Strong Medicine

by Arthur Hailey

  Celia was aghast. What had she done? She had sought to shock Martin into what she perceived as reality, but had neither intended, nor wanted, to go this far. Clearly the accumulated strain over more than two years, the lonely and awesome responsibility he had carried, had exacted its toll, which was visible now.

  Again Martin’s voice. “… tired, so tired …”

  Hearing the defeated phrases, Celia had an overwhelming desire to take him in her arms and comfort him. Then, with the suddenness of a revelation, she knew what would happen next. “Martin,” she said decisively, “let’s get out of here.”

  A passing waitress glanced toward them curiously. Celia, standing, told her, “Put the meal on my bill. My friend isn’t well.”

  “Certainly, Mrs. Jordan.” The girl eased their table outward. “Do you need help?”

  “No, thank you. I’ll manage.” She took Martin’s arm and propelled him toward the lounge-bar outside. From there a stairway ascended to a series of guest rooms. Celia’s room was near the head of the stairway. She used her key to open it. They went inside.

  This portion of the building, too, had been preserved from Jacobean days. The rectangular bedroom had a low strapwork ceiling, oak-paneled walls and a fireplace framed in stone. Leaded-light windows were small, their smallness a reminder that in the seventeenth century glass was an expensive luxury.

  The bed was a roomy four-poster with a canopy. During the dinner hours a maid had been here, neatly turning down the bedsheets and leaving a negligee of Celia’s draped across a pillow.

  Celia wondered how much history—of ancient families: their births and deaths, illnesses, loving passions, joys and sorrows, quarrels, assignations—this room had seen. Well, she thought, tonight there would be something more to add.

  Martin was standing, still dazed and suffering, regarding her uncertainly. She picked up the negligee and, turning toward the bathroom, told him softly, “Get undressed. Get into bed. I’ll join you.”

  As he continued to look at her, still unmoving, she came close and whispered, “You want this too, don’t you?”

  His body heaved with a groaning, gasping sigh. “Oh my God, yes!”

  While they held each other, she comforted him as she would a child. But not for long.

  She felt Martin’s passion rise, and her own accompanied it. Just as Martin had wanted this moment, Celia knew that she had sought it too. In a way, it had been inevitable, ever since their first meeting at Cambridge when something far stronger than instant, mutual liking had flashed between them. From then on, Celia realized, the question had never been “if,” but merely “when”?

  The choice of consummation here and now had, in one sense, been accidental. It had happened because of Martin’s sudden breakdown and despair, his obvious, urgent need to draw on outside strength and solace. Yet, if what was occurring now had not occurred tonight, some other time would have seen the same conclusion, with each of their meetings bringing the fateful moment closer.

  As Martin kissed her ardently, and she responded, feeling his rigid masculinity against her, she knew in a crevice of her mind that sooner or later moral issues must be faced and consequences weighed. But not now! There was no strength left in Celia for anything but the fulfillment of desire. Her own desire, all-encompassing, burning, blissful, overwhelming, coalesced with Martin’s.

  Moments later they cried out to each other, lovingly, and with exquisite joy.

  Afterward they slept, Martin—it seemed to Celia—deeply, and no longer troubled. In the early morning hours they awakened and, this time more tenderly but with equal pleasure, made love again.

  When next Celia awoke, daylight was streaming in through the old-fashioned windows.

  Martin had gone. She found the note soon after.

  Dearest:

  You have been, and are, an inspiration.

  Early this morning while you were sleeping—oh, so beautifully!—an idea, a “perhaps” solution to our research impasse, came to me. I am going to the lab, even though I know I don’t have long, to see if it has promise.

  Either way I shall keep the faith, carrying on until the eviction order comes.

  What happened between us will be safely secret and a lovely memory. Don’t worry about anything. I know that Paradise Found only happens once.

  I suggest you do not preserve this note.

  Yours always,

  Martin

  Celia showered, ordered breakfast, and began packing for the journey home.

  6

  On the British Airways Concorde, after luncheon had been served, Celia closed her eyes and marshaled her thoughts.

  Personal things first.

  During the eighteen years of her marriage to Andrew, never—until last night—had she had sexual relations with another man. It was not that opportunities had not arisen; they often had. She had even been tempted occasionally to avail herself of proffered sex, but always thrust the notion away, either out of loyalty to Andrew or because, in business terms, it seemed unwise. Sometimes her reasoning was a combination of the two.

  Sam Hawthorne had indicated, more than once, that he would enjoy an affair with Celia. But she had decided long ago that it would be the worst thing for them both, and discouraged Sam’s rare overtures with politeness, but firmly.

  Martin had been different. From the beginning, Celia admired him, and also—she now admitted to herself—had wanted him physically. Well, that wish had been fulfilled, and the result was as good as any lover could have hoped for. There could also be, Celia knew—if their circumstances were different—a good deal more between herself and Martin.

  But Martin had wisely recognized that there was no future in their loving, and Celia saw that too. That is, unless she was prepared to abandon Andrew and risk estrangement with her children, which she wasn’t, and never would be. Besides, she loved Andrew dearly. They had been through so much together, and Andrew had rich qualities of wisdom, tenderness and strength that no one else Celia knew—not even Martin—could ever come close to.

  Therefore Martin, sounding more like a poet than a scientist, had said it all that morning. “What happened between us will be safely secret and a lovely memory … I know that Paradise Found only happens once.”

  She supposed there were people who would believe she ought to feel guilty about what happened last night. Well, she didn’t—quite the reverse!—and that was that.

  Her thoughts moved from herself to Andrew.

  Had Andrew, she wondered, ever indulged in extramarital sex? Probably yes. He, too, would have had opportunities, and he was a man whom women found attractive.

  Then how, Celia asked herself, did she feel about that?

  Not happy, of course, assuming it had happened, because it was difficult, if not impossible, to be logical in such matters. On the other hand, she would never let herself become concerned over something that she didn’t know about.

  Celia had once heard someone say cynically at a Morristown cocktail party, “Any normal man who has been married twenty years and claims not to have had some sex on the side is either a liar or a nebbish.” It wasn’t true, of course. For plenty of men such opportunities never arose, while others stayed monogamous from choice.

  Nonetheless, statements like the one she remembered held a core of truth. Celia knew from gossip, and sometimes public indiscretions, that there was plenty of sleeping around in the medical circles where she and Andrew moved, and in the pharmaceutical business too.

  Which led to a further question: Did occasional sexual side excursions matter in a solid marriage? She didn’t think so—providing they were neither intensely serious nor became lasting affairs. In fact, Celia believed, many marriages broke up needlessly because spouses were prudish or jealous, or both, about what was often no more than some harmless sexual fun.

  Finally, about Andrew, she thought that whatever he had or hadn’t done outside their marriage, he would always be considerate and discreet. Celia intended to be equally discreet,
which was why she accepted the fait accompli of no more clandestine meetings between herself and Martin.

  End of personal lucubration.

  Now about Harlow. What, Celia asked herself, should her recommendation be, the recommendation she would make to Sam tomorrow?

  Obviously there was only one line for her to take: Close the institute. Admit that opening it had been a mistake. Cut losses quickly. Accept that Martin’s mental aging project had been a disappointing failure.

  Or was it the only course? Or even the best one? Even now, despite all that she had seen and heard at Harlow, Celia was unsure.

  One thing in particular kept coming back to her: It was something Martin had said in his distress last night, moments before they left the Churchgate Hotel dining room. Since this morning, beginning while she was being driven by limousine to London Airport, Celia had repeatedly played Martin’s words over in her mind as if they were recorded on tape. “What we’ve looked for will be found … it will happen, must happen … but somewhere else.”

  When the words were spoken, she had taken little heed of them. But somehow, now, their significance seemed greater. Could Martin still be right and everyone else wrong? And where was “somewhere else”? Another country? Another pharmaceutical firm? Was it possible that if Felding-Roth abandoned Martin’s mental aging research, some other company—a competitor—might pick it up and see it through to a successful conclusion, “successful” implying production of an important, profitable new drug?

  There was also the question of research, on the same subject, being done in other countries. Two years ago Martin had mentioned scientists working on projects in Germany, France, New Zealand. Celia knew from her inquiries that research in those other countries was continuing—though apparently with no more success than at Harlow.

  But supposing, after Harlow was discontinued, one of those other scientists had a sudden breakthrough, a breathtaking discovery which might have happened at Harlow had they carried on. If it turned out that way, how would Felding-Roth feel? And how would Celia feel—and appear to others in the company—if she recommended closing Harlow now?

  Therefore, for an array of reasons, there was a temptation for her to do nothing—“nothing,” in this case, meaning: recommend carrying on at Harlow in the hope that something might develop.

  Yet, Celia reasoned, didn’t that kind of decision—or, rather, indecision—represent merely the safest way to go? Yes! It was a take-no-action-now, but wait-and-see philosophy which she had heard both Sam Hawthorne and Vincent Lord describe caustically as prevailing at FDA in Washington. All of which brought her full circle to Sam’s pre-departure instruction: “If you need to be tough and ruthless … do it!”

  Celia sighed. It was no good wishing she did not have this difficult choice to make. The fact was, she did. Equally to the point: tough decisions were part of top-management responsibility, which she had once coveted, and now had.

  But when the Concorde landed at New York, she was still not positive about which way her advocacy should go.

  As it turned out, Celia’s meeting with Sam Hawthorne was delayed by a day because of Sam’s own heavy schedule of appointments. By then, her conclusion about Harlow was strong and unequivocal.

  “Well,” Sam said, wasting no time with preliminaries after she was seated facing him in the presidential office suite, “do you have a recommendation for me?”

  The direct question, and Celia’s own instincts, made it clear that Sam was in no mood for details or a background briefing.

  “Yes,” she said crisply. “Weighing everything, I believe it would be a shortsighted, serious mistake to close the Harlow institute. Also, we should carry on with Martin’s mental aging research, certainly for another year, and possibly for longer.”

  Sam nodded and said matter-of-factly, “All right.”

  The lack of any strong reaction, and an absence of questions, made it clear that Celia’s recommendation was accepted in toto. She also had a feeling that Sam was relieved, as if the answer she had given was what he had hoped for.

  “I’ve written a report.” She put a four-page memo on his desk.

  Sam tossed it in a tray. “I’ll read it sometime. If only to help me handle questions from the board.”

  “Will the board give you a hard time?”

  “Probably.” Sam gave a tired half smile and Celia sensed his current strain from pressures he was working under. He added, “Don’t worry, though; I’ll make it stick. Did you inform Martin we’ll be carrying on?”

  She shook her head. “He thinks we’re going to close.”

  “In that case,” Sam said, “one of the pleasant things I shall do today is write to tell him otherwise. Thanks, Celia.”

  His curt nod made it clear the interview was ended.

  One week later a large bouquet of roses appeared in Celia’s office. When she inquired about them, her secretary said, “There was no card, Mrs. Jordan, and when I asked the florists, they said all they had were telegraphed instructions to deliver the roses to you. Would you like me to try again to find out who sent them?”

  “Don’t bother,” Celia said. “I think I know.”

  7

  To Celia’s relief, her travels diminished during the remainder of 1975. While she worked hard, it was mostly at Morristown, which meant that she could spend more time with Andrew, and also visit Lisa and Bruce at their schools.

  Lisa, in her final year at Emma Willard, had been elected senior-class president and as well as maintaining a high grade average was involved in a wide range of school activities. One, of her own devising, was an intern program under which senior class members worked a half day each week in offices of the state government at Albany.

  The program got started after Lisa, demonstrating a belief that if you wanted something you went to the top to ask, wrote a letter to the governor of New York. An aide showed it to the governor, who was amused and—to the surprise of everyone at the school except Lisa—answered personally and positively. When word filtered back to Andrew, he observed to Celia, “No doubt about it; that girl is your daughter.”

  Organization, it seemed, came to Lisa as naturally as breathing. Recently she had applied for admission to several universities, though her ambitions centered on Stanford.

  Bruce, now in his sophomore year at the Hill, had become more than ever a history buff, an interest which occupied him so exclusively that sometimes he barely managed a passing grade in other subjects. As Bruce’s house master explained to Celia and Andrew during one of their visits to the school, “It isn’t that Bruce is a poor scholar; he could be an excellent all-around one. It’s simply that sometimes we have to pry him loose from the history books and insist that he study other things. What I think you have on your hands, Dr. and Mrs. Jordan, is a future historian. I expect to see your son’s name on published works before many years have passed.”

  While cautioning herself not to become smug, Celia reflected with relief that it was possible to be a working mother and still have successful, well-balanced children.

  An important part of it, of course, was that Winnie and Hank March had run the family house, as they continued to do, with cheerful efficiency. During a celebration of Winnie’s fifteenth year of employment, which coincided with her thirty-fourth birthday, it was Andrew who remembered Winnie’s long-abandoned plan to move on to Australia. He remarked, “What the Aussies lost, the Jordans gained.”

  Only one adverse note obtruded on Winnie’s sunny nature: her failure to have a child, which she dearly wanted. She confided to Celia, “Me an’ ’Ank keep tryin’. Lordy, how we try!—some days I’m fair wrung out. But it don’t ever click.”

  At Celia’s urging, Andrew arranged fertility tests for Winnie and her husband. The tests proved positive in each case. “Both you and Hank are capable of having children,” Andrew explained one evening while he, Winnie and Celia were together in the kitchen. “It’s simply a matter of timing, in which your gynecologist will help, and also l
uck. You’ll have to go on trying.”

  “We will,” Winnie said, then sighed. “But I won’t tell ’Ank till termorrer. I need one good night’s sleep.”

  Celia did make a brief trip for the company to California in September and she was in Sacramento, by chance standing not far from President Ford, when an attempt was made on the President’s life. Only the ineptitude of the woman would-be assassin, who did not understand the firearm she was using, prevented another historic tragedy. Celia was shattered by the experience, and equally horrified to learn of a second assassination attempt, in San Francisco, less than three weeks later.

  Talking about it at home, with the family gathered for Thanksgiving, she declared, “Some days I think we’ve become a more violent people, not less.” Then rhetorically: “Where do ideas about assassinations start?”

  She had not expected an answer, but Bruce supplied one.

  “Considering the business you’re in, Mom, I’m surprised you don’t know that historically they started with drugs, which is what the word ‘assassin’ means. It’s from the Arabic hashīshī, or ‘hashishi-eater,’ and in the eleventh to thirteenth centuries an Islamic sect, the Nizārī Ismā‘īlīs, took hashish when committing acts of religious terrorism.”

  Celia said irritably, “If I don’t know, it’s because hashish isn’t a drug that’s used pharmaceutically.”

  “It was once,” Bruce answered calmly. “And not so long ago, either. Psychiatrists used it against amnesia, but it didn’t work and they stopped.”

  “I’ll be damned!” Andrew said, while Lisa regarded her brother with a mixture of amusement and awe.

  The new year of ’76 brought a pleasant interlude in February with the marriage of Juliet Hawthorne to Dwight Goodsmith, the young man Andrew and Celia had met and liked at the Hawthornes’ dinner party a year earlier. Dwight, newly graduated from Harvard Law School, was about to begin work in New York City where he and Juliet would live.

  The wedding was a large and plush affair with three hundred and fifty guests, Andrew and Celia among them. “After all,” Lilian Hawthorne told Celia, “it’s the only wedding at which I’ll be a bride’s mother—at least, I hope so.”