by Erich Segal
He stopped, visibly shaken by the summoning up of nightmares past. For a moment it seemed as if he would burst into tears.
“I’m sorry, Isa,” he muttered. “I guess I shouldn’t have told you—”
“No—I understand why. The shoe almost fits,” she conceded, “but not quite.”
“But I was also trying to explain myself. I want us to be friends, and we can’t be if you think I’m a senseless weirdo. It’s just that right after … what happened to Darius, I dropped out.”
“How did your mom and dad feel?”
“They weren’t exactly jumping for joy. But I guess they figured it was better for me to leave school than leave them. So I became a tennis bum. It got my mind off things.
“I banged the ball all day long—and watched the stars all night. Anything but serve the system that had crushed Darrie.” He paused, worked up the courage and added, “He left me the telescope. It’s in my dad’s backyard.”
Isabel was consumed with sadness—both for Darius and Jerry.
Suddenly they were interrupted.
“Isabel, do you know what time it is?”
Both youngsters were shocked. They had lost all track of time, and it was, as Raymond’s presence now attested, well past her curfew.
Totally nonplussed by Ray’s unexpected appearance, Isabel could not help admiring Jerry’s poise.
“I’m terribly sorry, Mr. da Costa,” he said contritely, rising to his feet. “It’s all my fault. May I expiate by asking you both to join me for a quick lunch?”
Isabel cast an imploring glance at Ray. But he had other ideas.
“I’m sorry,” he declared sternly. “We’ve had enough frivolity for one weekend. Isabel’s got a full schedule of homework—including a very important seminar paper.”
Jerry was nothing if not resilient. “If you’re thinking of her report for my dad, she delivered it last week.”
“Oh,” Raymond remarked icily, “does your father always discuss the details of his courses with you?”
“No,” the young man conceded. “Especially since I’m usually bored to tears by the theoretical stuff he teaches. But he admired Isa’s paper so much he mentioned the possibility of getting it published.” And then, congratulating his tennis pupil, he said, “By the way, nice going, Isa.”
“Published?” Ray murmured half to himself. He turned to his daughter. “How come you didn’t tell me?”
“Because this is the first I’ve heard of it. Isn’t it exciting?”
“I’m sure there’ll be many others,” Jerry interposed. A glance at Raymond’s stern face stopped him from saying more. “Well, I don’t want to stand in the way of scientific progress,” he announced, beginning to retreat. And then, looking at Isabel, he added nervously, “Maybe you can stay for lunch next week, huh?”
“Thanks Jerry,” she said noncommittally. “I had a really good time.”
“I’m glad. I only hope our conversation wasn’t too much of a downer.”
Raymond turned and began to lead the way toward the parking lot.
“What was that conversation he referred to?” he asked as they were driving home.
“I understand Jerry better now. I mean, why he dropped out.”
“What do you mean?”
“His best friend committed suicide.”
“Any particular reason?”
Isabel hesitated for a moment, and then said quietly, “Because he was a genius.”
June 28
Today I had what I guess was my first real “date.” I mean it wasn’t anything passionate like Romeo and Juliet. But it was a few hours in the company of a boy who’s a high school dropout—and light years smarter than I.
And we didn’t It even have a chaperone. At least not till the very end.
Dad and I spend so much time together I can almost read his mind.
He was very taciturn on the way home. For some crazy reason, he thought that Jerry’s telling me about Darius was an oblique way of criticizing him. I hope I convinced him that it really was Jerry’s own way of explaining himself.
Then, out of the clear blue, he asked, “Did he behave?”
I knew that it was his awkward way of asking whether Jerry had tried to make a pass or something. Part of me wanted to scream, “That’s a stupid question, Dad!” I did my best to brush it off and answer calmly, “Of course.”
Yet as I was taking my shower, I remembered vividly—that Jerry had (in a way) “touched” me. That is, in showing me how to follow through with my backhand, he stood behind me and moved my arms to demonstrate the motion. And though I’m one hundred percent sure that he was simply being a serious tennis coach, my back did rub slightly against his chest a few times.
That was all there was. And I’m sure for him it was no different from any other lessons he gives.
Anyway, it’s not likely to happen again in this century. Because I knew from Dad’s cranky behavior that there was no point whatever in even asking whether I can play with Jerry again.
Especially since, for the rest of the weekend, I had so much trouble concentrating on my schoolwork.
July 7
Jerry hasn’t called yet.
July 12
Jerry still hasn’t called.
July 19
Jerry’s never going to call.
July 26
Good news and bad news. Dad let slip that Jerry had in fact called, two days after our first date.
But he made him promise not to ask me out till I finished my exams.
It’s bad enough that he chased him away.
I wish he had at least told me.
24
SANDY
Sandy Raven was in the right scientific specialty. At the right time. At the right place.
Neighbors in the MIT lab where he was toiling for his Ph.D. included both once and future Nobelists in Medicine or Physiology. They had been drawn, through various detours, from the four corners of the earth, and included Salvador Luria, originally from Torino, Italy, as well as Har Grobind Khorana from Raipur, India. Not to mention a few local prodigies.
By the mid-1970s, scientific information was proliferating at the astonishing rate of two and a half million articles a year. Not even the most brilliant minds could absorb it all. Teamwork became essential, and lab groups would hold weekly meetings during which, munching on sandwiches, they would listen to colleagues reporting in depth on projects in their particular fields of interest.
Moreover, these groups were remarkably heterogeneous—a patchwork quilt of personalities. To begin with—and this was something the older and exclusively male faculty especially noticed—there were now almost as many women as men. And a veritable crazy salad of nationalities, united by their passion.
The natural world suddenly became a great treasure hunt with secrets buried everywhere. The search sometimes required expensive hardware, and the quest an infinite supply of patience.
“Can you imagine,” Sandy remarked to Kanya Wansiri, a cell biologist from Thailand. “You can get the stuff of life delivered right to your door. They even have 800-numbers you can dial.”
He picked up a telephone and mimicked an order: “Hi there, guys. We’re going to need 350 micrograms of pure genomic DNA, ten blood maxikits, and the usual Proteinase K reagents and buffers. Then how about a few flavors of actual DNA—a kilo each of bovine, chicken, mouse, and human. Also, while you’re at it,” he grinned, “two pastramis on rye.”
He hung up, looked at her and commented, “Who’d have believed we’d see the day when we had ‘take-out life’? Wild, huh?”
“Yeah, absolutely,” she agreed. “By the way, what’s ‘pastrami’?”
Sandy was so dedicated that he did not mind associating himself with a figure generally respected as a “good loser” in the scientific community.
To his credit, Gregory Morgenstern did not share the allergy to students that characterizes most scientific giants. Everybody seemed to want him as a thesis adviser.
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His lifelong project had been a search for a genetic means of defeating cancer of the liver, a disease that is more extensive in Southeast Asia than in the industrial world. And it is the most common type of cancer among men in huge areas of tropical Africa. These were not potential markets that aroused much enthusiasm among the large pharmaceutical companies.
Morgenstern was therefore obliged to be a constant commuter from Boston to Washington, hat in hand to seek federal funding. Meanwhile, nearly every team in his lab was investigating different aspects of the problem.
During the weekly report meetings of the various groups, Sandy caught his attention, for what the professor could only describe as “pathological altruism.” The Raven boy reminded Morgenstern of himself at the same age—seeking not recognition or advancement, but answers. The young man’s appetite to learn was insatiable.
Sandy’s horizons were broadening both intellectually and socially.
Instead of remaining in the dormitory, he accepted his lab partner Vic Newman’s invitation to join him and two others in sharing an apartment near Central Square. What startled Sandy at first was Vic’s casual description of their potential roommates as “a couple of girl grad students from Penn.”
Girls? Females? Members—whatever their elevated credentials—of the opposite sex? The very idea of living in close proximity to a nubile woman made Sandy weak at the knees.
“How do you manage it, Vic?” he asked, both frightened and excited. “I mean, suppose they walk around in their underwear or something?”
Newman laughed. “I guess you’re not a man of the world, Raven. There’s nothing like living twenty-four hours a day with girls to turn off your hormones. I mean, after the first few minutes they seem just like guys—except that Stella and Louise are incredibly bright. The only thing that’ll excite you is their brains. Otherwise, it’s strictly brother-and-sister time.”
“Okay, I’m game,” Sandy responded, not without some inner qualms.
“Oh, by the way,” Vic asked casually, “can you cook?”
“No—an egg maybe. But what’s that got to do with it?”
“Well, I already agreed that would be our share of the chores. So I suggest you hasten to the Coop and digest a few health food cookbooks. Oh, I knew there was something I forgot to tell you—the girls are vegetarians.”
They also turned out to be astonishingly adept electrical engineers. For since the night skies not only teemed with stars, but also man-made satellites, their choice of televised entertainment had increased vastly. Although commercial firms could have done so for a fee, no self-respecting MIT type would stoop to pay for what his or her ingenuity could obtain gratis.
The very day Sandy moved in, the two women were fiddling on the roof, adding the last touches to the antenna they had assembled from inexpensive secondhand components. Apparently there was no broadcast code they couldn’t unscramble. Their TV bill of fare was enriched enormously—except on those occasions when Stella and Louise wanted to watch a fight and the guys were more eager to see a movie.
At first it was hard for Sandy and Vic to hold up their side of the bargain. But it was even harder for the ladies—who actually had to eat the stuff the men rustled up.
Within a month the dinners were getting—in Stella’s judgment—marginally tolerable.
Vic Newman was the closest thing to a pal that Sandy had ever had. He was bright, tenacious, and hardworking. Yet what made these initially antisocial traits acceptable was his infectious sense of humor.
Naturally, there were house rules. If, for whatever reason, the door to any of their rooms was closed, this was to be respected in every instance except a three-alarm fire.
But since these were all serious graduate students, they never had to bar their gates when they were studying. Indeed, one of the nicest aspects of this think tank—as Vic referred to it flatteringly—was that any of them could seek the other’s advice on matters scientific.
Vic’s sociological observation had been correct to an extent. Living in such mundane, close quarters, men and women somehow did not develop erotic thoughts about each other.
And yet, if you are a red-blooded American boy taking a shower, grabbing for a towel and finding instead a brassiere—albeit an empty one—the testosterone does not remain totally quiescent.
Also, summer was coming to Boston. And since graduate students did not enjoy the luxury of a vacation, for the first time in five years Sandy would not visit the Coast, where the likes of Gloria were annually replenished. (Where the old ones went, he never knew.)
But by now the rise in ambient temperature evoked a corresponding Pavlovian rise in Sandy’s libido.
He would have to fend for himself that summer.
And he was determined to do so.
The first naked woman Sandy saw that summer was the last he expected to see.
Cruising down a row of periodicals in the Coop, his glance fell casually on Playboy, whose cover enticed potential readers with the promise of “Exclusive Photos—Hollywood’s Hottest Newcomer.”
The rest was masked by the barrier of publications displayed on the shelf below. Sandy quickly grabbed a copy. His worst fears were confirmed: silver letters proclaimed that the Playmate of the Month was—Kim Tower.
He suddenly felt dizzy and needed fresh air fast. Rushing to the cashier’s desk, he bought the magazine and bolted outside.
Finding shelter behind a column, he hurriedly turned the pages. The double-length centerfold tumbled out—and there she was: artfully careless blond tresses, unique turquoise eyes, dazzling smile and flawlessly even teeth.
And yes, her breasts. Perfectly formed, exquisite—and bare.
He sprinted all the way back to the apartment, the erotic publication bouncing in his bag.
When he arrived, Vic Newman was sprawled across the couch, working on his astrophysics. He looked up. “What’s the matter, Raven?”
Too upset to speak, Sandy tossed the bag at Vic, who took out the Playboy and examined it with pleasure. “Hey, terrific. I’ve always wanted to see what she … looked like.”
Sandy snatched it back and agonized, “I don’t understand it. Why the hell would a nice girl from a decent family do something so gross?”
“Are you serious, Raven? This is about the greatest publicity a starlet could get”
“But she’s not an actress anymore.”
“Come on, Sandy,” Vic chided. “People never give up acting—only vice versa—and they never stop dreaming. Who knows, this might even get her started again. I’ll bet every able-bodied guy in the country’s ogling her right this minute.”
Indeed, this was the very thought tearing Sandy apart. She was public property now.
Disconsolate, he retreated to his room, sat on the bed and stared at the photographs.
Is this the woman I’ve worshiped all my life? he asked himself.
Gradually he realized his dominant emotion was not shock, nor outrage, but embarrassment.
And profound sadness.
25
ADAM
As Christmas neared, the level of excitement in the Coopersmith household intensified. Adam took Heather to pre-ski exercise classes at the local gym, and Toni awoke fifteen minutes earlier each morning to perform some of the routines in the Royal Canadian Air Force book.
Since it would be a long drive, Adam proposed that they invite Charlie Rosenthal, his colleague from the fertility clinic, to join them. Toni liked his wife, Joyce, and Heather was midway in age between their two sons—which gave her two near-contemporary playmates.
The two husbands took turns at the wheel of the Rosenthals’ station wagon. They were inspired in great measure to press on because of the intolerable rap music their offspring insisted on blasting through the car’s loudspeakers.
Late in the afternoon of Christmas Eve, tired but exhilarated, they reached the resort hotel at the tip of Georgian Bay.
The families separated, each to their own bungalow, and agree
d to meet in the main lodge for dinner at seven. Eager for winter action, the young Rosenthals and Heather stayed outside to build a snow person—as politically correct Heather insisted it be called.
By the time Heather condescended to go into the cabin, she was thoroughly soaked—and freezing. She willingly dumped herself into the Jacuzzi bathtub and then put on the new plaid skirt and blue blazer Toni had bought her for the holiday. Later they all donned boots and hiked off to the main dining room with high spirits and large appetites.
Charlie and Joyce and the Rosenthal boys were waiting by the gigantic stone fireplace, each with a glass of eggnog, although the youngsters’ drinks were rum-free.
“This place is great,” Joyce enthused. “If you guys are game, I’ve signed us up for tobogganing tomorrow morning.”
“Why not?” Charlie joked. “We’re doctors, we can set each other’s legs. Come on, let’s go in before all the turkey’s gone.”
The noise level in the dining room was high and the alcohol level even higher.
A string quartet of college students from Toronto was playing pseudoclassical versions of popular Christmas chestnuts, like “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer” in the style of Bach—a concept that delighted the diners young and old and added to the magic of the atmosphere.
Sitting between the two Rosenthal boys, Heather was radiating hints of grown-up beauty that tugged at Adam’s heartstrings.
Charlie could always be counted on for some new jokes, and he did not disappoint on this occasion either, while his sons, who had heard them all before, moaned, “not that one again, Dad.”
After the feast, as they were waiting for the baked Alaska, the concierge suddenly arrived and whispered something in Adam’s ear. Nodding, he rose and addressed the others.