Fever (29 page)

Ellen avoided Charles's stare.

“Would you mind if I just looked around?” asked Dr. Kittinger enthusiastically.

“Yes!” said Charles. “I do mind.”

“Charles?” said Ellen. “Dr. Kittinger is trying to be friendly. Dr. Morrison suggested he come down.”

“I really couldn't care less,” said Charles. “This is still my lab for the next two days and I want everyone out. Everyone!” Charles's voice rose.

Ellen immediately recoiled. Motioning to Dr. Kittinger, the two hurriedly departed.

Charles grabbed the door and with excessive force, sent it
swinging home. For a moment he stood with his fists tightly clenched. He knew that he'd now made his isolation complete. He admitted there had been no need to antagonize Ellen or his replacement. What worried Charles was that his irrational behavior would undoubtedly be reported to the administration, and they in turn might cut down on the two days he had left in the lab. He decided he'd have to work quickly. In fact, he'd have to make his move that very night.

Returning to his work with renewed commitment, it took him another hour to arrange the lab so that everything he needed was organized into a single cabinet.

Donning his soiled coat, he left, locking the door behind him. When he passed Miss Andrews, he made it a point to say “Hi” and inform her that he'd be right back. If the receptionist was reporting to Ibanez, he didn't want her thinking he was planning on being out for long.

It was after three, and the Boston traffic was building to its pre-rush-hour frenzy. Charles found himself surrounded by businessmen who risked their lives to get to Interstate 93 before Memorial and Storrow Drive ground to a halt.

His first stop was Charles River Park Plaza and the branch of the First National Bank. The vice president with whom Charles was passingly acquainted was not in, so Charles had to see a young woman he'd never met. He was aware that she eyed him suspiciously with his soiled jacket and day-and-a-half growth of beard.

Charles put her at ease by saying, “I'm a scientist. We always dress a little . . .” he deliberately left the sentence open-ended.

The bank officer nodded understandingly, although it took her a moment to compare Charles's present visage with the photo on his New Hampshire driver's license. Seemingly comfortable with the identification, she asked Charles if he wanted a check. He asked for the loan in cash.

“Cash?” Mildly flustered, the bank officer excused herself and disappeared into the back office to place a call to the
assistant director of the branch. When she returned she was carrying thirty crisp hundred-dollar bills.

Charles retrieved his car and threaded his way into the tangled downtown shopping district behind Filene's and Jordan Marsh. Double-parking with his blinker lights on, Charles ran into a sporting goods shop where he was known. He bought a hundred rounds of twelve-gauge number two express shot for his shotgun.

“What's this for?” asked the clerk good-naturedly.

“Ducks,” said Charles in a tone he'd hoped would discourage conversation.

“I think number four or five shot would be better,” offered the clerk.

“I want number two,” said Charles laconically.

“You know it's not duck season,” said the clerk.

“Yeah, I know,” said Charles.

Charles paid for the shells with a new hundred-dollar bill.

Back in the car, he worked his way through the narrow Boston streets. He drove back the way he'd come, making his third stop at the corner of Charles and Cambridge streets. Mindless of the consequences, he pulled off the road to park on the central island beneath the MBTA. Again he left the car with the hazard lights blinking.

He ran into a large twenty-four-hour drugstore strategically situated within the shadow of the Massachusetts General Hospital. Although he had only patronized the place when he had his private practice, they still recognized him and called him by name.

“Need to restock my black bag,” said Charles after asking for some of the store's prescription forms. Charles wrote out prescriptions for morphine, Demerol, Compazine, Xylocaine, syringes, plastic tubing, intravenous solutions, Benadryl, epinephrine, Prednisone, Percodan, and injectable Valium. The pharmacist took the scripts and whistled: “My God, what do you carry around, a suitcase?”

Charles gave a short laugh as if he appreciated the humor and paid with a hundred-dollar bill.

Removing a parking ticket from beneath his windshield wiper, he got into the Pinto and eased into the traffic. He recrossed the Charles River, turning west on Memorial Drive. Passing the Weinburger, he continued to Harvard Square, parked in a lot—being careful to leave his car in view of the attendant—and hurried over to 13 Brattle Street. He took the stairs at a run and knocked on Wayne Thomas's door.

The young attorney's eyes lit up when Charles handed over five crisp one-hundred-dollar bills.

“Man, you're going to get the best service money can buy,” said Wayne.

He then told Charles that he'd managed to get an emergency hearing scheduled the next day for his restraining order on Recycle, Ltd.

Charles left the lawyer's office and walked a block south to a Hertz rent-a-car bureau. He rented the largest van they had available. They brought the vehicle around and Charles climbed in. He drove slowly through Harvard Square, back to the parking lot where he'd left the Pinto. After transferring the shotgun shells and the carton of medical supplies, Charles got back in the van and drove to the Weinburger. He checked his watch: 4:30
P
.
M
. He wondered how long he'd have to wait. He knew it would be dark soon.

C
athryn stood up stiffly and stretched. Silently she moved over to where she could see herself in the mirror through the open door of Michelle's hospital bathroom. Even the failing afternoon light couldn't hide how awful she looked. The black eye she'd received from Charles's accidental blow had gravitated from the upper to the lower lid.

Getting a comb from her purse as well as some blush and a little lipstick, Cathryn stepped into the bathroom and slowly closed the door. She thought that a little effort might make her feel better. Flipping on the fluorescent light, she looked into the mirror once again. What she saw startled her. Under the raw artificial light she looked frightfully pale, which only emphasized her black eye. But worse than her lack of color was her drawn, anxious look. At the corner of her mouth there were lines she'd never seen before.

After running the comb through her hair a few times, Cathryn switched off the light. For a moment she stood in the darkness. She couldn't bear to look at herself a moment longer. It was too unsettling, and rather than making her feel better, the makeup idea made her feel worse.

Fleeing to her mother's apartment in Boston's North End had only eliminated the fear of Charles's violence; it had done nothing to relieve her agonizing uncertainty that perhaps she'd made the wrong decision about the guardianship. Cathryn was terrified that her action would preclude his love for her after the nightmarish affair was over.

As silently as possible, Cathryn reopened the bathroom door and glanced over at the bed. Michelle had finally drifted off into a restless sleep, and even from where Cathryn was standing, she could see the child's face twitch and tremble. Michelle had had a terrible day from the moment Cathryn had arrived that morning. She'd become weaker and weaker by the hour to the point that raising her arms and head were an effort. The small ulcers on her lips had coalesced, creating a large raw surface that pained her whenever she moved them. Her hair was coming out in thick clumps, leaving pale bald spots. But the worst part was her high fever and the fact that her lucid periods were rapidly diminishing.

Cathryn went back to her seat by Michelle's bed. “Why hasn't Charles called?” she asked herself forlornly. Several times she had decided to call him at the institute, but each time, after picking up the phone, she changed her mind.

Gina had not been much help at all. Rather than being supportive and understanding, she'd taken the crisis as an opportunity to lecture Cathryn repeatedly on the evil of marrying someone thirteen years her senior with three children. She told Cathryn that she should have expected this kind of problem because even though Cathryn had graciously adopted the children, Charles obviously thought of them as his alone.

Michelle's eyes suddenly opened and her face twisted in pain.

“What's wrong?” asked Cathryn, anxiously leaning forward on her seat.

Michelle didn't answer. Her head flopped to the other side and her slender body writhed in pain.

Without a moment's hesitation, Cathryn was out the door, calling for a nurse. The woman took one look at Michelle's
squirming body and put in a call to Dr. Keitzman.

Cathryn stood by the bed, wringing her hands, wishing there was something she could do. Standing there over the suffering child was a torture. Without any clear idea why she was doing it, Cathryn rushed into the bathroom and wet the end of a towel. Returning to Michelle's bedside, she began to blot the child's forehead with the cool cloth. Whether it did anything for Michelle, Cathryn had no idea, but at least it gave her the satisfaction of doing something.

Dr. Keitzman must have been in the area because he arrived within minutes. Skillfully he examined the child. From the regular beep on the cardiac monitor, he knew that her heart rate had not changed. Her breathing was nonencumbered; her chest was clear. Putting the bell of the stethoscope on Michelle's abdomen, Dr. Keitzman listened. He heard a fanfare of squeaks, squawks, and tinkles. Removing the stethoscope, he put his hand on the child's abdomen, gently palpating. When he straightened up he whispered something to the nurse who then quickly disappeared.

“Functional intestinal cramping,” explained Dr. Keitzman to Cathryn, with relief. “Must be a lot of gas. I've ordered a shot that will give her instantaneous relief.”

Heavily breathing through her mouth, Cathryn nodded. She sagged back into the seat.

Dr. Keitzman could see the woman's tormented appearance and her harried expression. He put a hand on her shoulder. “Cathryn, come outside with me for a moment.”

Looking at Michelle, who'd miraculously fallen back to sleep after Dr. Keitzman's examination, Cathryn silently followed the oncologist out of the room. He led her back to the now familiar chart room.

“Cathryn, I'm concerned about you. You're under a lot of stress, too.”

Cathryn nodded. She was afraid to talk, thinking her emotions might all surface and overflow.

“Has Charles called?”

Cathryn shook her head. She straightened up and took a deep breath.

“I'm sorry that this has happened the way it has, but you've done the right thing.”

Cathryn wondered but kept still.

“Unfortunately it's not over. I don't have to tell you because it's painfully obvious that Michelle is doing very poorly. So far the medicines that we've given her have not touched her leukemic cells, and there is no hint of a remission. She has the most aggressive case of myeloblastic leukemia I've ever seen, but we will not give up. In fact, we'll be adding another drug today that I and a few other oncologists have been cleared to use on an experimental basis. It's had promising results. Meanwhile I want to ask you if Michelle's two brothers can come in tomorrow for typing to see if either one matches Michelle's. I think we're going to be forced to irradiate Michelle and give her a marrow transplant.”

“I think so,” managed Cathryn. “I'll try.”

“Good,” said Dr. Keitzman, examining Cathryn's face. She felt his stare and looked away.

“That is quite a shiner you've got,” said Dr. Keitzman sympathetically.

“Charles didn't mean it. It was an accident,” said Cathryn quickly.

“Charles called me last night,” said Dr. Keitzman.

“He did? From where?”

“Right here in the hospital.”

“What did he say?”

“He wanted to know if I would say that benzene caused Michelle's leukemia, which I told him I couldn't do, although it's a possibility. Unfortunately there is no way it could be proven. Anyway, at the end of the conversation I suggested that he should see a psychiatrist.”

“What was his response?”

“He didn't seem excited about the idea. I wish there were some way to talk him into it. With all the stress he's been under I'm concerned about him. I don't mean to frighten you,
but we've seen similar cases in which the individual has become violent. If there's any way you can get him to see a psychiatrist, I think you ought to try it.”

Cathryn left the chart room, eager to get back to see Michelle, but when she passed the lounge opposite the nurses' station, her eye caught the pay phone. Overcoming all of her petty reasons for not calling Charles, she put in a call to the institute. The Weinburger operator plugged in Charles's lab and Cathryn let it ring ten times. When the operator came back on the line she told Cathryn that she knew Ellen, Charles's assistant, was in the library, and she asked if Cathryn would like to speak with her. Cathryn agreed and heard the connection put through.

“He's not in the lab?” asked Ellen.

“There's no answer,” said Cathryn.

“He might be just ignoring the phone,” explained Ellen. “He's been acting very strangely. In fact, I'm afraid to even go in there. I suppose you know he's been dismissed from the Weinburger.”

“I had no idea,” exclaimed Cathryn with obvious shock. “What happened?”

“It's a long story,” said Ellen, “and I think Charles should tell you about it, not me.”

“He's been under a lot of stress,” said Cathryn.

“I know,” said Ellen.

“If you see him, would you ask him to call me? I'm at the hospital.”

Ellen agreed but added that she had her doubts that she'd be seeing him.

Cathryn slowly hung up the receiver. She thought for a moment, then called Gina, asking if Charles had phoned. Gina said there hadn't been any calls. Cathryn next tried to call home but, as she expected, there was no answer. Where was Charles? What was going on?

Cathryn walked back to Michelle's room, marveling how quickly her previously secure world had collapsed around her. Why had Charles been fired? During the short time Cathryn
had worked there, she'd learned that Charles was one of their most respected scientists. What possibly could have happened? Cathryn had only one explanation. Maybe Dr. Keitzman was right. Maybe Charles was having a nervous breakdown and was now wandering aimlessly and alone, cut off from his family and work. Oh God!

Slipping into Michelle's room as quietly as possible, Cathryn struggled to see the child's face in the faltering light. She hoped Michelle would be asleep. As her eyes adjusted, she realized Michelle was watching her. She seemed too weak to lift her head. Cathryn went over to her and grasped her warm hand.

“Where's my daddy?” asked Michelle, moving her ulcerated lips as little as possible.

Cathryn hesitated, trying to think of how best to answer. “Charles is not feeling too well because he's so worried about you.”

“He told me last night he would come today,” pleaded Michelle.

“He will if he can,” said Cathryn. “He will if he can.”

A single tear appeared on Michelle's face. “I think it would be better if I were dead.”

Cathryn was shocked into momentary immobility. Then she bent down and hugged the child, giving way to her own tears. “No! No! Michelle. Never think that for a moment.”

 

The Hertz people had graciously included an ice scraper with the packet of rental documents, and Charles used it on the inside of the front windshield of the van. His breath condensed and then froze on the windshield, blocking his view of the Weinburger entrance. By five-thirty it was pitch dark save for the ribbon of lights on Memorial Drive. By six-fifteen everyone had left the institute except for Dr. Ibanez. It wasn't until six-thirty that the director appeared, bundled up in an ankle-length fur coat. Bent against the icy wind, he hunched over and made his way to his Mercedes.

To be absolutely sure, Charles waited until twenty of seven
before starting the van. Switching on the lights, he drove around the back side of the building and down the service ramp, backing up against the receiving dock. Getting out of the van, he climbed the stairs next to the platform and rang the bell. While he waited for a response, he felt the first waves of doubt about what he was doing. He knew that the next few minutes would be crucial. For the first time in his life Charles was counting on inefficiency.

A small speaker above the bell crackled to life. On top of the TV camera mounted above the receiving door, a minute red light linked on. “Yes?” asked a voice.

“Dr. Martel here!” said Charles, waving into the camera. “I've got to pick up some equipment.”

A few minutes later the metal receiving door squeaked, then began a slow rise, exposing an unadorned, cement receiving area. A long row of newly arrived cardboard boxes were stacked neatly to the left. In the rear of the area, an inner door opened, and Chester Willis, one of the two evening guards, stepped out. He was a seventy-two-year-old black who'd retired from a city job and taken the job at the Weinburger, saying that he could watch TV at home, but at the Weinburger he got paid for it. Charles knew the real reason the man worked was to help a grandchild through medical school.

Charles had made it a habit over the years to work late into the evenings, at least before Chuck had become a day student at Northeastern, and as a consequence, Charles had become friends with the night security officers.

“You workin' nights again?” asked Chester.

“Forced to,” said Charles. “We're collaborating with a group at M.I.T. and I've got to move over some of my equipment. I don't trust anybody else to do it.”

“Don't blame you,” said Chester.

Charles breathed a sigh of relief. Security did not know he'd been fired.

Taking the larger of two dollies from receiving, Charles returned to his lab. He was pleased to find it untouched since his departure, particularly the locked cabinet with his books
and chemicals. Working feverishly, Charles dismantled most of his equipment and began loading it onto the dolly. It took him eight trips, with some help from Chester and Giovanni, to transport what he wanted from the lab down to receiving, storing it in the middle of the room.

The last thing he brought down from the lab was the vial of Michelle's antigen which he'd stored in the refrigerator. He packed it carefully in ice within an insulated box. He had no idea of its chemical stability and did not want to take any chances.