by Robin Cook
One of the men looked up for an instant, indicated that he couldn’t hear, then went back to his sorting. Apparently the conveyor belt didn’t stop and they had to keep up with it. At the end of the belt was a large hopper which, when full, would rise up, position itself over an available pressure cooker, and dump its contents of plastic scrap. Charles saw a man with a large, scimitarlike knife up on the catwalk slit open two bags of chemicals, one white, the other black. With what appeared like great effort he dumped the two bags into the ovens in a great cloud of dust. For a moment the man disappeared from view. When he reappeared, he had closed the hatch and activated the steam, sending a fresh mixture of smoke, odor, and noise into the room.
Although Charles couldn’t get anyone’s attention, no one asked him to leave, either. Boldly he skirted the conveyor belts, keeping his eyes on the floor which was strewn with trash and puddles of oil and grease. He passed a cinder-block wall housing the automated machinery bringing in the tires to be melted down. It was from this area that the smell that Charles associated with the factory originated. Up close it was far more powerful.
Just beyond the wall, Charles found a large wire cage secured with a stout padlock. It was obviously a storeroom because Charles could see shelving with spare parts, tools, and containers of industrial chemicals. The walls were made of the same material that formed the hurricane fence outside. Charles put his fingers through the mesh to support himself while he scanned the labels on the containers. He found what he was looking for directly in front of him. There were two steel drums with benzene stenciled on the sides. There were also the familiar skull and crossbone decals warning that the contents were poisonous. As he looked at the drums, Charles was shaken by a new wave of rage.
A hand gripped Charles’s shoulder and he spun about, flattening himself against the wire mesh.
“What can I do for you?” yelled a huge man trying to be heard over the thunderous din of the machinery. But the instant he spoke, a whistle blew above one of the plastic pressure cookers as it completed its cycle, making further conversation impossible. It burst open and belched forth an enormous amount of black, viscous, depolymerized plastic. The hot liquid was poured into cooling vats sending up billows of acrid vapors.
Charles looked at the man in front of him. He was a full head taller than Charles. His perspiring face was so pudgy that his eyes were mere slits. He was dressed like the other men Charles had seen. His sleeveless undershirt was stretched over a beer belly of awesome dimensions. The man was supporting a dolly, and Charles noticed his massive forearms were professionally tattooed with hula dancers. On the back of his left hand was a swastika that he had apparently done himself.
As soon as the noise level sank to its usual deafening pitch, the worker tried again. “You checking our chemicals?” He had to shout.
Charles nodded.
“I think we need more carbon black,” yelled the man.
Charles realized that the man thought he belonged there.
“What about the benzene?” yelled Charles.
“We got plenty of benzene. That comes in the hundred-gallon drums.”
“What do you do with it after you use it?”
“You mean the ‘spent’ benzene? C’mere, I’ll show you.”
The man leaned his dolly against the wire cage and led Charles across the main room, between two of the rubber ovens where the radiant heat was intense. They ducked under an overhang and entered a hallway that led to a lunch room where the noise was somewhat less. There were two picnic tables, a soda dispenser, and a cigarette machine. Between the soda dispenser and the cigarette machine was a window. The man brought Charles over to it and pointed outside. “See those tanks out there?”
Charles cupped his hands around his eyes and peered out. About fifty feet away and quite close to the riverbank were two cylindrical tanks. Even with the bright moon, he couldn’t see any details.
“Does any of the benzene go in the river?” asked Charles, turning back to the worker.
“Most of it is trucked away to God-knows-where. But you know those disposal companies. When the tanks get too full, we drain them into the river; it’s no problem. We do it at night and it washes right away. Goes out to the ocean. To tell you the truth . . .” The man leaned over as if he were telling a secret: “I think that fucking disposal company dumps it into the river, too. And they charge a goddamn fortune.”
Charles felt his jaw tighten. He could see Michelle in the hospital bed with the IV running into her arm.
“Where’s the manager?” asked Charles, suddenly displaying his anger.
“Manager?” questioned the worker. He regarded Charles curiously.
“Foreman, supervisor. Whoever’s in charge,” snapped Charles.
“You mean the super,” said the worker. “Nat Archer. He’s in his office.”
“Show me where it is,” ordered Charles.
The worker regarded Charles quizzically, then turned and retraced their route to the main room where he indicated a windowed door at the end of a metal catwalk one flight up. “Up there,” he said simply.
Ignoring the worker, Charles ran for the metal stairs. The worker watched him for a moment, then turned and picked up an in-house telephone.
Outside of the office, Charles hesitated for a moment, then tried the door. It opened easily and he entered. The office was like a soundproofed crow’s nest with windows that looked out on the whole operation. As Charles came through the door, Nat Archer twisted in his chair, then stood up smiling in obvious puzzlement.
Charles was about to shout at the man when he realized he knew him. He was the father of Steve Archer, a close friend of Jean Paul’s. The Archers were one of Shaftesbury’s few black families.
“Charles Martel!” said Nat, extending his hand. “You’re about the last person I expected to come through that door.” Nat was a friendly, outgoing man who moved in a slow, controlled fashion, like a restrained athlete.
Taken off balance in finding someone he knew, Charles stammered that he wasn’t making a social call.
“Okay,” said Nat, eyeing Charles more closely. “Why don’t you sit down?”
“I’ll stand,” said Charles. “I want to know who owns Recycle, Ltd.”
Nat hesitated. When he finally spoke he sounded wary. “Breur Chemicals of New Jersey is the parent company. Why do you ask?”
“Who’s the manager here?”
“Harold Dawson out on Covered Bridge Road. Charles, I think you should tell me what this is all about. Maybe I can save you some trouble.”
Charles examined the foreman who’d folded his arms across his chest, assuming a stiff, defensive posture in contrast to his initial friendliness.
“My daughter was diagnosed to have leukemia today.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” said Nat, confusion mixing with empathy.
“I’ll bet you are,” said Charles. “You people have been dumping benzene into the river. Benzene causes leukemia.”
“What are you talking about? We haven’t been dumping benzene. The stuff gets hauled away.”
“Don’t give me any of your bullshit,” snapped Charles.
“I think you’d better get your ass out of here, man.”
“I’ll tell you what I’m going to do,” fumed Charles. “I’m going to see that this shithole factory gets closed down!”
“What’s the matter with you? You crazy or something? I told you we don’t dump nothing.”
“Hah! That big guy downstairs with the tattoos specifically told me you dumped benzene. So don’t try to deny it.”
Nat Archer picked up his phone. He told Wally Crab to get up to his office on the double. Dropping the receiver onto the cradle he turned back to Charles. “Man, you gotta have your head examined. Coming in here in the middle of the night, spoutin’ off about benzene. What’s the matter? Nothing good on the tube tonight? I mean I’m sorry about your kid. But really, you’re trespassing here.”
“This factory is
a hazard to the whole community.”
“Yeah? Well, I’m not so sure the community agrees with you.”
Wally Crab came through the door as if he expected a fire. He skidded to a halt.
“Wally, this man says you told him we dumped benzene in the river.”
“Hell no!” said Wally, out of breath. “I told him the benzene is taken away by the Draper Brothers Disposal.”
“You fucking liar!” shouted Charles.
“Nobody calls me a fucking liar,” growled Wally, starting for Charles.
“Ease off!” yelled Nat, putting a hand on Wally’s chest.
“You told me,” shouted Charles pointing an accusing finger in Wally’s angered face, “when the tanks are too full, you drain them into the river at night. That’s all I need. I’m going to shut this place down.”
“Cool it!” yelled Nat, releasing Wally and grasping Charles’s arm instead. He started walking Charles to the door.
“Get your hands off me,” Charles shouted as he pulled free. Then he shoved Nat away from him.
Nat recovered his balance and thrust Charles back against the wall of the small office.
“Don’t you ever touch me again,” said Nat.
Charles had the intuitive sense to stay still.
“Let me give you some advice,” said Nat. “Don’t cause trouble around here. You’re trespassing, and if you ever come back, you’ll be very sorry. Now get the hell out of here before we throw you out.”
For a minute Charles didn’t know if he wanted to run or fight. Then, realizing he had no choice, he turned and went thundering down the metal stairs, and through the nightmarish mechanical maze on the main floor. He strode through the office and burst outside, thankful for the cold and relatively clean air of the parking lot. Once in the car, he gunned the engine mercilessly before shooting out through the gate.
The farther he got from Recycle, Ltd., the less fear he felt and the more anger and humiliation. Pounding the steering wheel, he vowed he’d destroy the factory for Michelle’s sake no matter what it took. He tried to think of how he would go about doing it, but he was too irate to think clearly. The institute had a law firm on retainer; perhaps he’d start there.
Charles pulled off 301 into his driveway, pushing the accelerator to the floor, spinning the wheels and shooting gravel up inside the fenders. The car skidded first to one side and then the other. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the lace curtains of one of the living room windows part and Cathryn’s face come into view for a second. He skidded to a stop just beyond the back porch and turned off the ignition.
He sat for a moment, gripping the steering wheel, hearing the engine cool off in the icy air. The reckless drive had calmed his emotions and gave him a chance to think. Perhaps it had been stupid to charge up to Recycle, Ltd. at that time of night, although he had to admit he’d accomplished one thing: he knew for certain where the benzene in the pond was coming from. Yet now that he thought about it, he recognized that the real issue was taking care of Michelle and making the hard decisions about treatment. As a scientist he knew that the mere presence of benzene in the pond did not constitute proof that it had caused Michelle’s leukemia. No one had yet proved that benzene caused leukemia in humans, only in animals. Besides, Charles recognized that he was using Recycle, Ltd. to divert the hostility and anger caused by Michelle’s sickness.
Slowly he got out of the car, wishing once again that he’d worked faster over the last four to five years on his own research so that now he might have something to offer his daughter. Immersed in thought, he was startled when Cathryn met him in the doorway. Her face was awash with fresh tears, her chest trembling as she fought to control her sobs.
“What’s wrong?” asked Charles with horror. His first reaction was that something had happened to Michelle.
“Nancy Schonhauser called,” Cathryn managed to say. “Little Tad died this evening. That poor dear child.”
Charles reached out and drew his wife to him, comforting her. At first he felt a sense of relief as if Michelle had been spared. But then he remembered that the boy lived on the Pawtomack River just as they did, only closer to town.
“I thought I’d go over to see Marge,” continued Cathryn. “But she’s been hospitalized herself. She collapsed when they told her about Tad. Do you think I should go over to their house anyway and see if there is something I can do?”
Charles was no longer listening. Benzene caused aplastic anemia as well as leukemia! He’d forgotten about Tad. Now Michelle was no longer a single, isolated case of bone marrow disease. Charles wondered how many other families living along the course of the Pawtomack River had been struck. All the anger Charles had felt earlier returned in an overwhelming rush, and he broke free from Cathryn.
“Did you hear me?” asked Cathryn, abandoned in the center of the room. She watched Charles go over to the telephone directory, look up a number, and dial. He seemed to have forgotten she was there. “Charles,” called Cathryn. “I asked you a question.”
He looked at her uncomprehendingly until the connection went through. Then he directed his attention to the phone. “Is this Harold Dawson?” demanded Charles.
“It is,” returned the manager.
“My name is Dr. Charles Martel,” said Charles. “I was down at Recycle, Ltd. tonight.”
“I know,” said Harold. “Nat Archer called me a while ago. I’m sorry for any discourtesies you experienced. I wish you had made your visit during regular hours so I could have seen you.”
“Discourtesies don’t bother me,” snapped Charles. “But dumping toxic waste, like benzene, into the river does.”
“We are not dumping anything into the river,” said Harold emphatically. “All our toxic chemical permits have been filed with the EPA and are up to date.”
“Permits,” scoffed Charles. “There is benzene in the river and one of your workers said Recycle’s been dumping it. And benzene is damn toxic. My daughter has just come down with leukemia and a child just upriver from me died today of aplastic anemia. That’s no coincidence. I’m going to shut you people down. I hope to God you have a lot of insurance.”
“These are wild, irresponsible accusations,” said Harold evenly. “I should tell you that Recycle, Ltd. is a marginal operation of Breur Chemical Corporation and they maintain this facility because they feel they are doing the community a service. I can assure you that if they thought otherwise, they would close the factory down themselves.”
“Well, it goddamn well ought to be closed,” shouted Charles.
“One hundred and eighty workers in this town might disagree,” answered Harold, losing patience. “If you cause trouble, mister, I can guarantee you’ll get trouble.”
“I . . .” began Charles but he realized he was holding a dead phone. Harold Dawson had hung up.
“God!” Charles shouted as he furiously shook the receiver.
Cathryn took the phone away and replaced it in its cradle. She’d only heard Charles’s side of the conversation, but it had upset her. She forced him to sit down at the kitchen table, and she shooed her mother away when she’d appeared at the door. Her face was streaked with tears, but she was no longer crying.
“I think you’d better tell me about the benzene,” said Cathryn.
“It’s a poison,” fumed Charles. “It depresses the bone marrow somehow.”
“And you don’t have to eat it to be poisoned?”
“No. You don’t have to ingest it. All you have to do is inhale it. It goes directly into the bloodstream. Why did I have to make that playhouse out of the old ice shed?”
“And you think it could have caused Michelle’s leukemia?”
“I certainly do. Apparently she’s been inhaling benzene all the time she’s played there. Benzene causes the rare kind of leukemia that she has. It’s too much of a coincidence. Especially with Tad’s aplastic anemia.”
“The benzene could have caused that?”
“Absolutely.”
“I know they have. That’s what I found out tonight. And they’re going to pay. I’ll get the place shut down.”
“And how are you going to do that?”
“I don’t know yet. I’ll talk to some people tomorrow. I’ll get in touch with the EPA. Somebody is going to want to hear about it.”
Cathryn studied Charles’s face, thinking of Dr. Keitzman’s and Dr. Wiley’s questions. “Charles,” began Cathryn, marshaling her courage. “This is all interesting and probably important but it seems to me that it’s a little inappropriate at this time.”
“Inappropriate?” echoed Charles with disbelief.
“Yes,” said Cathryn. “We’ve just learned that Michelle has leukemia. I think that the primary focus should be taking care of her, not trying to get a factory shut down. There will always be time for that, but Michelle needs you now.”
Charles stared at his young wife. She was a survivor, coping in a difficult situation with great effort. How could he hope to make her understand that the core of the problem was that he really didn’t have anything to offer Michelle except love? As a cancer researcher he knew too much about Michelle’s disease; as a physician he couldn’t be lured into false hope by the panoply of modern medicine; as a father he was terrified of what Michelle was going to face because he’d gone through a similar situation with his first wife. Yet Charles was an activist. He had to do something, and Recycle, Ltd. was there to keep from facing the reality of Michelle’s illness and his deteriorating situation at the Weinburger Institute.
Charles recognized that he couldn’t communicate all this to Cathryn because she probably wouldn’t understand it and if she did it would undermine her own hopes. Despite their intense love for each other, Charles accepted that he’d have to bear his burdens alone. The thought was crushing, and he collapsed in Cathryn’s arms.
“It’s been a terrible day,” whispered Cathryn, holding Charles as tightly as she could. “Let’s go to bed and try to sleep.”
Charles nodded, thinking, If I had only worked faster . . .