A Fierce Radiance (5 page)

After breakfast, Charlie gathered his books, and he and Claire left for school. Grove Street was a narrow, tree-lined backwater, a remnant from a previous century. Public School 3 was at the corner. Charlie was old enough to walk to school by himself, yet Claire appreciated the ritual and accompanied him whenever she could. Because of her work, she never had as much time with him as she wanted.

They neared Hudson Street, and the wind gusted, the way it always did. Claire resisted the urge to tighten Charlie’s scarf. She didn’t want to be overprotective. He was old enough to tighten his own scarf if he was cold, or so she tried to convince herself. Charlie skipped
along the sidewalk, his book bag bouncing over his shoulder, his eyes eagerly scanning the waiting crowd for his friends. A gritty, sooty odor filled the air from garbage burning in apartment-building incinerators. A ship’s horn bellowed once, then again, the reverberations reaching them from the Hudson River piers three blocks away.

Claire chatted with the other parents while the kids waited to go inside. This morning, facts about the war were giving way to rumors. The parents spoke of U-boats in New York harbor and German planes over Long Island. Blackouts, air raids, antiaircraft flak—the vocabulary of war.

“When are these kids going to get gas masks?” an irate father demanded. He was an otherwise mild-mannered man in a conservative topcoat and rep tie.

Claire had seen newsreels of British children (and adults) carrying gas masks in boxes. Would poison gas be dropped over New York City? Claire studied the sky, an empty blue above them. She saw only seagulls. She saw no planes, friend or foe. But no one could predict the future.

“We’ve got to watch out for Fifth Columnists,” said a youthful, black-haired man in a well-worn work jacket. “Fifth Columnists are everywhere.” He looked too young to be a father, but a bright-faced little boy pulled at his arm. The man smiled down at his son. The man’s self-assured tone made Claire think he was quoting something he’d heard on the radio. He glanced hopefully from side to side, as if waiting for people to agree with him. No one said anything or met his eyes. “Fifth Columnists” was the term for Japanese, German, and Italian-American traitors who supported their native countries and would commit acts of sabotage in wartime.

Many families at P.S. 3 were Italian or German. Looking around, Claire spotted Karl’s mom, in her threadbare coat, kerchief wrapped around her head, and Maria’s dad, holding his metal lunch box, the cuffs of his trousers turned up, only half-concealing grease stains.
Claire couldn’t imagine them engaging in acts of sabotage. What were their thoughts as they listened to this implied threat? Karl’s mom fretted over the thin braids of her four-year-old daughter. Maria’s dad stared at three longshoremen crossing Hudson Street, on their way to the piers at the end of Christopher. The hooks the longshoremen used for lifting cargo were slung over their broad shoulders.

At least the children appeared oblivious to the worries of their parents. Charlie was already absorbed in a speed-walking race with Ben on a patch of sidewalk just down the block. Ben had outgrown his coat, and four inches of cold wrist were revealed between the bottom of his sleeve and the top of his gloves. Their friends cheered them on, the war far away.

C
laire reached Edward Reese’s hospital room shortly before noon and paused at the doorway. A man was sitting up in the bed, four pillows piled behind him. He read the
Tribune
. Claire studied him. The man looked freshly bathed and shaved, his hair washed, combed, and still wet. She detected the pleasant scent of Palmolive soap. The man was handsome. Attractive.

Who was he? Had Edward Reese been moved to a different room? Had he died during the night? Was his place already taken by a different patient?

“Good morning, Mrs. Shipley.” Walking down the hall, Dr. Stanton joined her at the doorway. He reached out to touch her shoulder to welcome her but let his arm drop before his hand reached her. Touching her was inappropriate, he decided. At least at this point in their acquaintance. “I knew you’d be on time.” She looked even better this morning. He couldn’t help but savor her presence. Against the odds, he was well rested and even more in a mood to notice her. “Let me introduce you to our patient.” He entered the room and beckoned Claire to follow. “Mr. Reese, Claire Shipley. Mrs. Shipley, Mr. Reese.”

“Good morning, Mrs. Shipley,” Mr. Reese said jovially. His handshake was firm. “My wife said you were kind to her yesterday. Thanks. I appreciate it.” He paused to catch his breath, a hint of hesitancy emerging through his determined good spirits. “She went home to change and get things organized.”

How could this be? Claire wondered. He seemed…fine. Tired, pale, extremely pale in fact, but otherwise fine. His leg, grotesquely swollen yesterday, appeared normal beneath the neatly drawn blanket.

“Do you want to take my picture? I think I’m looking pretty good.” He passed his hand over his smooth chin. “All things considered.”

Claire felt tears in her eyes. Keep it light, she told herself. Keep up the banter. Don’t show how deeply you’ve been moved. “I should say you’re looking pretty good. You had me scared for a minute there. I thought you must be somebody else.”

He laughed. “I’ve noticed that everybody who walks by that door and sneaks a look at me gets a shock and runs away. It’s the first time I’ve had that kind of power.”

“Use it wisely,” Claire said.

“I’ll try, starting now: what about my picture?”

“You go back to reading the newspaper, the way you were before, so the picture doesn’t look posed. I’ll take care of everything else.”

“It’s okay if the picture
is
posed so long as it doesn’t
look
posed?” Stanton said.

“That’s exactly the sort of question he would ask,” Claire said to Mr. Reese. “You were reading the newspaper before I came in, so just go back to doing what you were doing.”

“Mrs. Shipley, you have five minutes,” Stanton said. “My patient needs to rest.”

“This won’t take long.”

But it did take long. Claire wouldn’t settle for a snapshot. Although she wasn’t free to show her emotion, her pictures could. She framed the shot with care and set up three lights, bounced off white umbrellas, to soften his profile and create a glow upon his skin. Yesterday she’d photographed the twisted face of death. Today, the ever-shifting manifestations of life. She wanted to portray a man who was beloved, and who’d survived to do good in the world.

When she finished and was taking down the equipment, Mr. Reese said, “Astonishing news in the paper. I feel like I dropped out of time for a few days and the entire world changed. Going to take me a while to catch up.”

“You’ll have plenty of time to catch up,” Stanton said. “We won’t be releasing you for a month at least.”

“A
month
? I can’t stay here a month. There’s probably a ton of work piled up for me at the office already.”

“You’ve been seriously ill. You’ll be here four weeks at the minimum.”

“I told Patsy to phone my secretary, have her bring over the mail and the dictation pad.”

“Tell your wife to cancel. Your secretary can visit in a week or so.”

“That’s not acceptable.”

“It’s my decision.”

“Dr. Stanton is tough,” Claire said. “Very strict.”

Mr. Reese burst out laughing. “That’s what I’ll tell my boss. I’ve got one helluva tough, strict doctor. Please forgive my language, Mrs. Shipley.”

“You can use any kind of language you like around me. In my line of work, I hear everything.”

“I’m sure that’s true,” Stanton said. Claire felt an unexpected pleasure in his response.

Reese smiled broadly, as if this banter were among the most enjoyable conversations of his life. “My children are stopping by after school, Mrs. Shipley. My helluva strict doctor here told Patsy they could tour the laboratory. Special treat. Science lesson and all that. Nurse Brockett promised us a party afterward. Chocolate éclairs. Hope you can attend. Patsy said you wanted to take the kids’ picture.”

“I’ll be here,” Claire said.

“Wonderful.” Mr. Reese coughed. Suddenly he was wheezing, the sound raw and harsh, as he struggled to control his breathing.
At last he succeeded. Weakened, he leaned back against the pillows. He breathed in short gasps, eyes closed, as if the slightest movement brought pain. Quietly he said, “I guess I’m more tired than I thought.”

“I know,” Dr. Stanton said gently. “You should rest now. Build up your strength for your children’s visit this afternoon.”

Reese nodded without opening his eyes, as if determined to contain himself.

“All right, Mrs. Shipley,” Stanton said, “time to go.”

She gathered her bags, and Stanton followed her into the hallway. Claire walked toward the nurses’ station. The hospital was busy, groups of doctors consulting outside patient rooms and orderlies pushing racks of lunch trays. When Claire felt certain they were out of Mr. Reese’s hearing, she said, “What happened? It’s like a miracle.”

“No miracle. The medication worked. Fact, not miracle.” Stanton insisted on this. Doctors and scientists didn’t talk in terms of miracles, even though he felt he’d witnessed a miracle of gigantic proportions. A dozen bleak scenarios about Reese’s future filled his mind, but he wanted to pause now to recognize what had been accomplished. He planned to express his gratitude to the team when they met for rounds later.

“A miraculous fact,” Claire said.

“I’m sure the newspapers and magazines will call it a miracle. But we don’t have to debate it.” Miracles were the last thing he wanted to debate with her. He wished he could ask her to lunch, but he had other patients to attend to, an endless stream of paperwork, meetings to attend, other research projects to review. “Why don’t you go along when the kids tour the lab this afternoon?” He was in a mood to be generous.

“That’s good of you.” She’d been girding herself for a fight about this. From Claire’s point of view, the presence of the kids in the lab would give the photos a more emotional and inviting perspective.

“Well, you’ve proven yourself fairly harmless, no offense meant.”
He imagined himself putting his hands on, or better yet under, her soft cashmere sweater.

“None taken.” He was charming, she had to admit. Like Reese, he was well shaven this morning, his skin smooth, his hair soft, although instead of Palmolive soap, he gave off a fleeting scent of Old Spice aftershave, one of her favorites.

A set of double doors opened ahead of them, and a white-coated doctor strode through. He was blond and lanky, stethoscope around his neck, clipboard in hand.

“Ah, Stanton, I hear you’re having some good luck today.” He slowed his pace but didn’t stop.
DR. CATALANO
was embroidered on his coat, although he appeared more Scandinavian than Italian, except for his dark eyes. Blond hair and brown eyes, an arresting combination.

“Yes, thank you. Exactly what I expected.”

Catalano laughed. “Always good to fulfill your expectations.”

“I agree. And you?”

Claire pegged these two as friends.

“The long slog, as usual.”

“You’ll be having some good luck one of these days, too, I’m sure.”

“No doubt.” Catalano disappeared into a nearby office. Dr. Stanton looked pleased with himself.

“You seem happy,” Claire said.

“I am happy.”

“May I ask why?”

“Nick’s a close friend, but we also have a friendly rivalry. He’s expressed the opinion more than once at staff meetings that antibacterials from mold don’t have a chance at success. He works in vaccine development, and that’s where he puts his faith.” He didn’t like to lecture, but he wanted her to understand. “Just in case you didn’t know, vaccines create immunity to disease by using infectious material to boost the body’s own defenses. With antibacterials like penicillin, we’re introducing natural substances into the body to kill harmful
bacteria while leaving healthy cells alone. No one knows how or why it works. Catalano’s not alone in his skepticism—I’m challenged regularly at meetings—but I’m still committed to the idea.”

“In that case, I hope you’re right.”

“I know I’m right. And being right, I need to get back to work. I’m afraid you’re on your own once more.”

“Good. I need to get back to work, too.”

He liked this response, a sign of her spirit. “Well, then, we’re in agreement. I’ll see you sometime later.”

“I’ll look forward to it.” She turned and walked down the hall toward the elevator, sensing his gaze upon her. She stood straight and measured her steps accordingly, managing to look fairly come-hither, she thought, given that she carried about thirty pounds of equipment and had to dodge a stout nurse helping an elderly man stagger to his room.

When she reached the elevator, she turned to look back at Stanton, but he was gone.

L
eaving the hospital, Claire burst into a brilliant winter’s day. She felt exhilarated. Switching to the long lens, she roamed the Institute grounds, searching for scenes to photograph. This morning when she dropped yesterday’s exposed film at the office, Mack, the photo editor, barked two orders: don’t take any photos of scientists holding test tubes up to the light (clichéd, in his opinion) and get some shots of the place itself, because nobody ever gets into the Rockefeller Institute, and now that we’ve been invited, make the most of it. Fill up the file when we’ve got the chance. She liked Mack and told him that she would do her best.

The Institute covered fifteen acres on a bluff overlooking the East River. It was a bucolic setting of trees, gardens, and hidden pathways, enclosed and protected by a high wrought iron fence. In the distance, the guard at the stone-pillared gate refused entry to unauthorized visi
tors. The Institute was a refuge from the shrilling car horns and hurrying pedestrians on the streets outside. Gradually Claire found the images she wanted: blue jays rummaging for treats in the basin of a leaf-laden marble fountain. Sunlight shimmering on the far side of a stone archway, creating the impression of a passageway into a secluded cloister. The staid laboratory buildings appeared alluring and mysterious through the rhythmic texture of rows of London plane trees. As Claire made her way along the tree-lined paths, the quiet touched her, an unexpected pause in the rush of her day. A sense of peace enveloped her. She stopped working and stood still, letting the silence fill her.

In 1901, after his first grandchild died of scarlet fever, John D. Rockefeller had used part of his immense Standard Oil fortune to establish the Institute. His grandson’s doctors could do nothing to help the boy, and Rockefeller wanted to change that, for his own and other people’s children and grandchildren. The Institute was now the most important and advanced medical research center in America. The staff members worked for less money than they would have earned at pharmaceutical companies or in private medical practice, but they were at the forefront of innovation. The Institute was structured around a group of relatively independent laboratories or departments, each one headed by a senior physician/scientist. Within this system, researchers pursued their hunches, tested their hypotheses, and tried to develop new treatments for a broad range of human ailments.

Claire knew this history from a belated report prepared by the magazine’s research department. She’d picked up the report at the office this morning and read it in the taxi on her way over. In exchange for permission to eliminate the city streets within the Institute’s grounds, the Rockefeller family had donated much of Fort Tryon Park to the city. The family funded the Institute in full, with the stipulation that neither the Institute nor the scientists and physicians working here profited from their discoveries.
Pro Bono Humani Generis
, For the Good of Humankind—that was the motto.

If you were rich enough, Claire reflected, you could do a lot for humankind, enough that your fellow citizens might forget how you’d become so wealthy. In the case of the Rockefellers, their riches were the product of collusion and bribery, of the ruthless, often violent suppression of competition and of unions. This was common knowledge, taught to Claire in school. The muckraking journalist Ida Tarbell had reported…Claire stopped herself. Cynicism wasn’t part of today’s story. She’d save the cynicism for another story. Today’s story would show respect for what the family had accomplished here at the Institute, which was only one of the family’s many philanthropic endeavors.

The Rockefeller grandson was three when he died. Emily was—Claire felt drained. Weak. She found a bench and sat down. Her shoulders ached from the equipment bags; normally she didn’t notice. She remembered Emily running with joy across the playground. Remembered her sliding down the slide six, twelve, two dozen times on one visit. She remembered—

Enough. Claire stood, determined to move on, to get her work done, to resist the incessant tug of her memories. Okay, the Institute was on a bluff overlooking the East River, but so far she’d glimpsed the river only from a hospital window. She needed to do more with this story, do better. Challenge herself. Finding her way among the laboratory buildings, she reached the corner of Founder’s Hall and walked around it.

Abruptly she was at the edge of the cliff. The river spread before her. A narrow dirt path followed the bluff. The wind was fierce, whipping around her, stabbing her face with bits of ice. Gulls soared. The wind carried the scent of the sea and a hint of its ferocity. She licked her lips and tasted salt. The view opened for miles up and down the river.