Robin Cook: Fever

“Compassion? You’re asking me about compassion after what you do to all those animals in the lab? What a joke!”

Charles studied his son. He thought he saw more than disrespect. He thought he saw hatred. Chuck had been a mystery to Charles from the day he reached puberty. With some difficulty he suppressed the urge to slap the boy.

With his usual resourcefulness, Jean Paul had found a large cardboard box as well as an old pillow. He’d cut open the pillow and filled the box with the feathers. Using the collapsed pillow as a protective rag, he picked up the duck and put it into the box. As he explained it to Charles, the feathers would both protect the duck from injuring himself if he had another seizure and keep it warm. Charles nodded his approval and they all climbed into the car.

The five-year-old red, rusted Pinto complained as Charles turned the key. Because of a series of holes in the muffler the Pinto sounded like an AMX tank when it finally started. Charles backed out of the garage, slid down the drive, and turned north on Interstate 301, heading toward Shaftesbury. As the old car picked up speed, Charles felt relief. Family life could never be made to run smoothly. At least in the lab the variables had a comforting predictability and problems lent themselves to the scientific method. Charles was growing less and less appreciative of human capriciousness.

“All right!” he shouted. “No music!” He switched off the radio. The two boys had been fighting over which station to hear. “A little quiet contemplation is a good way to begin the day.”

The brothers looked at each other and rolled their eyes.

Their route took them along the Pawtomack River and they got glimpses of the water as it snaked its way through the countryside. The closer they got to Shaftesbury, the more intense the stench became from Recycle, Ltd. The first view of the town was the factory’s smokestack spewing its black plume into the air. A harsh whistle shattered the silence as they came abreast of the plant, signaling a changing of shift.

Once past the chemical plant the odor disappeared as if by magic. The abandoned mills loomed on their left as they proceeded up Main Street. Not a person was in sight. It was like a ghost town at six forty-five in the morning. Three rusting steel bridges spanned the river, additional relics of the progressive era before the great war. There was even a covered bridge but no one used that. It was totally unsafe and kept up just for the tourists. The fact that no tourists ever came to Shaftesbury hadn’t dawned on the town fathers.

Jean Paul got out at the regional high school at the northern end of town. His eagerness to start his day was apparent in the rapid way he said good-bye. Even at that hour a group of his friends were waiting, and they entered the school together. Jean Paul was on the J.V. basketball team and they had to practice before classes. Charles watched his younger son disappear, then pulled the car out into the street heading toward I-93 and the trip into Boston. They didn’t hit traffic until they were in Massachusetts.

For Charles, driving had a hypnotic effect. Usually his mind trailed off into the complexities of antigens and antibodies, protein structure and formation while he operated the car by some lower, more primitive parts of his brain. But today he began to find himself sensitive to Chuck’s habitual silence, then irritated by it. Charles tried to imagine what was on his older son’s mind. But try as he could, he realized he had absolutely no idea. Snatching quick looks at the bored, expressionless face, he wondered if Chuck thought about girls. Charles realized that he didn’t even know if Chuck dated.

“How is school going?” asked Charles as casually as possible.

“Fine!” said Chuck, immediately on guard.

Another silence.

“You know what you’re going to major in?”

“Nah. Not yet.”

“You must have some idea. Don’t you have to start planning next year’s schedule?”

“Not for a while.”

“Well, what course do you enjoy the most this year?”

“Psychology, I guess.” Chuck looked out the passenger window. He didn’t want to talk about school. Sooner or later they’d get around to chemistry.

“Not psychology,” said Charles, shaking his head.

Chuck looked at his father’s cleanly shaven face, his broad but well-defined nose, his condescending way of speaking with his head tilted slightly back. He was always so sure of himself, quick to make judgments, and Chuck could hear the derision in his father’s voice as he pronounced the word “psychology.” Chuck worked up his courage and asked: “What’s wrong with psychology?” This was one area in which Chuck was convinced his father was not an expert.

“Psychology is a waste of time,” said Charles. “It’s based on a fundamentally false principle, stimulus-response. That’s just not how the brain works. The brain is not a blank tabula rasa, it’s a dynamic system, generating ideas and even emotions often irrespective of the environment. You know what I mean?”

“Yeah!” Chuck looked away. He had no idea what his father was talking about, but as usual it sounded good. And it was easier to agree, which is what he did for the next fifteen minutes while Charles maintained an impassioned monologue about the defects of the behavioral approach to psychology.

“How about coming over to the lab this afternoon?” said Charles after an interval of silence. “My work has been going fabulously, and I think I’m close to a breakthrough of sorts. I’d like to share it with you.”

“I can’t today,” said Chuck quickly. The last thing he wanted was to be shepherded around the institute where everyone kowtowed to Charles, the famous scientist. It always made him feel uncomfortable, especially since he didn’t understand a thing that Charles was doing. His father’s explanations always started so far above Chuck’s head that he was in constant terror of a question which could reveal the depths of his ignorance.

“You can come at any time at all, at your convenience, Chuck.” Charles had always wished he could share his enthusiasm for his research with Chuck, but Chuck had never shown any interest. Charles had thought that if the boy could see science in action, he’d be irresistibly drawn to it.

“No. I got a lab and then some meetings.”

“Too bad,” said Charles. “Maybe tomorrow.”

“Yeah, maybe tomorrow,” said Chuck.

Chuck got out of the car on Huntington Avenue and, after a perfunctory good-bye, walked away in the wet Boston snow. Charles watched him go. He looked like some late-sixties caricature, out of place even among his peers. The other students seemed brighter, more attentive to their appearance, and almost invariably in groups. Chuck walked by himself. Charles wondered if Chuck had been the most severely hurt by Elizabeth’s illness and death. He’d hoped that Cathryn’s presence would have helped, but ever since the wedding, Chuck had become more withdrawn and distant. Putting the car in gear, Charles headed across the Fenway toward Cambridge.

Crossing the Charles River via the Boston University Bridge, he began to plan his day. It was infinitely easier to deal with the complications of intracellular life than the uncertainties of child rearing. At Memorial Drive Charles turned right, then after a short distance, left into the parking area of the Weinburger Research Institute. His spirits began to rise.

As he got out of his car, he noticed a significant number of cars already there, which was unusual at that time of the morning; even the director’s blue Mercedes was in its spot. Mindless of the weather, Charles stood for a moment puzzling over all the cars, then started toward the institute. It was a modern four-storied, brick-and-glass structure, somewhat akin to the nearby Hyatt Hotel but without the pyramid profile. The site was directly on the Charles River and nestled between Harvard and M.I.T., and directly across from the campus of Boston University. No wonder the institute had no trouble locating recruits.