Fever

  “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.”

  Taking her hands off Michelle’s shoulders, Cathryn examined the defiant face in front of her. In so many ways Michelle remained a mystery. She was such a precise, serious little girl who seemed mature for her age, but for some reason always kept Cathryn at arm’s length. Cathryn wondered how much of it was due to Michelle’s losing her mother at age three. Cathryn felt she knew something about growing up with only one parent because of her own father’s abandonment.

  “I tell you what we’ll do,” said Cathryn, debating with herself the best way to handle the problem. “We’ll take your temperature again. If you still have a fever, we go. If you don’t, then we won’t.”

  Michelle’s temperature was 100.8.

  An hour and a half later, Cathryn pulled the old Dodge station wagon into the garage at Pediatric Hospital and took a ticket from the machine. Thankfully it had been an uneventful ride. Michelle had spoken very little during the trip, only answering direct questions. To Cathryn she seemed exhausted and her hands lay immobile in her lap like a puppet’s, waiting to be moved from above.

  “What are you thinking?” asked Cathryn, breaking the silence. There were no parking spaces available and they kept driving from one level to the next.

  “Nothing,” said Michelle without moving.

  Cathryn watched Michelle out of the corner of her eye. She wanted so much to get Michelle to let down her guard, to let Cathryn’s
love in.

  “Don’t you like to share your thoughts?” persisted Cathryn.

  “I don’t feel good, Cathryn. I feel really bad. I think you are going to have to help me out of the car.” Cathryn took one look at Michelle’s face, and abruptly stopped the car. She reached out and put her arms around the child. The little girl didn’t resist. She moved over and put her head on Cathryn’s breast. Cathryn felt warm tears touch her arm.

  “I’ll be glad to help you, Michelle. I’ll help you whenever you need me. I promise.”

  Cathryn had the feeling that she’d finally crossed some undefined threshold. It had taken two and a half years of patience, but it had paid off.

  Blaring auto horns brought Cathryn back to the present. She put her car in gear and started forward, pleased that Michelle continued to hold on to her.

  Cathryn felt more like a real mother than she ever had before. As they pushed through the revolving door, Michelle acted very weak and allowed Cathryn to help her. In the lobby a request for a wheelchair was promptly filled, and although Michelle initially resisted, she let Cathryn push her.

  For Cathryn, the happiness in the new closeness to Michelle helped dull the specter of the hospital. The decor helped, too; the lobby was paved with a warm Mexican tile and the seating was done in bright oranges and yellows. There were even lots of plants. It was more like a luxury hotel than a big city hospital.

  The pediatric offices were equally nonthreatening. There were five patients already in Dr. Wiley’s waiting room. To Michelle’s disgust, none was over two years of age. She would have complained except she glimpsed the examining rooms through an open door and remembered why she was there. Leaning toward Cathryn she whispered, “You don’t think I’ll get a shot, do you?”

  “I have no idea,” said Cathryn. “But afterwards if you feel up to it, we can do something fun. Whatever you like.”

  “Could we go visit my father?” Michelle’s eyes brightened.

  “Sure,” said Cathryn. She parked Michelle next to an empty seat, then sat down herself.

  A mother and a whimpering five-year-old boy emerged from the examining room. One of the mothers with a tiny baby got up and went in.

  “I’m going to ask the nurse if I can use the phone,” said Cathryn. “I want to find out where Tad Schonhauser is. You’re okay, aren’t you?”

  “I’m okay,” said Michelle. “In fact, I feel better again.”

  “Good,” said Cathryn as she got up. Michelle watched Cathryn’s long brown hair bounce on her shoulders as she walked over to the nurse, then dialed the phone. Remembering her father say how much he liked it, Michelle wished hers were the same color. Suddenly she wished she were really old, like twenty, so she could be a doctor and talk to Charles and work in his lab. Charles had said that doctors didn’t have to give shots; the nurses do. Michelle hoped she didn’t have to get a shot. She hated them.

  “Dr. Martel,” called Dr. Peter Morrison, standing at the doorway to Charles’s lab. “Didn’t you get my message?”

  Straightening up from loading serum samples into an automatic radioactivity counter, Charles looked at Morrison, administrative head of the department of physiology. The man was leaning on the doorjamb, the fluorescent ceiling light reflecting off the lenses in his narrow tortoiseshell glasses. His face was taut, angry.

  “I’ll be by in ten or fifteen minutes,” said Charles. “I just have a few more important things to do.”

  Morrison considered Charles’s statement for a moment. “I’ll be waiting in my office.” The door closed slowly behind him.

  “You shouldn’t bait him,” said Ellen, after Morrison had left. “All it can do is cause trouble.”

  “It’s good for him,” said Charles. “It gives him something to think about. For the life of me, I don’t know what else he does in that office of his.”

  “Someone has to attend to the administration,” said Ellen.

  “The irony is that he once was a decent researcher,” said Charles. “Now his entire life is dominated by his ambition to become director, and all he does is push papers, have meetings, go to lunch, and attend benefits.”

  “Those benefits raise money.”

  “I suppose,” said Charles. “But you don’t need a Ph.D. in physiology to do that. I just think it is a waste. If the people donating money at those fund-raisers ever found out how little of it actually gets applied to research, they’d be appalled.”

  “I agree with you there,” Ellen replied. “But why don’t you let me finish loading these samples. You go see Morrison and get it over with because I am going to need you to help draw blood from the rats.”

  Ten minutes later Charles found himself climbing the metal fire stairs to the second floor. He had no idea why Morrison wanted to see him, although he guessed it was going to be another pep talk, trying to get him to publish a paper for some upcoming meeting. Charles had very different ideas from his colleagues about publication. It had never been his inclination to rush into print. Although research careers often were measured by the number of articles a doctor published, Charles’s dogged dedication and brilliance had won him a greater respect from his colleagues, many of whom often said that it was men like Charles who made the great scientific discoveries. It was only the administration who complained.

  Dr. Morrison’s office was in the administrative area on the second floor where the halls were painted a pleasant beige and hung with somber oil paintings of past directors clothed in academic robes. The atmosphere was a world apart from the utilitarian labs on the ground and first floors and gave the impression of a successful law office rather than a nonprofit medical organization. Its opulence never failed to irritate Charles; he knew that the money had come from people believing they were contributing to research.

  In this frame of mind, Charles made his way to Morrison’s office. Charles was about to enter when he noticed that all the secretaries in the administration area were watching him. There was that same feeling of suppressed excitement that Charles had sensed when he arrived that morning. It was as if everyone were waiting for something to happen.

  As Charles went inside, Morrison stood up from his broad mahogany desk and stepped around into the room with his hand outstretched. His earlier irritated demeanor had vanished. By habit Charles shook the hand but was baffled by the gesture. He had nothing in common with this man. Morrison was dressed in a freshly pressed pin-striped suit, starched white shirt, and silk tie; his hand-sewn loafers were professionally shined. Charles was wearing his usual blue oxford shirt, open at the collar, with his tie loosened and tucked between the second and third buttons; his sleeves were rolled up above his elbows. His trousers were baggy khakis and his shoes, scuffed cordovans.

  “Welcome,” said Morrison as if he hadn’t already seen Charles that morning. With a sweep of his hand he motioned for Charles to sit on the leather couch in the rear of the office, which afforded a view out over the Charles River. “Coffee?” Morrison smiled, showing very small, very white, even teeth.

  Charles declined, sat back on the couch, and folded his arms. Something strange was going on and his curiosity was piqued.

  “Have you seen the New York Times today?” asked Morrison.

  Charles shook his head negatively.

  Morrison walked over to his desk, picked up the paper, and directed Charles’s attention to an article on the front page. His gold identification bracelet slid out from beneath his shirt sleeve as he pointed. SCANDAL AT THE WEINBURGER CANCER INSTITUTE.

  Charles read the first paragraph, which paraphrased what Ellen had already told him. That was enough.

  “Terrible, eh?” intoned Morrison.

  Charles nodded half-felt agreement. Although he knew that such an incident would have a negative effect on fund-raising for a time, he also felt that it would take some of the unearned emphasis away from this new drug, Canceran, and hopefully return it to more promising areas. He felt that the answer to cancer lay in immunology, not chemotherapy, although h
e recognized the increasing numbers of cures achieved in recent years.

  “Dr. Brighton should have known better,” said Morrison. “He’s just too young, too impatient.”

  Charles waited for Morrison to get to the point.

  “We’re going to have to let Dr. Brighton go,” said Morrison.

  Charles nodded as Morrison launched into his explanation of Brighton’s behavior. Charles looked at Morrison’s shining bald head. The little hair he had was located above his ears, connected in the back by a carefully combed swath.

  “Just a minute,” interrupted Charles. “This is all very interesting, but I do have an important experiment in progress downstairs. Is there something specific you wanted to tell me?”

  “Of course,” said Morrison, adjusting his cuff. His voice took on a more serious note and he brought the tips of his fingers together, forming a steeple. “The board of directors of the institute anticipated the New York Times article and had an emergency meeting last night. We decided that if we didn’t act quickly the real victim of the Brighton affair would be the new and promising drug, Canceran. I assume you can understand this concern?”

  “Of course,” said Charles, but on the horizon of Charles’s mind, a black cloud began to form.

  “It was also decided that the only way to salvage the project was for the institute to publicly support the drug by appointing its most prestigious scientist to complete the tests. And I’m happy to say, Charles Martel, that you were chosen.”

  Charles closed his eyes and slapped a hand over his forehead. He wanted to storm out of the office, but he contained himself. Slowly he reopened his eyes. Morrison’s thin lips were pulled into a smile. Charles could not tell if the man knew what his reaction was and was, therefore, teasing him, or if Morrison genuinely thought that he was conveying good news.

  “I can’t tell you how pleased I am,” continued Morrison, “that the board of directors picked someone from my department. Not that I’m surprised, mind you. We all have been working tirelessly for the Weinburger. It’s just nice to get this kind of recognition once in a while. And, of course, you were my choice.”