Fever (4 page)

“Psychology is a waste of time,” said Charles. “It's based on a fundamentally false principle, stimulus-response. That's just
not
how the brain works. The brain is not a blank
tabula rasa,
it's a dynamic system, generating ideas and even emotions often irrespective of the environment. You know what I mean?”

“Yeah!” Chuck looked away. He had no idea what his father was talking about, but as usual it sounded good. And it was easier to agree, which is what he did for the next fifteen minutes while Charles maintained an impassioned monologue about the defects of the behavioral approach to psychology.

“How about coming over to the lab this afternoon?” said Charles after an interval of silence. “My work has been going fabulously, and I think I'm close to a breakthrough of sorts. I'd like to share it with you.”

“I can't today,” said Chuck quickly. The last thing he wanted was to be shepherded around the institute where everyone kowtowed to Charles, the famous scientist. It always made him feel uncomfortable, especially since he didn't understand a thing that Charles was doing. His father's explanations always started so far above Chuck's head that he was in constant terror of a question which could reveal the depths of his ignorance.

“You can come at any time at all, at your convenience, Chuck.” Charles had always wished he could share his enthusiasm for his research with Chuck, but Chuck had never shown any interest. Charles had thought that if the boy could see science in action, he'd be irresistibly drawn to it.

“No. I got a lab and then some meetings.”

“Too bad,” said Charles. “Maybe tomorrow.”

“Yeah, maybe tomorrow,” said Chuck.

Chuck got out of the car on Huntington Avenue and, after a perfunctory good-bye, walked away in the wet Boston snow.
Charles watched him go. He looked like some late-sixties caricature, out of place even among his peers. The other students seemed brighter, more attentive to their appearance, and almost invariably in groups. Chuck walked by himself. Charles wondered if Chuck had been the most severely hurt by Elizabeth's illness and death. He'd hoped that Cathryn's presence would have helped, but ever since the wedding, Chuck had become more withdrawn and distant. Putting the car in gear, Charles headed across the Fenway toward Cambridge.

C
rossing the Charles River via the Boston University Bridge, he began to plan his day. It was infinitely easier to deal with the complications of intracellular life than the uncertainties of child rearing. At Memorial Drive Charles turned right, then after a short distance, left into the parking area of the Weinburger Research Institute. His spirits began to rise.

As he got out of his car, he noticed a significant number of cars already there, which was unusual at that time of the morning; even the director's blue Mercedes was in its spot. Mindless of the weather, Charles stood for a moment puzzling over all the cars, then started toward the institute. It was a modern four-storied, brick-and-glass structure, somewhat akin to the nearby Hyatt Hotel but without the pyramid profile. The site was directly on the Charles River and nestled between Harvard and M.I.T., and directly across from the campus of Boston University. No wonder the institute had no trouble locating recruits.

The receptionist saw Charles approach through the mirrored glass and pressed a button, sliding open the thick glass door. Security was tight because of the value of the scientific
instrumentation as well as the nature of some of the research, particularly the genetic research. Charles started across the carpeted reception area, saying good morning to the newly acquired and coy Miss Andrews, who tilted her head down and watched Charles from beneath her carefully plucked eyebrows. Charles wondered how long she would last. The life of receptionists at the institute was very short.

With an exaggerated double take, Charles stopped at the main hall and stepped back so he could see into the waiting room. In a haze of cigarette smoke a small crowd of people were milling about excitedly.

“Dr. Martel . . . Dr. Martel,” called one of the men.

Surprised to hear his name, Charles stepped into the room and was instantly engulfed by people, all talking at the same time. The man who had first called to Charles stuck a microphone just inches from his nose.

“I'm from the
Globe,
” shouted the man. “Can I ask you a few questions?”

Pushing the microphone to the side, Charles began a retreat to the hall.

“Dr. Martel, is it true you're going to take over the study?” shouted a woman grabbing onto Charles's coat pocket.

“I don't give interviews,” shouted Charles as he broke from the small crowd. Inexplicably the reporters stopped at the threshold of the waiting room.

“What the hell is going on?” muttered Charles as he slowed to a fast walk. He hated the media. Elizabeth's illness had for some reason attracted the attention of the press and Charles had felt repeatedly raped as their private tragedy had been “trivialized” for people to read while having their morning coffee. He entered his lab and slammed the door.

Ellen Sheldon, Charles's laboratory assistant for the last six years, jumped. She'd been concentrating in the stillness of the lab while setting up the equipment to separate serum proteins. As usual she had arrived at seven fifteen to prepare for Charles's invariable arrival at seven forty-five. By eight
Charles liked to be into the day's work, especially now that things were going so well.

“If I slammed the door like that, I'd never hear the end of it,” said Ellen, irritated. She was a darkly attractive woman of thirty who wore her hair piled on her head except for vagrant wisps which trailed down alongside her neck. When he'd hired her, Charles got some jealous kidding from his colleagues, but in truth, Charles had not appreciated her exotic beauty until he'd worked with her for several years. Her individual features were not exceptional; it was the whole package that was intriguing. But as far as Charles was concerned, the most important aspects were her intellect, her eagerness, and her superb training at M.I.T.

“I'm sorry if I scared you,” said Charles, hanging up his coat. “There's a bunch of reporters out there, and you know how I feel about reporters.”

“We all know how you feel about reporters,” agreed Ellen, going back to work.

Charles sat down at his desk and began going through his papers. His laboratory was a large rectangular room with a private office connected by a door in the back. Charles had eschewed the office and put a functional metal desk in the lab, converting the office into an animal room. The main animal area was a separate wing off the back of the institute, but Charles wanted some of his experimental animals nearby in order to closely supervise their care. Good experimental results depended heavily on good care of the animals and Charles was particularly attentive to details.

“What are all the reporters doing here anyway?” asked Charles. “Did our fearless leader make some scientific breakthrough in his bathtub last night?”

“Be a little more generous,” scolded Ellen. “Someone has to do the administrative work.”

“Excuse me,” said Charles with sarcastic exaggeration.

“Actually, it is something serious,” said Ellen. “The episode with Brighton was leaked to the
New York Times.
”

“These new generation doctors certainly like publicity,” said
Charles, shaking his head in disgust. “I thought that after that rave review in
Time
magazine a month ago he would have been satisfied. What the hell did he do?”

“Don't tell me you haven't heard?” said Ellen incredulously.

“Ellen, I come here to work. You of all people should know that.”

“True. But this Brighton situation . . . Everybody knows about it. It's been the in-house gossip for at least a week.”

“If I didn't know you better, I'd think you were trying to hurt my feelings. If you don't want to tell me, don't. In fact, from your tone of voice, I'm beginning to think I'd rather not know.”

“Well, it's bad,” agreed Ellen. “The head of the animal department reported to the director that Dr. Thomas Brighton had been sneaking into the animal lab and substituting healthy mice for his own cancer-carrying animals.”

“Wonderful,” said Charles with sarcasm. “Obviously the idea was to make his drug appear miraculously effective.”

“Exactly. Which is all the more interesting because it's been his drug, Canceran, that has gotten him all the recent publicity.”

“And his position here at the institute,” added Charles, as he felt his face redden with contempt. He'd disapproved of all the publicity Dr. Thomas Brighton had garnered, but when he'd voiced his opinion he'd realized people had thought he was jealous.

“I feel sorry for him,” said Ellen. “This will probably have a big effect on his career.”

“Am I hearing right?” asked Charles. “You feel sorry for that little conniving bastard? I hope they throw his cheating ass right out of medicine. That guy is supposed to be a medical doctor. Cheating on research is as bad as cheating on patient care. No! It's worse. In research you can end up hurting many more people.”

“I wouldn't be so quick to judge. Maybe he was under a lot of pressure because of all the publicity. There could have been extenuating circumstances.”

“When it comes to integrity, there are no extenuating circumstances.”

“Well, I disagree. People have problems. We're not all supermen like you.”

“Don't give me any of that psychology bullshit,” said Charles. He was surprised at the malice implied in Ellen's comment.

“Okay, I won't. But a little human generosity would do you good, Charles Martel. You don't give a damn about other people's feelings. All you do is take.” Ellen's voice trembled with emotion.

A strained silence fell over the lab. Ellen ostensibly went back to her work. Charles opened his lab book, but he could not concentrate. He hadn't meant to sound so angry and obviously he had offended Ellen. Was it true he was insensitive to others' feelings? It was the first time Ellen had ever said anything negative about him. Charles wondered if it had anything to do with the brief affair they'd had just before he'd met Cathryn. After working together so many years it had been more the result of propinquity than romance, coming at a time when Charles had finally come out of the immobilizing depression following Elizabeth's death. It had only lasted a month. Then Cathryn had arrived at the institute as temporary summer help. Afterwards he and Ellen had never discussed the affair. At the time Charles had felt it was easier to let the episode slip into the past.

“I'm sorry if I sounded angry,” said Charles. “I didn't mean to. I got carried away.”

“And I'm sorry I said what I did,” said Ellen, her voice still reflecting deeply felt emotion.

Charles wasn't convinced. He wanted to ask Ellen if she really thought he was insensitive, but he didn't have the nerve.

“By the way,” added Ellen. “Dr. Morrison wants to see you as soon as possible. He called before you arrived.”

“Morrison can wait,” said Charles. “Let's get things going here.”

• • •

Cathryn was irritated at Charles. She wasn't the kind of person who tried to suppress such feelings; besides, she felt justified. In light of Michelle's nosebleed, he could have altered his sacred schedule and taken Michelle to Pediatric Hospital himself. After all, he was the doctor. Cathryn had horrible visions of Michelle's nose bleeding all over the car. Could she bleed to death? Cathryn wasn't sure, but the possibility seemed real enough to terrify her. Cathryn hated anything associated with disease, blood, and hospitals. Why such things bothered her she wasn't sure, although a bad experience at age ten with a complicated case of appendicitis probably contributed. They'd had trouble making the diagnosis, first at the doctor's office, then at the hospital. Even to that day she vividly remembered the white tiles and the antiseptic smell. But the worst had been the ordeal of the vaginal exam. No one tried to explain anything. They just held her down. Charles knew all this, but he had still insisted on getting to the lab on schedule and letting Cathryn accompany Michelle.

Deciding there was a certain safety in numbers, Cathryn sat down at the kitchen phone to call Marge Schonhauser to see if she wanted a ride into Boston. If Tad was still in the hospital there was a good chance she would. The phone was picked up on the second ring. It was Nancy, the Schonhausers' sixteen-year-old daughter.

“My mother's already at the hospital.”

“Well, I just thought I'd try,” said Cathryn. “I'll see if I can tell her while I'm there. But if I don't get her, tell her I called.”

“Sure,” said Nancy. “I know she'd be glad to hear from you.”

“How's Tad doing?” asked Cathryn. “Is he coming home soon?”

“He's awfully sick, Mrs. Martel. He had to have a marrow transplant. They tested all us kids and little Lisa was the only one who matched. He's living in a tent to protect him from germs.”

“I'm terribly sorry to hear that,” said Cathryn. She could feel a little of her strength drain away. She had no idea what
a marrow transplant was, but it sounded serious and scary. She said good-bye to Nancy and hung up the phone. For a moment she sat thinking, dreading the emotional aspect of the confrontation with Merge, feeling the guilt of not having called sooner. Tad's illness made her own fears about Michelle's nosebleed seem petty by comparison. Taking a deep breath, Cathryn went into the living room.

Michelle was watching the
Today
show, propped up on the couch. After some orange juice and rest, she felt considerably better, but she was still upset. Although Charles had not said it, she was certain he was disappointed in her. The nosebleed had been the final aggravation.

“I called Dr. Wiley's office,” said Cathryn as brightly as she could, “and the nurse said we should come as soon as possible. Otherwise we might have a long wait. So let's get the show on the road.”

“I feel much better,” said Michelle. She forced a smile but her lips trembled.

“Good,” said Cathryn. “But you stay still. I'll get your coat and stuff.” Cathryn started for the stairs.

“Cathryn, I think I'm all right now. I think I can go to school.” As if to substantiate her opinion, Michelle swung her legs to the floor and stood up. Her smile wavered through a flurry of weakness.

Cathryn turned and looked at her adopted daughter, feeling a rush of affection for his little girl whom Charles loved so dearly. Cathryn had no idea why Michelle would want to deny her illness unless she was afraid of the hospital like Cathryn was. She walked over and put her arms around the child, hugging her close. “You don't have to be afraid, Michelle.”

“I'm not afraid,” said Michelle, resisting Cathryn's embrace.

“You're not?” asked Cathryn, more to have something to say. She was always taken by surprise to have her affection refused. Cathryn smiled self-consciously, her hands still resting on Michelle's shoulders.

“I think I should go to school. I don't have to take gym if you give me a note.”

“Michelle. You haven't been feeling right for a month. You had a fever this morning. I think it's time we did something.”

“But I feel fine now, and want to go to school.”