The Prize (8 page)

Garrett shifted his gaze to the next patient, handsome, young Adam Ring, the rising actor, now slumped lazily in the easy chair, monotonously swinging a charm which was a rabbit’s foot. Ring, whose bronzed face in profile resembled that of a head on a Greek coin, was in therapy because of a sexual difficulty. He spoke of it lightly, jokingly, but Dr. Keller was not deceived. Adam Ring’s virility was redoubtable when he seduced young women of foreign race or colour—Oriental, Indian, Mexican, Negro—but his virility was questionable and impaired when confronted by a Caucasian.

Directly to Garrett’s left, in a straight chair, sat the incredible Mrs. Zane. A plain and freckled housewife in her middle thirties, given to gingham and shirtwaisters and a certain helplessness, she had been complaining steadily (at least as long as Garrett had been in the group) of the sexual excesses forced upon her. A Catholic with five youngsters in junior school, she had revealed that her cross was an economically inept husband, too incompetent to hold a job a month. At last, by chance, this husband had obtained a well-paid job with a garment manufacturer. When it had appeared that he would lose this job too, Mrs. Zane had desperately tried to prevent the catastrophe by inviting her husband’s employer, and his wife, to dinner. The result had been that the employer, long disinterested in his mate and bored with golf and high finance, had been sufficiently moved by Mrs. Zane to make her his extracurricular activity. Instead of being fired, Mr. Zane was promoted to chief salesman, at a higher salary, and sent out of the city four times a year on extended trips. In return, although it had never been spelt out in so many words, Mrs. Zane was expected to be receptive to the advances of her husband’s employer. A pliable and generous young woman, Mrs. Zane had not resisted. For the past year, she had entertained her husband’s employer regularly, and because he was insatiable, her view of him was curiously horizontal. Her guilts kept the church confessional busy, and her doubts led her to Dr. Keller.

John Garrett enjoyed Mrs. Zane, but today he was in no mood for her. She had the appearance of one who had much on her mind, and was restlessly awaiting her turn, and Garrett knew that he would have difficulty obtaining the time that he required. Turning slightly in his chair, he saw Mr. Armstrong, the stocky, beetle-browed compulsive gambler, rocking slowly, lost in his own deep broodings. Garrett always regarded the gambler as an ill-starred Branwell Brontë doomed by circumstance. He liked to consider Mr. Armstrong in soap opera serial terms: Will Armstrong’s new roulette system smash the
Nevada
syndicate tomorrow? Will he save his job in the nick of time? Will he rescue his mortgaged house? Will he win the respect of his complaining wife and children and relatives? Will he ward off debt and destruction? Alone, of all of them, Mr. Armstrong recorded and read aloud his fantastic nocturnal dreams.

Beyond Mr. Armstrong, leaning intently forward, sat Miss Dudzinski, who had a mare’s face and a body all unpadded bone, and who chattered on with the rapidity of one who feared to be overtaken by interruption. Miss Dudzinski was in her late twenties, and definitely old-maid material. She lived in a three-room apartment with her frail, hypochondriac mother, who had a worn heart and bad bladder and practised the savage tyranny of the weak and the old. Miss Dudzinski supported them both by working as stenographer in a large real estate office. She was in group therapy because she was in the midst of a triangle—the dramatis personae consisting of a shy bachelor, who toiled as a drugstore assistant and was sufficiently lonely to consider Miss Dudzinski as beautiful; of Miss Dudzinski, whose entire life had been a search for a shy bachelor who was a drugstore assistant; and of Mrs. Dudzinski, enjoying her fortieth year on the brink of death.

Considering Miss Dudzinski now, and conjuring up the appalling picture of someone wishing to sleep with her, and in action with her, John Garrett suddenly realized that Miss Dudzinski was leaning forward because she was speaking and probably had been speaking for some time. With an effort, for he had his own problem, one less trifling than these, Garrett pretended to listen.

‘—well, I tell you, Dr. Keller, I’m at the end of the rope. I don’t know which way to turn,’ Miss Dudzinski was saying, the words tumbling out, each one close on the heels of the last. ‘It’s the horns of a dilemma. Clarence told me plainly last night, he’s not going to wait another six months to see if I make up my mind to marry him or not. He was pretty outspoken for somebody who’s an introvert. He said if I wouldn’t tell him right away—well, he was going to quit his job and go back to
Cleveland. He said you’ve got to choose between your mother and me, or something like that, but that was what he said. I told him it’s easy for you to say, but I’ve still got my responsibilities to Mother, she’s human, I can’t abandon her just like that to run off and marry and only think of myself. What’ll happen to Mother? If she died, I’d never forgive myself. I’d carry it to the grave. But still there’s on the other hand—Clarence—’

She looked around the room, almost imploringly, at the others, and before anyone could speak, she resumed, addressing the group as well as Dr. Keller. ‘You all know me. I don’t have to lie. I’m not beautiful and I know it, besides I don’t think that’s the important thing because spiritual is more important. But we all know men hold more store by looks than anything, and Clarence—I’m not ashamed to admit it—I guess I’ve told you—he’s the first man who ever proposed to me, and besides he’s nice and I want to have a respectable husband, too, like everyone.’ She swallowed. ‘But what’ll I do with Mother?’

She sat back, and eyed the others hopefully. Dr. Keller straightened his bulk, put down his pencil, and pinched his broad nose. ‘Well, now, Miss Dudzinski, this anxiety—’

Before the analyst could continue, Adam Ring, from deep in his chair, swinging his rabbit’s foot still, spoke up. ‘I’ll tell you what to do with Mother,’ he said. ‘Drown her.’

Miss Dudzinski gasped and Ring was pleased, for he liked to shock. Irreverence was his attention getter and his protective barrier, Dr. Keller had told him several times. Before Miss Dudzinski could protest, Adam Ring went on. ‘Your old lady’s no different than all the rest, Miss D. She’s got you by the cord, and she’s not letting you cut it. Why should she? You’re her meal ticket. You’re also her nurse and full-time companion. You listen to me. Blow her off. Stick her in some sanitarium—your husband’ll pay to keep her out of his sight. She’ll be happier in the end, and you’ll have your guy. Look, you said it, kid, you’re no Miss V. di Milo. There’s at least one guy for every girl on earth. For you, figure that’s the limit. Here’s the guy. Grab. Hold him like a sweepstakes ticket. Let him go and what have you got left? Mother’s Day for the rest of your life.’

Mr. Lovato waved his hand in a flutter, and spoke in a gentle, effeminate voice. ‘Although I think Mr. Ring put it crudely, even threateningly, I concur with his sentiments all the way. As Dr. Keller has often implied, we can’t have our cake and eat it, too. I believe you have to approach your decision coldly and logically, Miss Dudzinski. If you leave your mother for your young man, your mother has an alternative. She can find some other elderly woman to live with or move into a sanitarium or busy herself in many ways. Moreover, she’s had a full life of her own and need not consume yours, which my mother tried to do, too. On the other hand, if you give up the young man, you may have no alternative. You may remain unwedded for a lifetime. I feel you simply have no choice but to accept your young man’s proposal.’

Listening, John Garrett determined to add his own opinion, which was no different from the others, only so that he could lead from his opinion into his own problem, and in that way, be sure that he would have his needed time. But before he could speak, Mrs. Zane, to his left, quickly made herself heard.

‘I don’t think it’s as easy as everyone is making out,’ said Mrs. Zane. ‘It’s all well and good for single men like Mr. Ring and Mr. Lovato to say make Clarence your choice and forget your mother—but Miss Dudzinski’s mother
is
a responsibility, a human responsibility, and must be considered. You all know I can speak feelingly of this, because I can see all sides. Miss Dudzinski’s problem is an exact parallel to my own. I’m caught between two people, also, and do you think it’s easy? Do you think I enjoy being forced to have sexual intercourse with Mr. Zane’s boss every night, while Mr. Zane is out of town?’

‘Well, cut it down to twice a week,’ Adam Ring called out cheerfully.

‘Oh, please, Mr. Ring,’ replied Mrs. Zane, ‘this is no joke. I know you think I’m sexually promiscuous—’

‘My only objection is that you don’t share the wealth, wonder girl,’ said Ring with a grin. ‘You’ve got me real curious about what’s under those panties. I’d like a piece of the action whenever you find time—’

‘I wouldn’t have you, you impotent egotist!’ flared Mrs. Zane. She turned towards the desk. ‘Dr Keller, why is he so hostile towards me?’

Dr. Keller, eyes hooded, remained imperturbable, and Adam Ring retained his set grin.

Mrs. Zane shook her head. ‘I know you’re thinking that, too, Dr. Keller. You’ve made it plain I should try to curb my outside actions during my therapy, and you think I’m only increasing my sex life to defy you.’

‘You know better than to bait me, Mrs. Zane,’ said the analyst quietly. ‘Don’t try to speak for me. When it is necessary for your good, for what is best for you, when it is necessary for me to articulate for you certain emotions you do not understand, I will be less impersonal, I will speak. Now—you were saying, Mrs. Zane—?’

‘I was saying I’m tormented constantly by my situation.’ She addressed her co-patients imploringly, her temper receding. ‘You all know what I go through. I have Miss Dudzinski’s anxieties. What should I do? What is right? If I stop, Mr. Zane will be fired. I know that. He’ll be shattered. If I go on—well, I feel sinful. I lie awake nights, night after night, and ask myself all the questions. Am I being disloyal to Mr. Zane? Or am I truly helping him at great sacrifice? I pray to the Lord, and pray someday He will answer me. Heavens knows, I don’t enjoy the act that much. I can see Mr. Ring smirking—but I don’t, you all believe me. I’m exhausted. I have five children and a husband, too—and his boss, every night. I’ll give you an example. Let me tell you what happened last night—’

John Garrett knew that Mrs. Zane had done what he had intended to do—interrupt so that she might have the floor. His admiration was mingled with annoyance. He was impatient with Mrs. Zane’s prolific and perspiring acrobatics, and her secret pleasures and atoning guilts, and he wanted to voice the exigency of his own immediate problem. He glanced at his watch once more. There were thirty-four minutes remaining to the session. He hoped that Mrs. Zane’s indulgence of the night before had been brief, silent, hedonistic, but he doubted it.

Waiting his turn, he thought back to how he had got into this damn group thing. It had begun with the increasing periods of depression and the persistent headaches, of course, the pressures against his forehead and the back of his skull coming daily with regularity, intruding on his achievement, and work, and home life. He had seen his physician, and subsequently an ear man, and then a neurologist, and suffered all the tests, but nothing pathological had been indicated. At last, upon the suggestion of his physician, he had reluctantly called upon a psychoanalyst in
Pasadena.

There had been three months on the couch, ridiculous and wasted. Then, one morning, the psychoanalyst had recommended analytic group psychotherapy. The reasons given for this suggested change, which Garrett found senseless, were that persons like him, who hated and retreated from social contacts, who performed poorly in social situations, could most benefit by group therapy. Moreover, Garrett learned, his hostility towards the psychoanalyst (an extension of his ancient resentment of his father, whom his mother had worshipped and to whom she had given all her time), made person-to-person therapy difficult. Garrett learned that, attached to a group whose members suffered similar hostilities and anxieties, his anger might be modified, and that more progress might be made. The
Pasadena psychoanalyst had then suggested that a Dr. Keller, of
Los Angeles, was one of the best men in the field. And so, after an undecided week, Garrett had joined the group.

True, with the months of group psychotherapy, despite his shame at the public exposure, and the frustrations of competing with others for time and Dr. Keller’s attention and approval, the head pressures had become more irregular, sometimes disappearing for several days in succession. But the source of the headaches still remained a partial mystery to him. Despite Dr. Keller’s occasional remarks to the contrary, Garrett chose to believe that his discomfort had started with the entrance of Dr. Carlo Farelli into his life.

Certainly, in the period before the advent of Farelli, John Garrett had reached a peak of personal happiness, a summit of satisfaction, that he had never dreamed of attaining. Now, daydreaming in Dr. Keller’s office, he had no trouble slipping backward into the recent past, to the events that led to his triumph and the event that led to its decline and fall. You pushed a button in memory, and lo, you slid back . . .

He was, he knew (for now he could afford a certain candour with himself), a drab, colourless and withdrawn research workhorse in the Rosenthal Medical Centre in
Pasadena. He possessed the degrees, and the knowledge and techniques that had earned him the degrees, but he was neither imaginative nor creative. Nothing about him soared. A thousand colleagues would have agreed that his epitaph would one day be one word: competent.

Yet, for some inexplicable emotional reason, he became interested in a dramatic phase of medicine—that which dealt with tissue transplantation, the technique of replacing the missing or damaged parts of a human being’s body with new parts. Mulling over old medical journals, Garrett learned that the field was not a new one. Almost two thousand years before, a Hindu surgeon, Susruta, had used cheek skin to help create new noses for his patients. In more recent times, in 1870 to be exact, Dr. J. L. Reverdin, of
Paris had introduced modern free skin grafting. Early in the twentieth century, Dr. Charles Guthrie, of
St. Louis, had successfully grafted the head of a donor dog to join the head of a host dog, thereby fashioning a two-headed canine.

To Garrett, in his earliest enthusiasm, it appeared that anything was possible in this field. But not until he left his reading, and participated in actual experiments, did he fully realize the nature of the obstacle that hindered progress. The obstacle was not in surgery, where advance in techniques had been sufficient to make possible the replacement of an old, dying organ in the human body with a new, living organ. The obstacle was biochemical. As a self-defence against germs, the human body threw up an immunological barrier that not only warded off invading diseases but also destroyed foreign tissues that might be helpful.

Once he perceived the problem, Garrett devoted more and more of his energies and time to studying it. Figuratively, Saralee became a widow, and the children orphans, due to his work. Where colleagues were satisfied with eight hours given to research, Garrett was not satisfied with twelve or fourteen or sixteen hours. The medical laboratory became his
Santa Maria
,
Pinta
,
Niٌa
rolled into one, and he was as single-minded in his exploration as had been their admiral.

Soon, he was sated with knowledge of the human body’s rejection or immunity mechanism. This was the reticulo-endothelial system. It consisted of antibodies and powerful white cells known as lymphocytes in the blood that protected man by killing off bacteria, viruses, or any strange or foreign cells that entered the body. This rejection mechanism was everyman’s friend, but Garrett came to regard it as his personal enemy. For if the rejection mechanism warded off diseased cells, it also murdered healthy new cells, since it could not tell the difference. This, then, was the difficulty. If a man were dying for want of new kidneys, or small intestines, or lungs, or heart, you could not transplant a fresh vital organ for the old, because the rejection mechanism, antagonistic to foreign tissue, would murder it—and its host.

The rejection mechanism became Garrett’s target. And what confirmed his aim were the exceptions to the rule. Toiling side by side with his colleagues in the Medical Centre, he found that transplants of pieces of artery, sections of bone, the cornea of the eye were long-practised grafts that had nothing to do with the rejection mechanism. A new cornea in place of an old one survived because antibodies and assaulting white cells could not get at it. As to transplanted blood vessels and bones, they did not need to survive for they were merely scaffolding across which normal host tissue could grow.