Robin Cook: Acceptable Risk

“Trust me,” Stanton said. “You guys will hit it off. You have common backgrounds. Edward’s an M.D. He was a classmate of mine at Harvard Med. As students we teamed up for a lot of experiments and lab stuff until he took his third year off and got a Ph.D. in biochemistry.”

“Is he a practicing doctor?” Kim asked.

“Nope, research,” Stanton said. “His expertise is the chemistry of the brain, which is a particularly fertile area at present. Right now Edward’s the rising star of the field: a scientific celebrity whom Harvard was able to steal back from Stanford. And speaking of the devil, here he comes now.”

Kim swung around in her seat to see a tall and squarely built yet boyish-appearing man heading for their table. Hearing that he’d been Stanton’s classmate, Kim knew he’d have to be about forty, yet he appeared considerably younger, with straight, sandy blond hair and a broad, unlined, tanned face. There was none of the pallor Kim associated with academics. He was slightly stooped, as if he were afraid he was about to bump his head on an overhead beam.

Stanton was instantly on his feet, clasping Edward in a bear hug with as much enthusiasm as he’d shown Kim. He even pounded Edward’s shoulder several times as some men seem impelled to do.

For a fleeting moment Kim felt sympathy for Edward. She could tell that he was as uncomfortable as she had been with Stanton’s overly demonstrative greeting.

Stanton made brief introductions, and Edward shook hands with Candice and Kim before sitting down. Kim noticed his skin was moist and his grip tentative, just like her own. She also noticed he had a slight stutter as well as a nervous habit of pushing his hair from his forehead.

“I’m terribly sorry for being late,” Edward said. He had a little trouble vocalizing his t’s.

“Two birds of a feather,” Stanton said. “My gorgeous, talented, sexy cousin here said the same thing when she arrived five seconds ago.”

Kim felt her face suffuse with color. It was going to be a long evening. Stanton could not help being himself.

“Relax, Ed,” Stanton continued as he poured him some wine. “You’re not late. I said around seven. You’re perfect.”

“I just meant that you were all here waiting,” Edward said. He smiled self-consciously and lifted his glass as if in toast.

“Good idea,” Stanton said, taking the hint and snatching up his glass. “Let me propose a toast. First I’d like to toast my darling cousin, Kimberly Stewart. She’s the best surgical intensive-care nurse at the MGH bar none.” Stanton then looked directly at Edward while everyone held their glasses in abeyance. “If you have to have your prostate plumbing patched up, just pray that Kimberly is available. She’s legendary with a catheter!”

“Stanton, please!” Kim protested.

“OK, OK,” Stanton said, extending his left hand as if to quiet an audience. “Let me get back to my toast of Kimberly Stewart. I would be derelict in my duty if I didn’t bring it to the group’s attention that her sterling genealogy extends back just shy of the Mayflower. That’s paternally, of course. Maternally she only goes back to the Revolutionary War, which, I might add, is my, inferior, side of the family.”

“Stanton, this is hardly necessary,” Kim said. She was already mortified.

“But there’s more,” Stanton said with the relish of a practiced after-dinner speaker. “Kimberly’s first relative to graduate from dear old Harvard did so in 1671. That was Sir Ronald Stewart, founder of Maritime, Ltd., as well as the current Stewart dynasty. And perhaps most interesting of all, Kimberly’s great-grandmother times eight was hanged for witchcraft in Salem. Now if that is not Americana I don’t know what is.”

“Stanton, you can be such a pain,” Kim said, her anger overcoming her embarrassment for the moment. “That’s not information meant for public disclosure.”

“And why the hell not?” Stanton questioned with a laugh. Looking back at Edward he said, “The Stewarts have this ridiculous hangup that such ancient history is a blight on the family name.”

“Whether you think it is ridiculous or not, people have a right to their feelings,” Kim said hotly. “Besides, my mother is the one who is most concerned about the issue, and she’s your aunt and a former Lewis. My father has never said one thing about it to me.”

“Whatever,” Stanton said with a wave. “Personally I find the story fascinating. I should be so lucky; it’s like having had a relative on the Mayflower or in the boat when Washington crossed the Delaware.”

“I think we should change the subject,” Kim said.

“Agreed,” Stanton said equably. He was the only one still holding up his glass of wine. It was a long toast. “That brings me to Edward Armstrong. Here’s to the most exciting, productive, creative, and intelligent neurochemist in the world, no, in the universe! Here’s to a man who has come from the streets of Brooklyn, put himself through school, and is now at the pinnacle of his chosen career. Here’s to a man who should be already booking a flight to Stockholm for his Nobel Prize, which he is a shoo-in to win for his work with neurotransmitters, memory, and quantum mechanics.”

Stanton extended his wineglass and everybody followed suit. They clinked glasses and drank. As Kim set her glass back on the table she glanced furtively at Edward. It was apparent to her that he was equally as abashed and self-conscious as she.

Stanton thumped his now empty glass on the table and proceeded to refill it. He glanced around at the other glasses, then jammed the wine bottle into its ice bucket. “Now that you two have met,” he said, “I expect you to fall in love, get married, and have plenty of darling kids. All I ask for my part in bringing you together in this fruitful union is that Edward agrees to serve on the scientific advisory board of Genetrix.”

Stanton laughed heartily even though he was the only one to do so. When he recovered he said, “Okay, where the hell is the waiter? Let’s eat!”

Outside the restaurant the group paused.

“We could walk around the corner and get ice cream at Herrell’s,” Stanton suggested.

“I couldn’t eat another thing,” Kim said.

“Me neither,” Edward said.

“I never eat dessert,” Candice said.

“Then who wants a lift home?” Stanton asked. “I’ve got my car right here in the Holyoke Center garage.”

“I’m happy with MTA,” Kim said.

“My apartment is just a short walk,” Edward said.

“Then you two are on your own,” Stanton said. After promising Edward he’d be in touch, Stanton took Candice’s arm and headed for the garage.

“Can I walk you to the subway?” Edward asked.

“I’d appreciate that,” Kim said.

They headed off together. As they walked, Kim could sense that Edward wanted to say something. Just before they got to the corner he spoke. “It’s such a pleasant evening,” he said, struggling a bit with the p. His mild stutter had returned. “How about a little walk in Harvard Square before you head home?”

“That would be great,” Kim said. “I’d enjoy it.”

Arm in arm they walked to that complicated collision of Massachusetts Avenue, the JFK Drive portion of Harvard Street, Mt. Auburn Street, and Brattle Street. Despite its name it was hardly a square but rather a series of curved facades and curiously shaped open areas. On summer nights the area metamorphoses into a spontaneous, medieval-like sidewalk circus of jugglers, musicians, poetry readers, magicians, and acrobats.

It was a warm, silky, summer night with a few night-hawks chirping high in the dark sky. There were even a few stars despite the glow from the city lights. Kim and Edward strolled around the entire square, pausing briefly at the periphery of each performer’s audience. Despite their mutual misgivings about the evening, ultimately they were enjoying themselves.