In the Field

by Rachel Pastan

  Paul had been the first of them to leave Ithaca. He had sped through his PhD with a nervy singularity of purpose, then, with Whitaker’s help, landed the Harvard job. This despite the fact that it was the Depression, work no easier to come by for young scientists than for anybody else. Luckily Cornell was generous with instructorships, which were basically a way of keeping promising young people in the field for a couple of years post-PhD until something turned up. Kate was finishing out her second year as an instructor, Thatch his first. He was more anxious about the job situation than she was, though. After all, he had Cynthia to think about, and probably, before long, a small Thatcher or two.

  After the wedding luncheon, the chairs were pushed to the sides of the room and the string trio played out-of-date waltzes under the swags of ivy and white roses, while the crystal pendants of the chandeliers glowed in the oyster-gray light. Kate felt ridiculous in the violet dress she’d bought for the occasion. She began to move to the corner where Whitaker was holding court, but Paul put a hand on her shoulder and asked her to dance.

  “No thank you,” Kate said.

  “The happy couple expect it,” Paul said.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Kate said. “Besides, my feet hurt in these shoes.”

  “I’ll tell you about my fascinating Harvard experiments if you dance with me.” His hand drifted down to hers and tugged gently.

  “What makes you think I care about flies?” Kate said. It offended her that Paul had switched from corn to flies when he got to Harvard, but she let him lead her to the dance floor anyway. He smelled so familiar inside his gray suit, sharp and faintly electric, like the air during a thunderstorm.

  “Flies are very interesting,” he said, turning her in expert circles. On the other side of the room, the newlyweds were revolving slowly as Cynthia attempted to subdue her billows of tulle.

  “I hear fly rooms stink of rotten bananas,” Kate said.

  “Who cares? You get a new generation every eight days.”

  “What do you want with more data than you can analyze?” Her purple organza collar chafed, and the heel of her left foot hurt where it rubbed against her shoe. Paul pulled her closer so her ruffles brushed his lapels. The dance floor was filling up, but he stepped unerringly into open space and began to describe the experiments he was doing, cutting the eye buds out of mutant drosophila larvae and transplanting them into other larvae to track down how eye color worked. Despite herself, Kate was interested. “Maize is too slow, Kate,” Paul said. “Science is speeding up.”

  “Corn still has a lot to offer.” The rain, which had briefly subsided, began to beat down harder, and Kate thought again of her seedlings as Paul spun her relentlessly along.

  “Even drosophila might be too big and slow,” he said.

  Kate laughed.

  “People are beginning to study bacteria, Kate. It’s an exciting world outside of Ithaca. New ideas, new techniques. X-rays! No more waiting and hoping nature throws a mutation your way.”

  “Look,” Kate said. “They’re cutting the cake.” She had heard about the X-ray work being done in places like Missouri, and she thought it was very interesting. But she wasn’t about to tell Paul that.

  The music stopped. Paul kept hold of Kate’s hands. He bent his head toward her, and she could feel the heat coming off of him. “It’s time to get out,” he said. “Whitaker’s getting old.”

  Kate glanced at the corner by the window where Whitaker was smoking his pipe, surrounded by a group of younger men. It was true that he had very little hair left. The lines in his face had deepened, the tip of his nose grown pendulous. “There aren’t any jobs,” Kate said.

  “There are always jobs.”

  She had forgotten how clear and hard his eyes were beneath those fierce, tawny brows. All around them, people were making their way toward the table where Thatch and Cynthia stood smiling before the tall, immaculately white cake with its manufactured roses. Thatch put his arms around Cynthia’s waist, both of them grasping the cake knife. Then together, solemnly, they sliced down through the white icing and pale yielding layers.

  “The symbolic thrust,” Paul said, close to Kate’s ear, as Cynthia’s father, spectacles glittering, began to make a toast about the seasons of life. Kate was finding it hard to breathe inside the organza.

  “By the way,” Paul murmured, “I was supposed to stay with Lee Wilson, but he says his wife’s cousin is in town and could I find another bed. I don’t suppose … ?”

  “You know how small my place is,” Kate said.

  Tears trickled down Cynthia’s smiling cheeks as her father droned on. Thatch pulled her head down onto his shoulder. The father kissed his damp-faced daughter and shook hands with his new son-in-law, beaming and sweating and wiping his brow.

  Then Whitaker stepped forward, chiming a spoon against a glass. “Today, Thatch and Cynthia are starting out on life’s great journey,” he began in his dry, thin, clear voice. He spoke about companionship and solace, about bumps in the road and the pleasures of the quiet life. Cynthia had wiped her tears with a lace handkerchief and was listening intently, her eyes bright. Kate fidgeted. How could such a brilliant man give such a dull toast? She could feel Paul behind her thinking the same thing. The warmth of his breath and the faint electric smell of him dilated something inside her. Thatch looked so happy with his bride nestled like a bird under his arm. She hoped things would work out for him. For him and Cynthia. And why shouldn’t they? The back of her dress brushed against the front of Paul’s trousers. He leaned forward, letting out a sigh, and she instinctively stepped away. In her distraction, she missed the beginning of the sentence that ended “… and I told him I had just the man for the job! So here’s a toast to Dr. John Thatcher and his lovely bride, and to their new life in New York City.”

  Kate turned to Paul. “What did he say?”

  “The Rockefeller Institute.”

  All around the room, the guests broke into exclamations and applause. The color of Thatch’s face deepened, and he beamed with embarrassment. Cynthia was smiling as though her face would break open, her eyes teary again, as a flood of well-wishers moved in to congratulate them all over again. Outside the windows, the rain fell steadily. Kate stood stunned.

  “I told you there were jobs,” Paul said. He took her arm and pulled her along with him toward the corner where Whitaker was refilling his pipe.

  “That was a very nice toast, sir,” Paul said. “And quite a wedding present you arranged.”

  “Look at you, Novak,” Whitaker said. “To see you now, no one would ever guess you were raised in Kansas.”

  “I was just telling Kate about the delights of fruit flies.”

  “Don’t waste your breath,” Whitaker said fondly. “Kate is a corn man through and through.”

  “There was a genetics job at the Rockefeller Institute?” Kate said.

  “Not officially.” Whitaker bent his head and touched the match to the bowl. Mottled spots the size of quarters stood out on his bronzed head. “They didn’t want to advertise. They just called me and asked if I could recommend someone.”

  “And you recommended Thatch,” Kate said. Her voice sounded hoarse and scratchy. She cleared her throat, but she could still feel the indignation making a lump while puffs of smoke floated peaceably across the room as they must have at many a treaty signing between American colonists and Indian chiefs.

  “The timing was right,” Whitaker said.

  “I got my degree a year ahead of him,” Kate said.

  “You’ll be fine, Kate. You’ve been doing wonderful work. Paul, make sure Kate tells you about her new project. It’s a very smart idea.”

  Across the room, Thatch and Cynthia were feeding each other pieces of cake. The musicians had started playing again, and the mood in the room was gay. Two people had been successfully bound together, their genes promised to each other
. Thatch would love being a father, Kate thought. Though, of course, he’d be extremely busy with his new job. “Are there other unofficial openings?” she asked.

  “You still have your instructorship,” Whitaker said. “When you publish this project, everyone is going to want you.”

  Kate walked away across the parquet, trying to swallow back her rage, forcing herself to think about her field. She had crossed plants that each had broken chromosomes to each other, and she longed to see if their progeny would look the way she thought they would. If the storm washed her seedlings away, she’d never know.

  In the lobby, as she waited for her coat, Paul appeared. “You’re not leaving already?” he said.

  “I have to check on my plants.”

  “I’ll come with you.”

  She shook her head. “I have to stop by my place and change.”

  “I’ll give you a lift.”

  She was tired, it was exhausting to resist him, he had a car. Besides all that, there was comfort in being with someone who knew her. Especially now that Thatch was married.

  When they got to her apartment, wet despite their raincoats, Paul followed Kate as she went into the bedroom. When she turned to shoo him out, he came close and stroked her hair, then took hold of her breast through the scratchy purple fabric. Well, she thought, here was Paul getting what he wanted, as usual. Was it what she wanted, too? It was hard to say.

  Paul unbuttoned her damp buttons, then stood back and looked at her half-naked body. He was still in his dove- gray suit, heat radiating off him. Her hand reached up to touch the bare skin above his collar, but he intercepted it, cupping it in his large palms, then guiding it to the crotch of his fine wool trousers, his eyes fixed on her. His size and stiffness was so much like an ear of corn that she almost giggled. She wondered how long she would have to leave her hand there before she would feel all right about taking it away.

  At last he lifted her palm to his mouth and kissed it, sucked lightly on the tips of her fingers. A faint ringing started up in her ears.

  It was dim in the small room. The rain pounded heavily on the roof. “Look at you,” Paul said. He began to touch her: her breasts, her belly, between her legs. Her breath came faster.

  She shut her eyes and listened to the rain as the damp organza fell to the floor. His hands moved slowly over her. Then he grasped her elbow and together they crossed to the bed. She lay quietly, eyes open now, watching Paul remove his clothes. When he stretched out naked beside her, the springs groaned. They lay facing each other on top of her old coverlet.

  “Kate,” Paul said.

  Her skin prickled with gooseflesh.

  The bed creaked as he shifted closer. His damp hair brushed her throat, and she shivered. His tongue explored her breast, his lips closing around her nipple. She concentrated all her attention on that place—that feeling—not to miss any of it. He moved to the other breast, his hands squeezing her backside, and she rubbed herself against him like a cat. It made so much sense that honey was what bees rendered from their bodies after fertilizing flowers. She wanted to laugh—having a thought like that now! She wanted to stop and tell Paul.

  But she didn’t—couldn’t—stop. Her body moved urgently, rubbing itself up and down against his hard pale thigh. It only took a minute or two. Then she lay back, flushed and buzzing. Her throat ached as her breath slowed.

  “Kate,” Paul said again. His teeth seemed to bite her name carefully out of the air. Naked, there was so much of him. His body was like a wall between her and everything else. He took up almost all the room in the bed. He nudged her over until she was on her back on the coverlet, then lifted himself on top of her.

  “Mmm,” he said, and sighed with a droning sound like a distant swarm of bees. Then he drove himself in.

  Kate took a sharp breath at the pain. She watched his eyes narrow as he eased in deeper. They were fiercely focused, but she couldn’t tell what they were focused on. Not on her.

  Would Thatch and Cynthia still be smiling tiredly at lingering guests in the hotel ballroom? Or would they be by now in Thatch’s old Ford on the way to Niagara Falls? That would be a brutal drive in this weather. Kate’s mind jumped ahead—she couldn’t help it—picturing Cynthia’s olive skin flushing as she sat on the edge of a big white bed …

  Paul leaned more heavily onto her and began to make strange sounds. A bittersweet smell was leeching out of his skin. The rain was coming down harder now, rattling the window.

  She had to get to her plants.

  She began to move her body slightly. She lifted her hips, pressing back against Paul’s groin, ignoring the pain. Waves of heat seemed to pour out of him, burning through her. He went very still. “Wait,” he said, drawing back.

  But she was done waiting. She reached out and pulled him closer. His face clenched and he collapsed on top of her. The room stank of salt and musk.

  After a moment or two, he rolled off. A sticky wetness trickled down her thigh. She thought of pollen spilled from paper bags at fertilization time, the bright yellow grains that stained your fingers. If she were a plant, she never would have found herself in this ridiculous position, splayed and pinned on her white candlewick coverlet like a moth.

  “I want to ask you something,” Paul said.

  There were short tawny hairs all over the bed, not to mention a stain. She would have to wash the coverlet. It would take ages to dry in this weather. “What?”

  “I need a simpler test organism.”

  Kate stared at him. Then she began to laugh, which made her cough. She seemed to have something stuck in her throat. “Simpler than flies?” she croaked.

  He raised himself up on an elbow and looked down at her. His face was glowing, and he was frowning with excitement. “I have an idea about how to trace the action of one single gene. It’s a good idea, but it won’t work in drosophila.”

  Kate wriggled down to the foot of the bed so she could get up without climbing over him. It was still raining. She felt weak and disoriented, but she needed to get to the field. She picked up Paul’s shirt and pants and threw them at him. “Time to get dressed,” she said.

  “Think about it, okay?” he said urgently. “Some microbe maybe. Something that lives on one particular nutrient base. Something that’s easy to grow.”

  It was dark outside, though the long summer day was far from over. Gray-black clouds blew across the sky like smoke, and fine needles of the interminable rain flashed silver, then splashed into spreading puddles, gleaming green and purple over the oily pavement. The sound of the driving rain filled the air, which smelled of mud and asphalt and lightning. Overhead, the branches creaked and groaned on trees that shook their leaves fiercely, sending down secondary showers. Kate got into her car and drove out to the field along the black streaming streets. She felt numb, stupid, half-panicked.

  The wedding. Whitaker’s toast. The thing that had happened in her bed.

  When an insect infected a tree, the tree grew a hard, knotty boll to contain it.

  The car splashed through puddles and fishtailed around curves. Her windshield wipers clacked, and her headlamps made two foggy yellow tunnels through the dusk.

  At the field, she parked in the sodden grass. In the gray light she looked across at her rows of plants, only six or eight inches high, now drooping and limp. Leaving the engine running, she got out of the car, her headlamps illuminating long dashes of rain. Rain beat down on her oilskin hat and on the shoulders of her slicker, found its way under her collar and slithered down the back of her neck. Her boots squelched along the soft ground. She could see that the whole lower part of the field was flooded. Rivers of water swept along the rows, and some of the plants were nearly swimming in it, their leaves all pulling downstream. The mud tugged at her boots and the chilly rain dripped down her face as she made her way toward them, wondering if she could somehow redirect the rushing water. Sh
e turned in a slow circle, trying to think. The stream pulled at her ankles. Then, carefully, she lowered herself down. Her knees sank into the cold muck. She knelt by the first plant and ran a hand along its leaves, which were splayed out like a girl’s long hair, straining downstream as though longing for freedom. Plunging her bare hands down, she pushed the cold ooze toward the base of the stem. If she could build up the dirt around each plant, she might save some of them.

  Slowly, slowly, she worked her way down the row. The rain pelted her, and the mud clung to her stiff fingers, and her soaked trousers were heavy as clay. The water flooded over the tops of her boots and squished in her socks. Four plants, six plants, eleven. Here and there one was gone, swept away in the stream, a missing tooth in a jack-o’-lantern’s grin. A data point she’d never get back. All she could do was hope it wasn’t a crucial one. Still, she was saving more than she was losing.

  Well, maybe not. But she was saving a few.

  Her hat blew off in a gust and disappeared into the night, which had somehow fallen. It was very dark now, the glow of the car’s headlamps casting the only light. On she worked, her body numb, her mind blank. She didn’t notice the rain lightening, letting up, fading into a cold mist. When she was so stiff she could hardly move, she looked up and saw, for one quick moment, the moon—a glowing white disk at the crest of the sky—before the clouds billowed in to hide it again.

  When she got home, she stripped off her clothes just inside the front door. The mud had penetrated everywhere. Her belly and thighs were coated with it, and silt clung to her underwear. Her throat burned and her head throbbed. She should run a bath, she should make a cup of tea. Instead, she dragged herself into the bedroom, where the bedcovers lay rucked and stained. What difference if a mud-daubed body lay down in them.