have no actual proof that penicillin will cure the wide range of diseases that we hope it will cure.”

Merck let this sink in for a moment. “At the same time, some of us are investigating other antibacterial substances. This research remains extremely preliminary. In fact, I would say that we, as an industry, have had no success at all with this line of inquiry into penicillin’s cousins, although we continue to pursue this humanitarian effort, expending resources on the cousins with no guarantee of return.”

Enthusiastic assents circled the table among the executives to confirm their utter lack of success and their implacable devotion to research that held no hope of monetary reward.

The cousins.
Neither Nick nor Jamie had ever heard the name applied to nonpenicillin antibacterial substances, and they exchanged a glance.

Merck continued, “On behalf of the group, I wish to confirm that the suspension of antitrust regulations, and the government’s control on patent protection on means of production, applies
only
to penicillin and not to any other related antibacterial substances—which other substances, as I say, do not now exist and may or may not come into existence at any point in the future.”

Jamie felt sure that Merck was reading a statement provided by an attorney.

“I also wish to confirm that the possibility exists for full patent protection on these other substances, which I refer to as ‘the cousins,’ even though under current patent law, they would be considered natural products. This would seem to us to be a just reward for the extensive sacrifices which we as an industry are prepared to make in the area of penicillin production.”

For an instant Bush glared at Merck. Then, Bush slammed his
hand on the table and guffawed with laughter. “You got me there, Georgie, you got me there,” Bush said, as if this were a game. But it was far from a game, Jamie knew, for any of them. “Now look here, gentlemen, if I get a hint—even a hint—that you’re slacking off on penicillin work to focus on your own projects, or that you’re using the government’s money for private purposes, I won’t be very happy with you. And the president won’t be very happy, either. Very close we are, the president and me. Very close and getting closer.”

He shrugged over his shoulder in the direction of the White House, visible through the window.

“Once you’re mass-producing penicillin, you’ll have plenty of free time to work on your so-called cousins. Meanwhile, you can be sure that I’ll be spending every moment of my day thinking about patent issues.” Dr. Bush leaned back in his chair, regarding them with a self-satisfied grin.

I
n mid-January, Claire stood at the doorway of Chumley’s restaurant at the corner of Barrow and Bedford streets. The reek of soot and garbage from the entry courtyard surrounded her. Chumley’s was a former speakeasy, without a sign to mark the entrance. If you didn’t know where it was, you didn’t belong. Pushing her way around three heavyset men on their way out, she peered into the restaurant, trying to find Jamie through the cigarette-smoke haze. Broad wooden columns divided the dining room beyond the bar, columns that were most definitely holding up the ceiling. The building was decrepit, the floor dramatically uneven, and Claire teased the bartender about how long the place could remain standing. Jamie had asked her to choose their meeting place. Chumley’s had a reputation for literary gatherings, but more important to Claire, it was informal and close to home, only a block away. She’d debated going to the Blue Mill, at the corner of Barrow and Commerce, but Chumley’s was livelier and had a history that she enjoyed sharing.

Naturally she was running late, and when she didn’t see Jamie with the crowd at the bar, she was afraid he’d misunderstood her directions, or given up on her and left. She waved to Chris, the bartender, who motioned to show her that her cover shot of Aurora Rasmussen placing a star atop the Rockefeller Center Christmas tree was framed and hanging in a place of honor on the wall among the book jackets and theatrical posters of the other regular patrons. Claire’s Rockette story
had created a splash, newsstand sales among the highest ever. Pretty girls, brave or adorable animals, anything about the navy but not the army, no one could figure out why—these were
Life
’s best-selling covers. Two covers in one month and don’t even think of asking for a raise, Mack had said when he called to tell her, but he’d said it with such uncharacteristic resignation that she’d sensed his resolve crumbling.

Jamie had phoned to say that he’d walked over to a newsstand on First Avenue to buy the issue. He’d questioned her about how she’d gotten the cover shot, the forklifts, the lenses she’d used. The questions surprised her. He wasn’t surreptitiously planning to become a photographer and exploiting her for her knowledge and connections. He wasn’t simply trying to get into her bed. Instead he wanted to share in her experiences. To understand her thought processes. The men she’d known before had never asked for that.

Between her long hours at work, and Jamie’s continuing duties at the hospital and more than one trip to Washington as the government’s penicillin project gradually took shape, they’d been forced to cancel several dates in the past month. Instead of seeing each other, they’d had a string of late-night telephone conversations that left Claire feeling restless and overalert, attuned to every detail. The more she learned about him, the more she wanted to know. The more they spoke, the more she wanted to protect the connection that was building between them. This connection felt more and more precious to her as the time passed.

And yet…during these weeks apart she’d lost the sense of his physical presence. As she searched for him in the restaurant, her expectation mixed with a gnawing anxiety at the prospect of finally seeing him. Would she recognize him? She couldn’t reconstruct what he looked like, couldn’t re-create his image in her mind, even though she knew so well the timbre of his voice, deep, gentle, encouraging. The fact that they’d actually gotten to know each other made this encounter too important to take lightly. Passing flings she knew how to handle, only too well. James Stanton was new territory.

Finally she spotted him at a table against the back wall, a beer three-quarters finished in front of him. Yes, it was him, no doubt about it. In the dim light, he read what appeared to be a medical journal. As she made her way toward him, maneuvering around the restaurant’s crowded tables, she was taken aback: he was in uniform. Even though he’d explained on the phone that he’d been called to active duty in the navy, the uniform made his words starkly real. He’d been drawn into the vortex pulling men away from home every day. The idea filled her with protest and regret. At the moment she’d found him, he could be gone. At the moment when she realized with a jolt just how handsome and attractive he was, the light brown hair, strong features, the confidence and diffidence combined, he could be on the verge of leaving her. She ached for him. So very handsome and accomplished and waiting for
her
? Claire didn’t typically feel undeserving, but at this moment she did.

“Forgive me for being late.” She slipped into the chair across from him.

“I just arrived myself.” Obviously not true (with the almost-empty glass to prove it), but he didn’t care about her lateness. She was worth waiting for. Even in the restaurant’s half-light, she was more beautiful than he remembered, with a combination of wayward sexiness and demure elegance that he hadn’t registered before. She was dressed simply, in tailored trousers and a close-fitting sweater. Without her ubiquitous cameras and equipment bags, she was more vulnerable and feminine than he recalled. He wanted to reach across the table and caress her hair. Actually he wanted to do much more than that—making love with her flashed through his mind—but he held back. He didn’t want to make her uncomfortable by moving too close too fast. He was willing to wait for her. “Drink?” he asked, preparing to call over the waiter.

Sitting here in the overheated restaurant filled with cigarette smoke, Claire felt her yearning become unbearable. That soft smile of
his. She wanted to reach across the table and touch his lips, capture his smile on her fingertips.

“Are you all right?” He placed his hand lightly over hers. He didn’t yet know how to read her. He didn’t know how to decipher the underpinnings of gesture and expression, the private language beneath the words. After their extended phone calls, as surprising to him as they were to her, he was willing to be patient enough to find out.

“It’s a little close in here, isn’t it?” she asked. What’s wrong with me? she wondered. She wanted to surrender herself to him. Collapse into his arms so that he could make her exhaustion and frustration disappear. Instead she was expected to order a drink, then dinner, and follow through on pleasant conversation in a convivial restaurant. She’d had a productive day, and she was worn out. She’d started with an early lunch with her father at the elegant Cloud Club near the top of the Chrysler Building. Her father had regaled her with whispered gossip about the many business titans dining around them. She’d enjoyed their time together, just the two of them, truly getting to know each other at last. In the afternoon, she’d gone to the Pennsylvania Station rail yards to follow newly hired female mechanics on their rounds. A cold rain had fallen as the female mechanics, old and young, pretty and not, were trained to inspect axles and brakes. She admired their gumption. They were filling in for men who were leaving for the war, just as the man before her might soon leave for the war.

“You sure you’re feeling all right?” Even as he sensed her essential vitality and attractiveness, Jamie recognized that she’d become pale and fragile. He did a physician’s quick evaluation. Her wrist felt cool to his touch. He was relieved that she wasn’t feverish. He felt her pulse. A bit high, but close enough to normal.

“Shall we go?” she said abruptly.

“Of course.” He was surprised, but he was happy to do whatever she liked. He didn’t imagine that he’d done or said anything to offend her. He settled the bill. When he helped her on with her coat,
he wanted to wrap his arms around her but settled for turning down her collar.

Claire headed toward the back door, the former speakeasy’s escape door, opening onto Bedford Street. During Prohibition, a speakeasy needed a back door if the police showed up at the front, something she would have enjoyed explaining to him if she’d been feeling more herself.

They stepped outside, and they entered a snowstorm. Thick flakes, soft and caressing, landed on Claire’s face and hat, enveloping her. The temperature had fallen and the wind had died down since her hours at the rail yards. The snow drifted as it did in a child’s snow globe. The air smelled clear and pure. Her lungs cleared. She could breathe again. Because of the war, weather reports had been banned. The Germans and Japanese could exploit weather forecasts to plan bombing raids. So the snow caught Claire and Jamie by surprise. The street beckoned. The sidewalk was a white pathway into a city transformed. A city of wonder and enchantment.

Claire wanted to say, “I live just down the street, would you like to come home with me?” But Charlie was home with Maritza, halting any lingering urge toward a quick fling. She’d tried halfheartedly to arrange a sleepover for Charlie, but a bad cold was circulating among the third graders. Most likely her father would have been happy to host Charlie for the evening, but going uptown on a school night seemed like too much. So there would be no quick fling. Instead she said, “Would you like a tour of the neighborhood?”

“Sure.” She seemed more steady now, he thought. More like the woman he was acquainted with. He longed to kiss away the snowflakes that had landed on her nose. “Show me where you grew up. Your favorite places.”

Was he always so calm? He made her feel comfortable. They crossed Bedford Street and headed down Barrow Street, beneath the snow-covered trees. They walked to the cul-de-sac where Barrow met
Commerce Street. She showed him the Cherry Lane Theatre, in a building that was once a factory, and before that, a warehouse, and before that, a brewery. Now it was a center of avant-garde theater productions. They walked past nineteenth-century town houses and tenements. On Hudson Street, she headed north, turning again on quiet Perry Street. Then Perry to Bleecker and onto Bank…cobblestone streets of homes with snow-laden wrought iron balustrades. When the sidewalk narrowed, Jamie followed behind her; when it widened, he was at her side once more. The snow brought them close. Claire’s neighborhood…wrapped in mystery, alive with the expectation that around the next corner some secret—a hidden shop or a concealed courtyard—would be revealed.

The parents of Claire’s classmates at Brearley thought the Village was dangerous. It was risky to go west of Seventh Avenue in the Village, their mothers said, and her friends were seldom permitted to visit her. Nonetheless they came downtown to see her without permission, to prove their daring or perhaps simply because they liked her, Claire Lukins, who lived in the wrong part of town and had a scandalous mother.

James Stanton had no sense of being in the wrong part of town. He appreciated seeing the neighborhood through Claire’s eyes. He enjoyed conjuring an image of her when she was young. The unpredictable pattern of the narrow, intersecting streets disoriented him. He gave up trying to trace the route of their walk on a mental map. He felt a soothing pleasure in walking the snow-covered streets with this lovely woman, far from his usual haunts—away from the stench of infection and disinfectant, away from death and exhaustion and his continuing professional setbacks, away from the pressures of the war, and from always having to be strong and in control. It was a relief, sometimes, not to be in charge. To defer to the wishes of another.

She led him to St. Luke’s Place with its perfectly preserved town houses, the front lanterns lit by gaslight. Undisturbed snow covered
the wide, steep front stoops. They crossed Seventh Avenue South and made their way to Bleecker once more. They entered the northern reaches of Little Italy, passing butcher shops and bakeries. Claire paused beneath the exhaust vent of Zito’s. Eyes closed, she breathed deeply the scent of warm, freshly baked bread. She’d come to this spot since childhood. She loved the aroma of baking bread. Zito’s seemed to bake bread twenty-four hours a day, the fragrance wafting through the gritty street.

For dinner, Claire chose Grand Ticino on Thompson Street. They sat at the window. The snow was falling more heavily, and Claire was glad now to be inside. Jamie ordered a bottle of wine. From the kitchen came the staticky sound of a radio reporting the war news. They listened while the waiter went through the theatrics of showing them the wine, opening the bottle, giving Jamie a sample. Lately the urgent, grating noise of radios was becoming more and more pervasive as the war news became worse and worse. A few days ago, the British had pulled out of Kuala Lumpur. Wake had fallen before Christmas. Hong Kong surrendered on Christmas Day. Manila was occupied on New Year’s Eve.

America would lose the war. This was the whisper in the shops, and even in the magazine bullpen. New York City, at least, would go down fighting, defended by its citizens block by block, according to the bravado at the butcher shop. Claire remembered the news photos she’d seen of Rotterdam after the German bombing in 1940. Of London during the Blitz, September 1940 through the spring of 1941, block after block of destruction. How long could America withstand an attack? The war in Europe had been going on for two and a half years already. New York was a coastal city, and so New York was particularly vulnerable. Claire knew that she would not be among those defending Manhattan by fighting for her neighborhood, from Houston Street north to Fourteenth Street. Her battle would be to keep Charlie alive and safe.

And if the Germans conquered the city, what then? Would the
magazine continue publishing? Would Charlie’s school stay open? Would the grocery stores have food? Would there be water and electricity? Jamie was in the military and doing government work. If he wasn’t captured, he’d probably go into hiding. Or the military would retreat to the center of the country and continue fighting.

Her father…he’d know what to do. He had the money and the savvy to keep them safe. How quickly idealism ended when confronted with enemy soldiers patrolling the streets.

“Let’s leave the war behind this evening, shall we?” Jamie said when the wine was poured, calling her attention back to him. He understood that despite her strength and ambition, a part of her, a side she kept well hidden, was skittish and shy. Perhaps this was from the wounds of her divorce, or maybe her daughter’s death had given her a constant fear about the safety of her son. He wondered about her life during the worst years of the Depression, how she’d gotten by, what compromises she’d had to make. During the early 1930s, he’d been sheltered, almost cloistered, within the confines of hospitals and research labs. He’d experienced the Depression mostly on the faces of his undernourished hospital patients. Claire Shipley had been struggling with divorce and death while he’d been protected. Now he felt an urge to protect her, to create a refuge for her. “Let’s have a toast. To the future.”