The Condition

by Jennifer Haigh

  Frank sat in the bar of the Charles Hotel, waiting for Neil Windsor, staring out at the snow. A storm was moving in from the west. Gwen had phoned him from the Pittsburgh airport to tell him that her flight was delayed. A couple of hours only, but Frank resented the holdup. They’d have to drive directly to South Station to meet Billy’s train, fighting rush-hour traffic, then go straight to dinner. Frank hadn’t seen his daughter in a year, his son—was it possible?—in three. At least we have tomorrow, he thought. They would spend the morning and afternoon together before the kids left for their mother’s house in Concord.

  He glanced around the bar. He felt summoned here against his will. Grohl had closed early for the holiday, and Betsy Baird had left at noon. After he and Gwen hung up, the phone rang again immediately, and Frank answered without thinking. When he heard Neil’s voice, he knew that he was trapped.

  Now he sat nursing a martini, fortifying himself. He would make small talk with his old buddy: swap some gossip, ask about the wife and kid. A new round of massive DARPA grants had just been awarded; Neil would know who’d gotten the nod. There was plenty to talk about besides the academy, Kevin Cho, and the Nature paper, the bolus of resentments that sat inside his gullet, the betrayals of the past.

  He startled when Neil clapped him on the shoulder.

  “McKotch! Man, are you a hard guy to track down.”

  Frank rose. “Jesus, it’s good to see you.” To his surprise, he meant it. He was always startled by how familiar Neil looked, how much like his old self. Nearing sixty, he was as scrawny as ever; his crazy metabolism had not slowed. In grad school it had earned him a nickname, Tapeworm. Frank thought of the cold-cut sandwiches—slappers, they’d called them—Neil had made each morning. He’d carried them to the lab in a grocery sack, half a dozen slappers a day. His hair had been thinning even then. Now he was virtually bald, his shoulders beginning to stoop. Frank still had a full head of hair, to his great satisfaction: thick and wavy, with only a touch of gray.

  Neil seemed to read his mind. “My God, look at you. Aging beatnik. Get a haircut, wouldya?”

  “Envy’s an ugly thing, Weisberg.”

  Neil grinned appreciatively. “Is that a martini?”

  “Want one?”

  “It’s a little early for me. But hey, knock yourself out.”

  Thanks for your permission, Frank thought sourly. “So what brings you into town?”

  “I gave a talk at Dana Farber.” Neil poured his beer into a glass. “Then I met with your outfit this morning.”

  “Protogenix?” Frank stared at him, surprised.

  “Yeah. They want me on the SAB.”

  “No kidding.” Frank felt himself sweating. He’d been on the scientific advisory board for nearly three years; his agreement expired in a month. He groused about the management to anyone who’d listen, but that didn’t mean he was ready to be replaced.

  “I told them no. The money’s incredible, but I’ve got too much on my plate.” Neil reached down the bar for a bowl of peanuts. Tapeworm had always loved peanuts. “Seen Paulette lately?”

  “Not in a few years.” Frank speared his olive with a toothpick, a mortal blow. “When Scott moved back from California, she let me come for dinner so I could get a look at my grandkids.” He said the word a little sheepishly.

  Neil laughed. “Don’t much like the sound of that, do you, old man?” He tossed a peanut into his mouth. “Where’s Scotty these days? Vermont somewhere?”

  “Connecticut.”

  “And why Connecticut?”

  Here we go, Frank thought: Neil was never happier than when he was asking questions. In the old days it had driven Frank crazy. He hadn’t minded the factual ones—where did you take Paulette for dinner? But those were just the warm-up. Neil wanted to know the reasons for things. Why were you home so early? Why did she get mad at you? Why do you suppose she felt that way? Are you sure that’s the reason? At the time Frank had been flattered; he assumed that Tapeworm, with no girlfriend of his own, was living vicariously through him.

  Later he saw those questions in a different light.

  His friend’s curiosity, the depth and dazzling breadth of it, was his primary strength as a scientist. Other investigators, including Frank, were driven to find the correct answer to a question—the single, uniquely perfect answer. Neil was interested in the whole range of possibilities; he truly enjoyed positing theories, playing out scenarios as far as imagination could take him. Unlike Frank, he didn’t mind being wrong. It’s the only way you learn anything, Neil often said, but Frank found the whole process tiresome. He didn’t have the patience for mistakes.

  “Teaching,” he said, draining his glass. “At some prep school there.”

  “Choate?” Neil asked. “Taft? Pomfret?”

  “One of those.” Frank couldn’t remember the last time he’d discussed his younger son with anybody. Scott the longhair, the college dropout, who’d gone west and married a girl the family had never met. Billy was the son Frank talked about. But Tapeworm, as always, went right to his weak spot.

  “Billy’s practice is thriving,” Frank said.

  “Good for Bill,” Neil said. “And Gwen?”

  “I’m seeing her tomorrow. She and Billy are coming for an early Christmas.”

  “Did she ever make contact with Doug Levin?”

  Frank hesitated, a bit surprised. He’d forgotten that years ago, trying to track down an endocrinologist for Gwen, he’d asked Neil for a referral. “I think so.”

  “Levin’s top-notch. He was in on that Turner study at the NIH.” He poured his beer into a glass. “She’s still taking the estrogen, I hope.”

  Frank felt a flash of anger. None of your goddamn business, he thought, draining his glass. It shamed him to admit he had no idea. Gwen was an intensely private person. For years now—her whole adult life—she’d spurned any conversation about her health. Questions were met with stony silence. And estrogen was more than a health question; it was a sex question. Frank was no prude. He’d always—well, until recently—enjoyed a healthy sex life. But he froze at the idea of discussing sexual matters with his daughter, who was a prude. She was possibly as uptight as her mother, a prude of world-class proportions.

  “She won’t discuss it,” he said. “To be honest, I have no idea if she’s taking it or not.”

  Neil frowned. “Frank, you know the arguments. Bone density. Early cardiovascular disease.”

  “It’s her decision. She’s not a kid anymore.”

  “All the more reason she should understand the ramifications.”

  “I’m sure she does,” Frank said, a bit sharply. She’s short, not retarded, he wanted to add. She’s an intelligent girl.

  “’Nuff said, then.” Neil slurped at his glass. “How’s your science, amigo?”

  Frank signaled the bartender. Clearly another martini was in order. “Nothing to report just yet, but things are moving forward. Yourself?”

  Neil grinned. “You saw the paper, right?”

  “What paper?” Frank said smoothly.

  “Oh, it’s in a little journal called Nature. Ever heard of it?” Neil chuckled. “I can’t take all the credit, of course. I’ve got a terrific postdoc. I believe you know him. Kevin Cho.”

  Frank’s heart quickened. “Hmm. Can’t say I do.”

  Instantly he realized his mistake. Neil stared at him with interest. “Oh, really? He says he interviewed with you a couple years ago. Smart Korean kid. Looks about twelve.”

  “Oh, Cho,” Frank said miserably. “Sure. I remember Cho.”

  “Well, you did me a huge favor by not hiring him. I should thank you, my friend. He’s turning out to be my secret weapon.”

  What’s mine is yours, buddy, Frank thought. Kevin Cho, Protogenix. Do I have anything else you might want?

  Neil made another dive for the peanuts. “How’s your apoptosis girl working out? Any luck?” He chewed loudly. “I’ve heard rumblings that Radler is getting close.”

&n
bsp; Frank blinked. He knew, of course, that Cristina wasn’t the only one studying XIAP. Her old lab at Baylor had the gene construct; so did Fritz Radler’s team at the University of Chicago. Either group might beat them to the finish line, as Neil well knew.

  “Oh, Cristina’s a real go-getter.” Frank lowered his voice. “I shouldn’t be telling you this, but we’re getting positive signals from Science about our paper.”

  “No kidding,” said Neil. “Has it gone out for review?”

  “Out and back.” The lie burned in his throat like whiskey, part pleasure, part pain. “We’re revising now, but the changes are minor. I can’t imagine it won’t go through.”

  “Frank, that’s fantastic. Mazel tov, my friend.”

  “The girl has turned out to be quite a find. A force to be reckoned with.”

  A fresh martini was placed on the bar. Frank reached for it gladly.

  “Of course, you’ve had a hell of a year yourself,” he continued. “The Academy and all.” Smiling had begun to hurt him. His jaw ached all the way back to his ears. “Congratulations on that too, by the way.”

  “Frank, you’re a mensch. I don’t mind telling you, if things were reversed, my guts would be in a knot.” Neil grinned broadly. “That’s the value of sports. Builds character. I’ve tried to get my kid into soccer, but no luck. He takes after his dad.”

  Frank guzzled his drink. Neil had married late, a vivacious Israeli woman ten years younger. He’d been fifty when his son was born. His wife, a paleontologist, had pulled some strings at the Stott Museum to get Gwen an internship. Ten years later, his daughter still worked there. It was the only job she’d ever had.

  “How’s Tova?” Frank asked, reaching for a new subject.

  “Nuts,” Neil said happily. “Did I tell you she’s keeping us kosher? Since I got to Boston I’ve eaten three cheeseburgers. It feels like adultery.” He reached for his wallet. “Seriously, she’s great. The kid’s great. Frank, I am a lucky man.”

  When they’d first met, in the fall of 1960, it seemed Frank would be the lucky one. Already luck had carried him further than anybody he knew. He’d left his father and stepsisters back in Bakerton, a tiny mining town in western Pennsylvania, in the company house where he was born. His father, and all Frank’s boyhood friends, worked in the coal mines. A high school classmate had died there at the age of twenty, crushed in a mine collapse. Luck had given Frank size, speed, and strength, a quarterback’s ability to think on his feet. Luck had also blown out his knee his second season at Penn State. The timing was auspicious. His athletic scholarship was replaced by an academic one, and Frank McKotch began his studies in earnest, at what he now understood to be a rare moment in history. The Salk vaccine had taught the world a critical lesson, that the lab was the battleground, the frontier where disease would be conquered. Polio, heart disease, even cancer: though he barely remembered her, Frank thought often of the condition that had killed his mother. No opponent was unbeatable—or so he believed then, the cocky athlete, young and careless and intoxicated by his own gifts.

  Luck had prevented mishaps with his many girlfriends—Marla, Rita, Louise, Rosemarie. Pretty Pennsylvania girls spoiling for husbands; in that hope, they had all opened their legs for him. They were not easy girls, a phenotype readily distinguishable in the late fifties. They were all beautiful, all virgins. At least that’s what they’d told him, as though it were a selling point. As though, to a randy young man like Frank, it made any difference.

  Luck had put him in the lab of Kendrick Moore, whose brilliant scientific mind would succumb eventually to dementia but was then at the height of its power. It was Moore who’d seen his potential, who’d urged him on to graduate study at Harvard, where Neil Windsor was already sweating at the bench. Frank had lucked out too in choosing a course of study; he’d picked developmental biology at precisely the right time.

  As graduate students he and Neil were roommates; the university housing department had assigned them to each other. At first glance Frank was unimpressed. He had the athlete’s habit of sizing up another man in a single glance. On the playing field—in life too—it was a crucial skill. Neil clearly lacked size and strength. His speed too seemed dubious. The guy’s shoes were forever untied. He could barely cross the street without falling over his feet.

  McKotch, Neil repeated after Frank introduced himself. Scotsman?

  Sure, Frank said easily. He got that all the time—his height, his reddish hair. He knew little about Scotland but liked the associations: golf, family tartans, expensive single malts. His actual background, Hungarian and Slovak, was less appealing and harder to explain.

  Windsor, he said. The royal family?

  The black sheep. Notice how they never mention me. Prince Neil.

  Prince Neil had gone to Harvard as an undergrad, and knew his way around Cambridge. He pointed out the libraries, the labs and—not that he’d ever ventured there—the gym and athletic fields. Frank considered him an expert on all things Harvard. Their first weekend approaching, he asked the all-important question:

  Buddy. Where are the girls?

  At that Neil had simply shrugged. Radcliffe, maybe? How would I know?

  Frank understood, then, that Neil’s predicament was even more dire than it appeared, that the guy was still a virgin. And though Frank didn’t know Cambridge—had never, but for a single trip to the Jersey shore, left the state of Pennsylvania—Neil’s problem fell into his narrow purview. He knew what to do about that.

  For the next week, he took the long way home from the lab, making a slow detour through Radcliffe Yard. There he met a pretty blonde named Janet Smart, sunning herself on a September afternoon. She’s a smart girl, he said when he introduced her to Neil. And Janet, who’d probably heard that line a hundred times, giggled in delight.

  That weekend Frank and Neil had their first Radcliffe dates; Janet’s roommate, Muriel Kline, had agreed to come along. They saw Psycho downtown, a perfect date movie: Janet clutched his hand and hid her face against his shoulder, and by the famous shower scene she was nearly sitting in his lap. When the lights came up, Janet suggested a drive down to Nantasket, a moonlit walk on the beach.

  That September was Indian summer; they’d walked for five minutes under the low moon. Then Frank led Janet away, to where the beach was fringed with tall sea grass. They had stopped at the girls’ dorm to pick up a blanket, a fact Frank had noted. He and Janet were clearly thinking the same thing.

  They lay together a long time, though Janet stopped him in the end. This didn’t discourage him: she would let him next time, or the time after. He never minded waiting a little. It gave him something to look forward to.

  They found Neil and Muriel still walking the beach. Where’ve you been? Neil demanded. It’s freezing out here.

  They drove back to Cambridge in virtual silence, Janet leaning against Frank’s shoulder, her hand high on his thigh. When Frank dropped the girls at their dorm, Neil stayed in the backseat.

  What’s the big idea? he demanded. We were walking for over an hour. I felt like a sand crab.

  Frank stared at him in the rearview mirror. You were walking? Jesus, Windsor. I get you a cute girl, I drive you to a beach. Do I have to kiss her for you too?

  I didn’t want to kiss her.

  A cold feeling settled in Frank’s stomach. He had heard of guys like that, but had never encountered one. He was stumped for a response.

  Muriel seemed nice, he said finally. I’m surprised you didn’t like her. If you’re queer, he thought, just tell me. I’ll find another roommate. It’s no big deal.

  I liked her fine. Neil ran a hand through his hair, a tic Frank had come to recognize as a nervous habit. But Frank, Muriel is Jewish.

  Frank shrugged. He was Catholic but had dated Lutherans, Episcopalians. Yeah? So?

  Well, I’m Jewish too.

  No kidding? He turned to look at Neil. The only Jews he’d ever known were merchants back in Bakerton: the Lippmans, who had a flower shop,
the Friedmans, who owned the furniture store. Windsor is Jewish?

  Our real name was Weisberg. My dad changed it when he was applying to grad school. He couldn’t get into the Ivies as a Weisberg, so he changed his name to Windsor. Princeton took him right away.

  No kidding, Frank said again. He was amazed at what Neil’s father had done, and filled with envy. His own father had left Hungary as Anders Mikacs; a clerk at Ellis Island had misspelled his name. A government paper pusher had renamed him, and Frank’s father had simply accepted it. Trained in Budapest as a dentist, he would mine coal for the rest of his life. Intimidated, speaking little English, he’d been passive as a lamb.

  So you’re a fraud, Frank said.

  Absolutely.

  Me too. Frank parked the car. I’m from the royal family too. Royal losers. The American dream in reverse. I should go back to Hungary and pursue the Hungarian dream.

  The Scotsman, Neil said, laughing.

  The Prince of Wales.

  They got out of the car.

  I don’t get it, said Frank. What’s the problem with Jewish girls?

  It would be like kissing my sister.

  Got it, Frank said.

  What I want to know is, how’d you find me the only Jewish girl at Radcliffe? The odds of that must be astronomical.

  Shut up, Weisberg, Frank said. Over the years he would say it a thousand times.

  OUTSIDE, THE snow was still falling. Frank turned up the collar of his coat. Seeing Neil made him think of the past, in ways that tore at him. Made him think, achingly, of Paulette. Not his angry ex-wife, the bitter final days of their marriage, but an earlier iteration. The young Paulette. The girl he had loved.

  Against all odds, it was Neil who’d introduced them. Paulette was the only girl he knew in greater Boston—possibly, with the exception of his three sisters, in the entire world. For two years, as an undergrad, Neil had tutored Paulette in math. As she would later explain to Frank, trigonometry mystified her as completely as it bored her. But she was about to apply to college, and even a legacy couldn’t crack Wellesley with such lamentable board scores. Something had to be done.