Sensing Light (19 page)

XII

B
ECAUSE
R
AY
H
ERNANDEZ WAS
about to leave for a sabbatical in Argentina, his annual holiday party was early this year, on a Sunday in late September. The day started out hot and windless. By four in the afternoon, the temperature had reached one hundred degrees. Like most houses in sight of the bay, Ray's didn't have air conditioning, so the party moved outdoors.

Kevin, Gwen, and Herb, all barefoot and wearing shorts, sat on collapsible beach chairs. It was pleasant to drink chilled white wine under the shade of fir trees while Ray's children, armed with spray bottles, showered mist on them.

“This is the first time in a month I've been able to sit down and relax for a couple of hours,” complained Gwen. “It took me forever to catch up with the backlog I had after the Paris meeting.”

“Me too,” said Kevin.

“Me three,” Herb chuckled.

Gwen and Kevin looked dourly at him.

“It wasn't my idea to have an international AIDS conference in Paris.”

“That's what I thought,” growled Kevin. “The mentors around here only take credit for the productivity they spawn, not the misery.”

“It's not Herb's fault,” Gwen said, her words beginning to slur. “You remember what he said to you, right here, a few years ago?”

“In there,” she corrected herself, pointing at Ray's house. “He said you'd never be able to stop working. It was already out of control.”

“I've been exonerated,” Herb sang with gleeful satisfaction. “She's right. I warned you. You could have bailed out then.”

“I'm not blaming you, Herb. I'm just stating a fact. Between work-related travel, work at home, and work at work, I have no social life.”

“Same here. It's what happens in a crisis.”

“There's the empathy I was looking for.”

Gwen giggled.

“OK, then how about this?” Herb suggested, “It would be God's work…”

“If any of us believed in God,” said Kevin and Gwen together.

“I must be repeating myself. When did I say that? Not today. But it was at one of Ray's parties, wasn't it? Yes, years ago. And you guys remember?”

“Of course we remember,” said Gwen.

“It's our ethos,” Kevin chimed in. “That's the best thing about working at City Hospital. We've got this rational, humanistic, shared belief system. We don't need religion. What a fucking relief.”

“I'm impressed, Kevin,” said Herb sincerely. “That's a perfect way to put it.”

“A fucking relief?”

“No, our ethos—a rational, humanistic, shared belief system. Somebody should write it down. I want to quote you.”

Gwen turned glum and said, “Living up to those beliefs is a bear and a half. We have to be saints.”

“Saints?” asked Kevin.

“You know, rise to every occasion with thoughtful compassion. No matter what shit people throw at us.”

“The bar isn't that high,” said Herb. “We just have to be honest, benevolent, and fair. That's no more than exhibiting plain human decency. It's hardly sainthood.”

“Thanks, Herb,” Kevin said, slapping himself on one cheek then the other. “I needed to hear that.”

Herb giggled, which tickled Gwen. Her hilarity became a coughing spasm, which seemed the height of silliness to Kevin. He shook with laughter.

Ray happened to be passing by and stared at the threesome.

“Jesus H. Christ,” he roared. “These are the people who are going to save us from the worst plague in modern history? God help us.”

“Don't look at me, or at Gwen,” said Herb, pointing at Kevin. “He's the one trained in infectious diseases. It's his bread and butter. The pathogen is known. There are targets for drug development.”

“True,” Ray agreed. “Get on it, Bartholomew. I expect results. Pronto.”

Kevin saluted.

“Yes sir!” he shouted.

Ray nodded agreeably and wobbled on.

“That reminds me,” said Herb, “I had a little tête-à-tête with Ray yesterday. He totally agrees with what I've been saying. You are so in the right place at the right time.”

“You can't be serious,” protested Kevin. “Don't take this the wrong way, Herb, but you don't have friends who are dying of AIDS. I do.”

“Sorry. You're right. We have to stop talking about work.”

“I have an idea,” proposed Gwen. “I remember something Herb showed us at one of Ray's parties. He can tell whether a person believes in God or not. But he didn't explain how he does it. I want to know. Tell us, Herb. Please?”

“Yeah! That's a very cool skill. How do you do it?” Kevin appealed.

“It's not ESP,” Herb replied. “Maybe it's pattern recognition. I've been asking patients whether they believe in God since I was a fellow at NIH. I have a lot of data to draw from.”

“OK, then what's the pattern of an atheist?” asked Gwen.

“I don't know. I've never tried to articulate the patterns. Maybe there aren't any. Maybe it's intuition”

“Why don't you deconstruct what you're doing?” said Kevin. “Then you could write about it.”

“No!” Herb harrumphed. “Why would anyone other than me be interested? I don't have a hypothesis. I don't even care
why
people have faith or not. I'm just curious
whether
they do or don't. And, by the way, I haven't noticed any association between belief and patient survival, or the severity of suffering. Not that there's any plausible reason why either would correlate with faith.”

While Kevin and Gwen pondered his response, Herb snuck off to rummage through Ray's ice chest for a Sauvignon Blanc—one tart enough to keep them all alert. He returned, uttering the wine's variety, appellation, and year like a practiced sommelier. As Herb refilled their glasses, he changed the subject.

“Kevin, I want to apologize about my poor choice of words earlier. I didn't mean just being in the right place at the right time for academic
success. You have a rare opportunity. The world values entrepreneurship so much more than altruism. Few people ever get the chance in their work lives to do something this undeniably beneficial for others. You should embrace it. Both of you should.”

“Ah, the wisdom that comes from criticism and self-criticism,” said Gwen.

“This isn't about politics,” countered Herb.

“What!” she objected. “What could be any more political than AIDS? You should hear what SFAAC plans to do.”

“Spare me. I was in DC and saw the hemophiliacs raising Cain, bless their hearts. But I thought we were talking about the personal, not the political. Gwen, you're the one who brought up sainthood. Is that a political requirement for doing this work?”

“Oh,” she said, woozily. “I guess you're right.”

“We have got to stop talking about AIDS,” Kevin demanded, “and anything else work-related.”

“Fair enough,” Gwen agreed. “And politics, too. Shall we talk about wine? No we did that already. Movies? Restaurants?”

There was an awkward pause until Kevin said with a crafty smile, “Let's go back to religion. Herb weaseled out of explaining how he knew neither of us believes in God but we did as children. How did you do that?”

“No fair. You wouldn't ask Houdini how he did a magic trick, would you?”

“Don't lead us on and leave us hanging!” howled Kevin.

“Herb's got a secret,” Gwen sang, “Good for you, Herb. We should all have a secret or two. The world needs more magic.”

“Thanks a lot,” said Kevin petulantly. “I want to know how he does it.”

“Poor Kevin. Some things will have to remain mysteries, won't they.”

He pouted for a moment then launched into a high-pitched giggle that made Herb and Gwen laugh just as Ray walked by again.

Ray gazed indulgently at them. He squatted, putting one hand on Kevin's knee and the other on Gwen's to keep his balance.

“You three are a paradigm shift.”

Kevin and Gwen were nonplussed. Herb nodded knowingly.

“This university's rise from obscurity was built on social Darwinism,” explained Ray. “My predecessors pitted faculty like you against each other.
That strategy worked for a while, but we've entered a new era. From now on, the winners will be those best at collaborating. Obviously, it's quite a challenge for people who don't enjoy each other's company to collaborate. We don't seem to have that problem here, do we?”

“It's the least of our problems,” said Kevin, “But this is a party, so we won't bother you with our more substantive ones.”

“I appreciate that,” said Ray as he stood up. “I'm sure I'll get to hear all about it before I'm off to Buenos Aires.”

Herb turned to Gwen and said, “I'm confused. Both these guys tell me they're from working-class families. Yet they talk to each other with the graciousness of old-money fraternity brothers.”

“That's what's great about America,” Ray proclaimed. “Everyone gets to re-invent themselves.”

“To collaboration!” Gwen shouted, lifting her glass. “If I learned anything from the sixties, it's that when people value their uniqueness more than what they have in common, there's always conflict, even if they agree on principles. But when their commonality takes precedence, there's collaboration. Either way, stuff gets done and the world changes, but it's a hell of a lot healthier when there's no conflict.”

They all stared at Gwen, moved by her rhetoric.

“Well said,” acknowledged Ray, lifting his glass. “To our future stateswoman.”

As Ray ambled away, Gwen asked, “So, speaking of re-inventing yourself, what's your long range plan, Kevin?”

Herb hunched forward to hear better.

“I don't think long range.” said Kevin, a touch defensively. “Trying to keep our ship afloat is all I can do.”

“We're just curious,” said Herb, “You're younger. You have more potential for re-invention than either of us.”

“It's OK if you don't want to talk about it,” said Gwen.

“Right,” agreed Herb.

“Though if you want a safe place to explore the possibilities,” she added, “We're here to listen.”

Herb opened his arms and said, “You can run anything by us. It'll stay completely confidential.”

Kevin resisted the impulse to make light of their banter. He'd heard the undercurrent of sincerity. He wondered if he should try something out for size.

“All right,” he said, “I wish there was a clinical trials group with sites across the country. I have friends who are AIDS docs in New York, Seattle, Los Angeles, Chicago. They're savvy and have good ideas we could test collectively.”

“You want to run the group?” asked Herb.

“I'd be willing to, but I'd be fine with just being part of it.”

“You could run it,” said Gwen. “You totally could do it.”

“Sooner or later,” Herb piped in, “NIH will have to fund a system like that. Two, actually. One for treatment and one for prevention. Take your pick.”

Herb slouched back in his chair, pretending disinterest, while Gwen crouched forward in anticipation.

“OK,” said Kevin. “What I'm thinking…what I really want to do…”

She leaned farther forward.

“What I want most of all…”

Gwen was half on her feet.

“Is to keep it a mystery.”

She blew a raspberry at Kevin and plopped down on the front end of her beach chair, which tipped forward, depositing her butt-first on the grass. Herb guffawed, rolling side to side until he leaned too far and upended his chair. He landed on his belly.

The rest of the party had stopped talking and were staring at them.

Ray muttered, “I better tone down a notch this cheerleading for collaboration.”

XIII

K
EVIN CAME HOME FROM
work on Monday to find a letter from Marco full of love and longing to be together. Later that evening, Marco called from Mexico City with bad news. His mother had a major setback, a blood clot in the lungs. He talked of how she had been the most important pserson in his life, how this might be his last chance to give back a little of what she had given him. Marco's reaction to Kevin's account of his debut in the big-league lecture arena was a terse “that's nice.”

On Wednesday, Kevin was paged by the hospital operator for an outside emergency call. Katherine was on the line. She told him their father had just passed away.

At seven the next morning, four o'clock West Coast time, Kevin was riding in a taxi through downtown Boston. He wore sunglasses to fend off the bright sunlight and felt well rested, having conked out for the entire plane ride. Taking one Halcion on a red-eye is reasonable, he thought. He disregarded the fact that the bottle containing a dozen pills when Marco left for Mexico was now empty.

The taxi dropped him off on a block of identical brick row houses. He wasn't sure which one he had grown up in. A door opened, and there stood his mother. Francine had more gray hair and wrinkles than when he last visited three years ago but looked less haggard than he was expecting. She wore a house dress Kevin hadn't seen before, made of blue, permanent-press fabric with buttons down the front from the collar to the hemline. The kind Sears or JC Penney periodically puts on sale, he thought, the uniform of a domestic servant. The dress was new. He suspected a good deal of deliberation had gone into its purchase.

His mother ran down the flight of stairs and hugged him. She hadn't done that since the day he departed for residency training, and it had been a forced gesture then. This hug wasn't restrained. The cache of resentment he was hoarding, a secret he kept even from himself, vanished.

“How are you?” he asked.

“I'm fine. Everything has been taken care of.”

He sensed she wasn't devastated by his father's death. Yet somehow she had changed. Following her into the kitchen, he watched her gait. It was relaxed, not an act of careful consideration. Kevin was fascinated by the metamorphosis.

“There must be something I can do,” he said.

“Your being here is enough.”

Nothing she had said was steeped in abnegation, her default mode of being in the world. As Francine sat down at the Formica table she had manned for forty years, she didn't search for crumbs to wipe off. Kevin put it together. She was relieved.

“Tell me about your life in San Francisco,” she asked.

That bombshell disabled Kevin's habitual censoring of what he said to her.

“Do you really want to know?”

“Of course I do.”

“Mom, you haven't asked anything about my personal life since I left Boston eight years ago.”

“I'm sorry, dear.”

Now, Francine's posture drooped mournfully.

“Mom, you don't have to apologize. I never blamed you.”

She studied him and waited.

“Honest. Things are OK between you and me.”

“Well…That's good then.”

Kevin eagerly nodded in agreement.

Francine cradled his hands in hers. He watched her face as a rare and wonderful transformation occurred. She smiled.

The life in San Francisco he told her of only involved his work, which did entail having to explain AIDS. Once he saw her reaction, her fear for his
safety, he began asking who would be at the funeral and about the priest who would officiate. After that topic was exhausted, he asked what she planned to do with her time. He knew the garage had been sold and the house paid off. There had been enough money left over to buy an annuity. Adding social security, it was highly improbable she would spend half her monthly income before the next checks arrived.

“You should travel,” he suggested.

She squirmed and pursed her lips.

“You can afford to take Katherine with you. Then you wouldn't have to go alone.”

Francine looked askance at him. Kevin momentarily considered inviting them to San Francisco. With his father dead, it wouldn't cause a nuclear family holocaust. But no, he wasn't ready for that yet.

The animation slowly drained from their conversation. The silences increased. Kevin kept at the questions. Her answers were short but not rude. Did she want him to stop prying? Was she not saying so out of politeness? Possibly, though she obviously appreciated his interest in her. On the other hand, she had said his presence was enough to content her. Perhaps they didn't have to talk.

The funeral was at Saint Brigid's. A larger mass of bricks than a row house, thought Kevin. That's all it is, with some stained glass, incense, and Latin inside to embellish the homilies. Listening to the rotund, middle-aged priest recite the opening rite, he was skeptical of the man's sincerity. This prayer can't mean more to him than a random string of words. Kevin reproached himself. Who am I to judge?

He contemplated the building to keep from thinking of the body in the casket, the dead man who could still elicit a flood of anger, grief, and guilt. He estimated the age of the bricks. Fifty years old at most, he calculated. His father had been an altar boy when this incarnation of the church was built. Strange, he thought. When I was an altar boy, Saint Brigid's seemed ancient. Maybe it's me that's ancient. I was an altar boy a quarter of a century ago.

Kevin tried to remember what had possessed him to apply. Of course, it had been his mother's cajoling and his bowing to her will. Then a pressed
and folded surplice appeared on his bedspread. He had never worn a uniform other than on Halloween. He put on the bleached white garment, admiring the lace bands above the hem and around the wrists. He looked in a mirror and saw someone with a purpose in life.

The biggest challenge, memorizing Latin prayers, was a piece of cake after his mother taught him what the words meant. The responsibilities of mass quickly became rote, and Kevin would stop thinking during the service. This mindless state was so pleasant he actually looked forward to mass, believing he was in a state of exaltation there. He loved the equanimity of the altar. There was no struggle for power, no battle for survival between mortal humanity and the eternal divine.

His new avocation had other benefits. At school, the nuns were more willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. So was his father at home.

Because I was an altar boy? What a fucking hypocrite he was.

Kevin tried concentrating on other people to avoid wallowing in his feelings about the old man. He watched Katherine. The one downside of being an altar boy had been his sister's disapproval. Katherine strove to be the most popular seventh grader at Saint Brigid's. Altar boys were the antithesis of cool, and he had put her status at risk. Worse, their parents' credence in his new angelic persona threatened a hostile realignment of family political forces against her. That must have been the last straw, he thought, because she had devised a plot to torture him.

His mother went to the grocery store once a week and bought four boxes of cereal, no more. There were no mitigating circumstances that would change this rule. Suddenly, half-full cereal boxes were disappearing. When Kevin appealed, he was told he could have oatmeal with a single, level teaspoon of sugar until she went shopping again.

The choice between spiritual sustenance and Sugar Pops had been a tough one. Reminding himself that Christ had suffered on the cross for him, he filled the chalice with wafers, turned missal pages, and recited prayers. Kevin didn't expect Katherine to repent. He reasoned correctly that she would soon be distracted by other dramas and would ignore him once again.

He continued to steal glances at Katherine. She was the only person at the funeral who seemed truly sad. He imagined what her life was like now.
He knew she worked thirty hours a week at a rehabilitation center for brain-damaged patients. None of her four children, three boys and a girl, were terribly difficult. Francine had told him that Ben was good with the two older boys, using humor rather than abuse to keep them in line. In fact, Ben, not Katherine, made sure they finished their homework. Who would have thought? Katherine had just her daughter and the youngest boy, Douglas, to stay on top of, and they were both courteous, docile children. It was doable, he supposed, though she couldn't possibly have any time for herself.

After the burial, they went to Katherine's row house. While Ben and the kids dived into a platter of pastries, Kevin had coffee with his sister and mother in the living room. Katherine talked about the rehab center. She rhapsodized over her charges' achievements, ranging from bladder control to comprehensible speech. This was a revelation. He didn't remember her ever being compassionate toward those less fortunate than her.

Ben drove Francine home, and the children went to a nearby playground, leaving Kevin and Katherine alone.

“Your kids seem good,” said Kevin.

“I count my blessings. There's not a bully among them, and they're all doing fine at school.”

She blushed.

“Actually, the teachers say Emily and Douglas are gifted. Like you, I guess.”

The compliment burrowed inside him. He couldn't detect a shred of sarcasm in what she had said.

“Why, thank you, Katherine. I believe that's the nicest thing you've ever said about me.”

He had spoken playfully, his words leached of acidity. They eyed each other, looking for the hidden venom. Both burst into laughter.

In the thaw that followed, Kevin told her about Marco. Instead of being repelled, she was pleased to discover he wasn't alone in the world. Though unlike his mother, Katherine could articulate her concerns.

“Aren't you worried about AIDS?” she asked.

“Not really. We've been monogamous for years.”

She nodded pensively, clearly wanting to believe him but unconvinced.

“It must be hard for you, taking care of so many dying young men you can…”

“Identify with?”

“Yes. A lot of our patients don't get better either. When they're old, it doesn't get to me. But when they're my age or younger, it's tough. Last year, we had a woman, a mom with four kids like me, who had been in a car wreck. She couldn't speak or feed herself. And she understood what was going on, that she wasn't making progress in rehab. Sometimes I'd come home and couldn't eat. I'd feel guilty for being able to talk to my children.”

Kevin was stunned. How could this woman be his big sister?

“I don't know,” he sputtered. “Maybe I've grown a harder shell than you.”

Katherine raised her eyebrows. With a thin, doubtful smile, she shook her head no.

They heard the front door open. Douglas, a chunky, freckled twelve-year-old, walked in. He stood in front of Katherine, demanding her attention.

“Mom, I've been outside long enough. Can I read in my room?”

Like a prelate, she lifted her hand, granting him dispensation.

Kevin was intrigued that a son of Katherine and Ben would prefer reading in his room to playing outdoors. He asked Douglas what book he wanted to get back to.

“
A Tale of Two Cities
,” Douglas confessed reluctantly.

“What do you think of it?”

“It's OK. I have to read it for school.”

“I read it when I was your age,
twice
. ‘It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.' Right?”

“Uh-huh.”

“And the last sentence of the book can still give me chills. When Sidney Carton is taken to the… Oops. I won't spoil it for you.”

“That's OK. I know how it ends.”

“So you're reading it again, too!”

With a shy grin, Douglas retreated to his bedroom.