Fever (14 page)

“Sure! Sure!” taunted Chuck. “Talk's cheap.”

Charles started around the table, but Cathryn leaped up and caught him. “Charles, please,” she said bursting into tears. “Calm down!”

Chuck was frozen in his chair, gripping the sides with white knuckles. He knew that only Cathryn stood between him and disaster.

“In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Ghost,” said Gina, crossing herself. “Charles! Beg the Lord for forgiveness. Don't abet the devil's work.”

“Oh, Christ!” shouted Charles. “Now we get a sermon!”

“Don't tempt the Lord,” said Gina with conviction.

“To hell with God,” shouted Charles, breaking free of Cathryn's grip. “What kind of God gives a defenseless twelve-year-old leukemia?”

“You cannot question the Lord's way,” said Gina solemnly.

“Mother!” cried Cathryn. “That's enough!”

Charles's face flushed crimson. His mouth voiced some inaudible words before he abruptly spun on his heels, wrenched open the back door, and stormed out into the night. The door slammed with a jolting finality that shook the bric-a-brac in the living room.

Cathryn quickly pulled herself together for the children's sake, busying herself with clearing the table and keeping her face averted.

“Such blasphemy!” said Gina with disbelief. Her hand was pressed against her bosom. “I'm afraid Charles has opened himself to the devil.”

“How about a cannoli?” asked Jean Paul, carrying his plate to the sink.

With his father gone, Chuck felt a sense of exhilaration. He
knew now that he could stand up against his father and win. Watching Cathryn clear the table, he tried to catch her eye. She had to have noticed how he stood his ground, and Chuck certainly noticed how Cathryn had backed him up. Pushing back his chair, he carried his plate to the sink and dutifully ran water over it.

 

Charles fled from the house with no goal other than to escape the infuriating atmosphere. Crunching through the crusted snow, he ran down toward the pond. The New England weather, true to form, had completely changed. The northeastern storm had blown out to sea and was replaced by an arctic front that froze everything in its tracks. Despite the fact he had been running, he could feel a raw chill, especially since he'd not taken the time to get his coat. Without a conscious decision, he veered left toward Michelle's playhouse, noting that the change in the wind had effectively eliminated the smell from the chemical factory. Thank God!

After stamping his feet on the porch to remove any snow. Charles bent over and entered the miniature house. The interior was only ten feet long and a central archway divided it roughly in two: one-half was the living room with a built-in banquette; the other the kitchen, with a small table and sink. The playhouse had running water (in the summer) and one electrical outlet. From about age six to nine Michelle had made tea here for Charles on Sunday summer afternoons. The small hotplate she used was still working and Charles switched it on for a little heat.

Sitting down on the banquette, he stretched his legs out and crossed them, conserving as much body heat as possible. Still he soon began to shiver. The doll's house was only a refuge from the icy wind, not from the cold.

As the solitude had the desired effect, Charles quickly calmed down, admitting that he had handled Chuck badly. Charles knew he had yet to come to terms with the disastrous day. He marveled how he had allowed himself to be lulled into a false sense of security over the last few years. He
thought back to the morning . . . making love with Cathryn. In just twelve hours all the threads of his carefully organized world had unraveled.

Leaning forward so he could look up through the front window, Charles gazed at the canopy of sky. It had become a clear, star-studded night, and he could see forever, out into distant galaxies. The sight was beautiful but lifeless and all at once Charles felt an overwhelming sense of futility and loneliness. His eyes filled with tears, and he leaned back so that he couldn't see the terrible beauty of the winter sky. Instead he looked out over the snow-covered landscape of the frozen pond. Immediately in front of him was the area of open water Jean Paul had asked about that morning.

Charles marveled at the depths of his loneliness, as if Michelle had already been taken from him. He didn't understand these feelings although he guessed it might have something to do with guilt; if he had only been more attentive to Michelle's symptoms; if he had only paid more attention to his family; if he had only carried out his research faster.

He wished he could put everything aside and just work on his own project. Maybe he could find a cure in time for Michelle. But Charles knew that was an impossible goal. Besides, he could not oppose Dr. Ibanez so openly. He could not afford to lose his job or the use of his lab. Suddenly Charles understood the directors' cleverness in putting him on the Canceran project. Charles was disliked because of his unorthodoxy, but he was respected because of his scientific ability. Charles was a foil who lent the desired legitimacy that the project needed and a perfect scapegoat if the project failed. It was a decision of administrative genius.

In the distance Charles heard Cathryn's voice calling his name. In the frigid air the sound was almost metallic. Charles didn't move. One second he felt like crying, the next so weak that physical activity of any sort was impossible. What was he going to do about Michelle? If the chance of a remission faded, could he stand to watch her suffer with the treatment?

He moved over to the window and scraped off the frost his
breath had created. Through the clear areas he could see the silver-blue snowscape and the patch of water directly in front of him. Guessing that the temperature was close to zero, Charles began to wonder about that open water. His original explanation to Jean Paul that morning had been that the current prevented it from icing over. But that was when the temperature hovered about the freezing mark. Now it was some thirty degrees below that. Charles wondered whether there was much current at that time of year. In the spring when the snows melted in the mountain to the north, the river raged and the pond rose by a foot-and-a-half. Then there would be current, not now.

Suddenly Charles was aware of a sweet aromatic smell. It had been there all the time but had not penetrated his consciousness until that moment. It was vaguely familiar, but out of context. He'd smelled it before, but where?

Eager for a distraction, Charles began to sniff around. The odor was about equal in intensity in the two rooms and strongest near the floor. Sniffing repeatedly, Charles tried to place the smell in his past. Suddenly it came to him: organic chemistry lab in college! He was smelling an organic solvent like benzene, toluene, or xylene. But what was it doing in the playhouse?

Braving the cold wind, Charles went out into the knife-sharp night. With his right hand he clutched his sweater tightly around his neck. Outside the aromatic odor was diminished because of the wind, but by bending down at the side of the playhouse, Charles determined the smell was coming from the partially frozen mud around and under the structure. Making his way down to the pond's edge, Charles scooped up some of the icy water and brought it to his nose. There was no mistaking it: the smell was coming from the pond.

He followed the gradual curve of the pond, walking along the edge of the open water to the point where it merged with the inlet from the river. Bending down again, he brought some water to his nose. The odor was stronger. Breaking into a jog, Charles followed the inlet to the juncture with the Pawtomack
River. It, too, was unfrozen. Again, Charles brought a sample to his nose. The odor was even more intense. The smell was coming from the river. Standing up, shaking from the cold, Charles stared upstream. Recycle, Ltd., the plastic/rubber recycling plant was up there. Charles knew from his chemistry background that benzene was used as a solvent for both plastics and rubber.

Benzene!

A powerful thought gripped his mind: Benzene causes leukemia; in fact it causes myeloblastic leukemia! Turning his head, Charles's eyes followed the trail of the unfrozen, open water. It led directly to the playhouse: the one spot Michelle had spent more time than any other.

Like a crazed man, Charles sprinted for the house. The uneven snow tripped him and he fell headlong, landing on his chest with his palms outstretched. He was unhurt save for a cut on his chin. Picking himself up, he ran more slowly.

When he reached the house, he thundered up the back steps and banged open the door.

Cathryn, already taut as a tightened bowstring, involuntarily shrieked as Charles hurled himself breathlessly into the kitchen. The dish she was holding slipped from her hands and shattered on the floor.

“I want a container,” gasped Charles, ignoring Cathryn's reaction.

Gina appeared at the door to the dining room, her face reflecting terror. Chuck materialized behind her, then pushed past to gain access to the kitchen. He stepped between Charles and Cathryn. He didn't care if his father was bigger than he was.

Charles's breathing was labored. After a few seconds, he was able to repeat his request.

“A container?” asked Cathryn who'd regained some of her composure. “What kind of a container?”

“Glass,” said Charles. “Glass with a tight top.”

“What for?” asked Cathryn. It seemed like an absurd request.

“For pond water,” said Charles.

Jean Paul appeared beside Gina who stuck out her arm to keep him from entering the kitchen.

“Why do you want pond water?” asked Cathryn.

“Christ!” managed Charles. “Is this an interrogation?” He started for the refrigerator.

Chuck tried to step in his way, but Charles merely swept the boy out of his path. Chuck stumbled, and Cathryn grabbed his arm, keeping him from falling.

Charles turned at the commotion and saw Cathryn restraining his son. “What the hell is going on here?” he demanded.

Chuck struggled for an instant, glaring at his father.

Charles looked from one face to another. Gina and Jean Paul looked shocked; Chuck, furious; and Cathryn, frightened. But no one spoke. It was as if the scene was a freeze frame in a motion picture. Charles shook his head in disbelief and turned his attention to the refrigerator.

He pulled out a jar of apple juice and closed the door. Without a moment's hesitation he dumped the remaining contents down the sink, rinsed the jar thoroughly, and yanked his sheepskin coat off its hook. At the door he turned to glance at his family. No one had moved. Charles had no idea what was happening but since he knew what he wanted to do, he left, closing the door on the strange scene.

Releasing her hold on Chuck, Cathryn stared blankly at the door, her mind going over the disturbing discussion she'd had with Dr. Keitzman and Dr. Wiley. She'd thought their questions about Charles's emotions had been ridiculous, but now she wasn't so sure. Certainly, flying out of the house in anger in the dead of winter without a coat, only to return a half hour later in great excitement, looking for a container for pond water, was curious at best.

“I'd never let him hurt you,” said Chuck. He pushed back his hair with a nervous hand.

“Hurt me?” said Cathryn, taken by surprise. “Your father's not going to hurt me!”

“I'm afraid he's let in the devil,” said Gina. “Once he's done that, you can't tell what he's going to do.”

“Mother, please!” cried Cathryn.

“Is Charles going to have a nervous breakdown?” teased Jean Paul from the doorway.

“He's already had one,” answered Chuck.

“That's enough of that,” said Cathryn sternly. “I don't want to hear any disrespect for your father. Michelle's illness has upset him terribly.”

Cathryn directed her attention to the broken dish. Was Charles having a nervous breakdown? Cathryn decided she'd discuss the possibility with Dr. Wiley in the morning. It was a terrifying thought.

 

Gingerly crossing the partially frozen mud, Charles approached the water's edge, then filled the jar. He screwed the cap on tightly before running back to the house.

Although the suddenness of his arrival surprised Cathryn, it had nowhere near the effect of his previous entrance. By the time Charles got to the refrigerator, Cathryn could react, and she reached out and grasped his arm.

“Charles, tell me what you are doing.”

“There's benzene in the pond,” hissed Charles, shaking off her grasp. He put the jar of pond water in the refrigerator. “And you can smell it in the playhouse.”

Charles whirled back to the door. Cathryn ran after him, managing to get hold of his coat. “Charles, where are you going? What's the matter with you?”

With unnecessary force, Charles wrenched his coat free. “I'm going to Recycle, Ltd. That's where the goddamn benzene is coming from. I'm sure of it.”

C
harles pulled the red Pinto off Main Street and stopped in front of the gate in the hurricane fence surrounding Recycle, Ltd. The gate was unlocked and opened easily. He stepped back into his car and drove into the factory's parking area.

The evening shift couldn't have been too large because there were only a half dozen or so beat-up cars near the entrance to the old brick mill building. To the left of the factory, the huge piles of discarded tires rose up like miniature snowcapped mountains. Between the used tires and the building were smaller heaps of plastic and vinyl debris. To the right of the factory was a rubbish-strewn, empty lot bisected by the hurricane fence that ran down to the Pawtomack River. Beyond the fence the deserted mill buildings stretched for a quarter of a mile to the north.

As soon as Charles got out of his car, he was enveloped by the same stench that had assaulted his house that morning. It amazed him that people could live to the immediate west of town, the direction of the prevailing winds. Locking the car, he started toward the entrance, an unimposing aluminum storm door. Above it,
RECYCLE
,
LTD
.
UNAUTHORIZED ENTRY
FOR
-
BIDDEN
was written in block letters. Taped to the inside of the glass was a cardboard sign which said:
INQUIRIES
, followed by a local telephone number.

Charles tried the door, which was unlocked. If he had thought the odor bad outside, inside it was far worse. He found himself choking on the heavy, chemical-laden air in a small office of sorts. It was a plywood-veneer paneled room with a beat-up Formica counter that held a wire letter basket and a stainless steel bell, the kind you hit with the palm of your hand. Charles did just that, but the noise was swallowed up by the hisses and rumbles coming from within the factory proper.

Charles decided to try the inner door. At first it wouldn't open but when he pulled more forcibly it swung inward. As soon as it opened, Charles saw why it was insulated. It was as if it were a portal into hell itself. The combination of stench and noise was overpowering.

Charles entered a huge two-story-high room, poorly lit and dominated by a row of gigantic pressure-cooker-type apparatus. Metal ladders and catwalks ascended and crisscrossed in bewildering confusion. Large, clanking conveyor belts brought in piles of plastic and vinyl debris mixed with all sorts of disagreeable trash. The first people Charles saw were a pair of sweating men in sleeveless undershirts, with black-smudged faces like coal miners, sorting out the glass, wooden objects, and empty cans from the plastic.

“Is there a manager here?” yelled Charles, trying to be heard over the din.

One of the men looked up for an instant, indicated that he couldn't hear, then went back to his sorting. Apparently the conveyor belt didn't stop and they had to keep up with it. At the end of the belt was a large hopper which, when full, would rise up, position itself over an available pressure cooker, and dump its contents of plastic scrap. Charles saw a man with a large, scimitarlike knife up on the catwalk slit open two bags of chemicals, one white, the other black. With what appeared like great effort he dumped the two bags into the ovens in a
great cloud of dust. For a moment the man disappeared from view. When he reappeared, he had closed the hatch and activated the steam, sending a fresh mixture of smoke, odor, and noise into the room.

Although Charles couldn't get anyone's attention, no one asked him to leave, either. Boldly he skirted the conveyor belts, keeping his eyes on the floor which was strewn with trash and puddles of oil and grease. He passed a cinder-block wall housing the automated machinery bringing in the tires to be melted down. It was from this area that the smell that Charles associated with the factory originated. Up close it was far more powerful.

Just beyond the wall, Charles found a large wire cage secured with a stout padlock. It was obviously a storeroom because Charles could see shelving with spare parts, tools, and containers of industrial chemicals. The walls were made of the same material that formed the hurricane fence outside. Charles put his fingers through the mesh to support himself while he scanned the labels on the containers. He found what he was looking for directly in front of him. There were two steel drums with benzene stenciled on the sides. There were also the familiar skull and crossbone decals warning that the contents were poisonous. As he looked at the drums, Charles was shaken by a new wave of rage.

A hand gripped Charles's shoulder and he spun about, flattening himself against the wire mesh.

“What can I do for you?” yelled a huge man trying to be heard over the thunderous din of the machinery. But the instant he spoke, a whistle blew above one of the plastic pressure cookers as it completed its cycle, making further conversation impossible. It burst open and belched forth an enormous amount of black, viscous, depolymerized plastic. The hot liquid was poured into cooling vats sending up billows of acrid vapors.

Charles looked at the man in front of him. He was a full head taller than Charles. His perspiring face was so pudgy that his eyes were mere slits. He was dressed like the other men
Charles had seen. His sleeveless undershirt was stretched over a beer belly of awesome dimensions. The man was supporting a dolly, and Charles noticed his massive forearms were professionally tattooed with hula dancers. On the back of his left hand was a swastika that he had apparently done himself.

As soon as the noise level sank to its usual deafening pitch, the worker tried again. “You checking our chemicals?” He had to shout.

Charles nodded.

“I think we need more carbon black,” yelled the man.

Charles realized that the man thought he belonged there.

“What about the benzene?” yelled Charles.

“We got plenty of benzene. That comes in the hundred-gallon drums.”

“What do you do with it after you use it?”

“You mean the ‘spent' benzene? C'mere, I'll show you.”

The man leaned his dolly against the wire cage and led Charles across the main room, between two of the rubber ovens where the radiant heat was intense. They ducked under an overhang and entered a hallway that led to a lunch room where the noise was somewhat less. There were two picnic tables, a soda dispenser, and a cigarette machine. Between the soda dispenser and the cigarette machine was a window. The man brought Charles over to it and pointed outside. “See those tanks out there?”

Charles cupped his hands around his eyes and peered out. About fifty feet away and quite close to the riverbank were two cylindrical tanks. Even with the bright moon, he couldn't see any details.

“Does any of the benzene go in the river?” asked Charles, turning back to the worker.

“Most of it is trucked away to God-knows-where. But you know those disposal companies. When the tanks get too full, we drain them into the river; it's no problem. We do it at night and it washes right away. Goes out to the ocean. To tell you the truth . . .” The man leaned over as if he were telling a
secret: “I think that fucking disposal company dumps it into the river, too. And they charge a goddamn fortune.”

Charles felt his jaw tighten. He could see Michelle in the hospital bed with the IV running into her arm.

“Where's the manager?” asked Charles, suddenly displaying his anger.

“Manager?” questioned the worker. He regarded Charles curiously.

“Foreman, supervisor. Whoever's in charge,” snapped Charles.

“You mean the super,” said the worker. “Nat Archer. He's in his office.”

“Show me where it is,” ordered Charles.

The worker regarded Charles quizzically, then turned and retraced their route to the main room where he indicated a windowed door at the end of a metal catwalk one flight up. “Up there,” he said simply.

Ignoring the worker, Charles ran for the metal stairs. The worker watched him for a moment, then turned and picked up an in-house telephone.

Outside of the office, Charles hesitated for a moment, then tried the door. It opened easily and he entered. The office was like a soundproofed crow's nest with windows that looked out on the whole operation. As Charles came through the door, Nat Archer twisted in his chair, then stood up smiling in obvious puzzlement.

Charles was about to shout at the man when he realized he knew him. He was the father of Steve Archer, a close friend of Jean Paul's. The Archers were one of Shaftesbury's few black families.

“Charles Martel!” said Nat, extending his hand. “You're about the last person I expected to come through that door.” Nat was a friendly, outgoing man who moved in a slow, controlled fashion, like a restrained athlete.

Taken off balance in finding someone he knew, Charles stammered that he wasn't making a social call.

“Okay,” said Nat, eyeing Charles more closely. “Why don't you sit down?”

“I'll stand,” said Charles. “I want to know who owns Recycle, Ltd.”

Nat hesitated. When he finally spoke he sounded wary. “Breur Chemicals of New Jersey is the parent company. Why do you ask?”

“Who's the manager here?”

“Harold Dawson out on Covered Bridge Road. Charles, I think you should tell me what this is all about. Maybe I can save you some trouble.”

Charles examined the foreman who'd folded his arms across his chest, assuming a stiff, defensive posture in contrast to his initial friendliness.

“My daughter was diagnosed to have leukemia today.”

“I'm sorry to hear that,” said Nat, confusion mixing with empathy.

“I'll bet you are,” said Charles. “You people have been dumping benzene into the river. Benzene causes leukemia.”

“What are you talking about? We haven't been dumping benzene. The stuff gets hauled away.”

“Don't give me any of your bullshit,” snapped Charles.

“I think you'd better get your ass out of here, man.”

“I'll tell you what I'm going to do,” fumed Charles. “I'm going to see that this shithole factory gets closed down!”

“What's the matter with you? You crazy or something? I told you we don't dump nothing.”

“Hah! That big guy downstairs with the tattoos specifically told me you dumped benzene. So don't try to deny it.”

Nat Archer picked up his phone. He told Wally Crab to get up to his office on the double. Dropping the receiver onto the cradle he turned back to Charles. “Man, you gotta have your head examined. Coming in here in the middle of the night, spoutin' off about benzene. What's the matter? Nothing good on the tube tonight? I mean I'm sorry about your kid. But really, you're trespassing here.”

“This factory is a hazard to the whole community.”

“Yeah? Well, I'm not so sure the community agrees with you.”

Wally Crab came through the door as if he expected a fire. He skidded to a halt.

“Wally, this man says you told him we dumped benzene in the river.”

“Hell no!” said Wally, out of breath. “I told him the benzene is taken away by the Draper Brothers Disposal.”

“You fucking liar!” shouted Charles.

“Nobody calls me a fucking liar,” growled Wally, starting for Charles.

“Ease off!” yelled Nat, putting a hand on Wally's chest.

“You told me,” shouted Charles pointing an accusing finger in Wally's angered face, “when the tanks are too full, you drain them into the river at night. That's all I need. I'm going to shut this place down.”

“Cool it!” yelled Nat, releasing Wally and grasping Charles's arm instead. He started walking Charles to the door.

“Get your hands off me,” Charles shouted as he pulled free. Then he shoved Nat away from him.

Nat recovered his balance and thrust Charles back against the wall of the small office.

“Don't you ever touch me again,” said Nat.

Charles had the intuitive sense to stay still.

“Let me give you some advice,” said Nat. “Don't cause trouble around here. You're trespassing, and if you ever come back, you'll be very sorry. Now get the hell out of here before we throw you out.”

For a minute Charles didn't know if he wanted to run or fight. Then, realizing he had no choice, he turned and went thundering down the metal stairs, and through the nightmarish mechanical maze on the main floor. He strode through the office and burst outside, thankful for the cold and relatively clean air of the parking lot. Once in the car, he gunned the engine mercilessly before shooting out through the gate.

The farther he got from Recycle, Ltd., the less fear he felt and the more anger and humiliation. Pounding the steering
wheel, he vowed he'd destroy the factory for Michelle's sake no matter what it took. He tried to think of how he would go about doing it, but he was too irate to think clearly. The institute had a law firm on retainer; perhaps he'd start there.

Charles pulled off 301 into his driveway, pushing the accelerator to the floor, spinning the wheels and shooting gravel up inside the fenders. The car skidded first to one side and then the other. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the lace curtains of one of the living room windows part and Cathryn's face come into view for a second. He skidded to a stop just beyond the back porch and turned off the ignition.