The Delta Factor

by Thomas Locke

  “I’m working at it. I’m still the outsider, and there are still a lot of invisible fences. But I’m in no hurry. I’ve got time to learn their ways.” She grasped his hand and led him forward. “Let me show you around.”

  Immediately beyond the windbreak of pine, the water fanned out on two sides. “This is Edenton Bay,” she explained. “Same as in town. It opens into Albemarle Sound, part of the Inland Waterway.”

  The house rested on a point shaded by cypress and pine and elm. Wisteria climbed in untrimmed abandon over the pumphouse and other outbuildings. The loudest noises were the wind and the katydids and the birds. The town of Edenton was the only break in the forest lining the distant banks.

  “This is fantastic,” Cliff breathed.

  “Locals call this a shotgun house,” she said. “One room opens directly into the next. It was built by a fisherman back in the twenties.”

  “How did you find it?”

  “I bought it from his daughter, who wanted to move into the city. She’s a nurse at the hospital where I go for treatment.”

  “Treatment?”

  “They take my blood pressure, thump my chest, give me a shot of vitamins, and let me know they are there if ever I need them.” She walked toward the stairs, whose sides were now sloped for her wheelchair. “Come on, I want to show you inside.”

  The house was a long wooden tunnel separated into five rooms—kitchen, parlor, bath, and two bedrooms. Each room shared walls with its neighbors. The outer shell was nothing more than plywood and big windows. A broad screened porch, as large in floor space as the entire house, formed a generous “L” around two sides. The porch had two daybeds to sleep on when the nights were balmy, and a large hickory-slat swing cushioned by a riot of floral-print pillows.

  Cliff walked into Deborah’s bedroom, spotted the bed’s occupant, and cried, “Hairball! Is it you?”

  “Now don’t you start,” Deborah warned.

  But Cliff was already down on his knees, stroking the cat. “I tell you, Debs, this animal has a terminal case of the warm-and-fuzzies. Might be nearing time to put it out of its misery.”

  “I happen to be very attached to my pets.”

  “A matched pair of neutered power puffs,” Cliff said, smiling as the cat started purring like a tiny outboard motor. “Overweight, declawed, lazy, and dumb. This how you like your men?”

  “You should know,” she said, walking out. Over her shoulder she said, “You can take the back bedroom.”

  Dinner that night was a comfortable affair. Music was supplied by a serenade of cicada tenors and full bass bullfrogs. The wind sighed through the pines like an orchestra of strings, and the waves counted time upon the bulkhead.

  Cliff sighed his contentment, declared, “That was a fantastic meal, Debs.”

  She beamed. “It really is nice to have the chance to cook for you. I’m sorry it didn’t work out last weekend.”

  “Me too.” He laid the cutlery out in very neat lines, deliberate motions matching the line of his thoughts. “Can I ask you something?”

  “Anything.” Somber now. Sensing what was to come.

  He took a breath, asked, “Are you taking Pharmacon’s new experimental drug yourself?”

  “Yes.” Simple as that. Despite the fact that doing so was professionally unethical. Between them, there were no secrets.

  “And you haven’t noticed any difference?”

  “It’s not like that with MS,” she replied. “First of all, nobody is absolutely positive that a virus is the cause. It may be a virus that attaches itself only to those who are genetically disposed, or the disease may be entirely genetic. Even if we had proved it is a virus, which is my guess, there’s still no way of telling what course the disease would have taken with me if I wasn’t on the drug.”

  “I think I see.”

  “Maybe I would have already slipped into the more extreme disabilities. Maybe I would be completely bedridden. There’s just no way of telling. But if you’re asking why I haven’t had a complete remission, I don’t have an answer for you.” She stood and began gathering plates. “Why don’t you go sit on the swing. I’ll put the coffee on and join you.”

  “Can I help?”

  “Tomorrow, yes. We’ll work out a system. But for tonight, you’re my guest, so go make yourself comfortable.”

  When Deborah returned she served coffee, then set a high-back chair where she could watch both him and the dwindling sunset. Together they watched the gold-streaked glory fade to ever gentler pastels, the day content with its work and bidding this corner of the world a fond farewell.

  “I’ve sat out here captured by sunsets that ended two hours earlier,” she said quietly, “and listened to a thousand angels sing a hymn to the passing day.”

  Cliff searched the dark, trying to fathom how she could speak with such peace. “Don’t you ever grow angry at how life’s treated you?”

  “Less and less often,” Deborah replied. “I don’t like plugging up the eyes and ears of my heart any more than I absolutely have to. Anger is too expensive an indulgence when you’ve learned what beauty the moment can hold.”

  “Maybe for you,” Cliff said. “If something like that happened to me, I’d have lost it completely.”

  “I almost did,” she admitted. “Anger comes in various stages. I learned that in my dark days. That’s what I call them now, how I remember them. They were filled with the worst kind of anger—helpless, endless silent screams. There’s no kind of fury worse than hopeless rage.”

  She shook herself, forcing away an unwelcome chill. “Enough of that. It looks like I’m going to be up your way this week.”

  “Hey, that’s great, Debs.”

  “You may not think so when you hear the reason.”

  “Politics?”

  There was just enough light for him to see her nod. “They’ve made it out like I need to be up there—or Whitehurst has. I get the distinct impression that Cofield would rather I didn’t show up at all, so he can play the prima donna. But Whitehurst has been after me on a daily basis, you know, like the inventor is the only one who can really explain what it’s all about. The real reason is he wants to put me on display. You know how Washington’s all caught up in this health care thing.”

  “You’re telling me.”

  “Anyway, he wants to put me on a pedestal, the Pharmacon woman scientist, hit the feminists and the equal-rights people. Nothing would make Whitehurst happier than for me to show up in my wheelchair.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “I wish I was. Whitehurst keeps asking if maybe the trip wouldn’t be too much of a strain for me to walk everywhere. Washington’s such a big place, there will be so much going on, blah, blah, blah.”

  “It’s strange how I haven’t heard anything about this through the official channels.”

  “I know. I get the impression this has been pushed into high gear by the top bean counters.”

  “You mean Whitehurst?”

  “No, I think it’s gone beyond that, right up to the board of directors. I’ll find out in Washington, I suppose.”

  “Whatever is happening officially,” Cliff mused, “the Washington rumor mill has really gotten its teeth into your drug. The Post did a little article on the press conference last weekend, then followed up on Thursday with a longer piece about the new antiviral wonder drug.”

  “I saw it.”

  “That was like poking a stick in the hornet’s nest.” Cliff smiled at the memory. “Pretty much everybody at the FDA knows by now that I’m coordinating the application. I had people I’ve never even seen before stop to speak with me. Then there’s this little guy by the name of Tweedie, believe it or not. Horace Tweedie. He looks like his name. Wears these red bow ties, sort of his trademark. These past couple of days he’s been all over me like glue, always asking questions.”

  He shifted on the swing, rearranged the pillows so he could lounge more comfortably. “I’ve seen it happen to others before me, you
know. Something comes up and suddenly they’re the flavor of the month. The gossips make a sort of competition of who knows the most the soonest.”

  “Must bug you.”

  “Not really. I mean, if you could only see this guy Tweedie. He’s really kind of odd. I think he’s just lonely.” Cliff was silent, then pondered aloud, “Still, it’s really weird how Pharmacon’s turning up the pressure when the second phase of tests has only just been started. I wonder what’s going on.”

  “You and me both. Right now I feel like a puppet on a string.” Deborah rose with a sigh. “It’s time to put these bones to bed. Stay up as long as you like, Junior. There’s a wall of books at the back of your room if you feel like reading.”

  “’Night, Debs. Thanks for everything.”

  “Pleasure to have you. I mean that from the heart.” She reached over and tousled his hair. “See you in the morning.”

  8

  Tuesday morning Cliff shrugged on his jacket, closed his office door, and said to Madge, “I’m off to play political football.”

  “Sandra wants to see you before you go,” Madge replied.

  He shook his head in denial. “You forgot to tell me.”

  “That’s right, I did. Such a lousy memory, me.” She motioned him over. “Come to Madge. Your tie needs straightening.”

  He bent over her desk. “Did you hear from Deborah?”

  “For the eleventh time this morning, no.” She fitted the knot up snug to his collar. “I’m sure she would have gotten word to you if anything had changed.” Madge patted his arm. “Go be a good boy.”

  “I always am.”

  “You know, I almost believe you.” She gave him what passed for a smile. “More’s the pity.”

  Cliff turned to the door just as Ralph Summers came in. “Cliff, got a minute?”

  “Barely.”

  Summers nodded. “Headed over to Capitol Hill?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Any idea what they’ve got going on?”

  “Only what I told you yesterday. One of the chief lobbyists for the pharmaceutical industry pulled some strings and got Pharmacon time today before some congressional subcommittee hearing.”

  “There’s a lot of them around,” Summers said. “Subcommittee hearings, I mean. The number exploded when the health care bills first came out, and now they’re all scrambling for something to keep them in the headlines. I’m glad you’re keeping an eye on this.”

  “I wish you’d tell Sandra that.”

  “Sandra doesn’t think you should be going,” Summers said. “She’s been by twice to ask that I block your attending.”

  “If she had her way, I’d be locked in a closet,” Cliff said bitterly.

  Summers inspected him, then with a pat on the back led Cliff through the door and out into the hall. He pulled Cliff over to one side and asked quietly, “Is there something going on here I should know about?”

  It almost came out then. Cliff was tempted, very tempted, to tell the man what was really behind their feud. But he couldn’t. “I guess she doesn’t think much of my friendship with Deborah.”

  “I don’t believe I’ve ever met Dr. Givens.” Summers crossed his arms and leaned against the wall. “She’s never been married?”

  “Only to her work.”

  “And she’s handicapped?”

  “Don’t you let her hear you say that,” he warned.

  “So she’s sensitive about her illness, is she?”

  “It’s not like that at all,” Cliff said stoutly. “She’s the strongest person I’ve ever met. Her MS is something she’s come to terms with, in her own way.”

  “What way is that?”

  “She’s not handicapped at all. Not in her own eyes, and not in mine,” Cliff replied. “Becoming ill has just sort of balanced her out with the rest of the world. Before, she was maybe a little too superior to the rest of humanity.”

  “You obviously think a lot of her,” Summers said.

  “Debs is one of the finest people I’ve ever met,” Cliff replied.

  “Sandra seems to feel this session today is going to turn into a real FDA bashing, which we shouldn’t dignify with our presence.”

  “Not with Debs,” Cliff said confidently. “About the other guys, I can’t say.” He related his confrontation in Cofield’s office. “They’re pushing hard, but for what I can’t figure out. It’s way too early for them to be wheeling out the big guns.”

  “Well, I can’t see any reason for not allowing you to attend,” Summers decided. “I’m away the rest of today and all of tomorrow and Thursday. But I want to meet with you first thing Friday morning.”

  “I will. Thanks.”

  “And if there’s anything we need to discuss, about Sandra or anything else, my door is always open.”

  The desire to unload welled up again, but he couldn’t get out the words. “I guess we just don’t get along,” he said weakly, and left.

  * * *

  Deborah found people’s responses to her wheelchair a never-ending study in human nature. Her scientist’s mind continually catalogued the reactions she observed.

  The majority watched furtively, turning away if she looked in their direction. She saw this as motivated by shame and fear—shame that they could walk and she could not, fear that if it had happened to her it could happen to them.

  Then there were the ones who strove not to see the chair at all. Having a conversation with them was like leading a recently reformed drunk past an open saloon; both ended up raw-nerved and exhausted.

  Others reacted with pity, still others with pain, a few with condescending superiority. These talked slow and loud, as though being chairbound also left her deaf and demented.

  A few, many of them scientists, showed surprise at first, gave the chair an open inspection, then dismissed it. They treated it as they would a personal idiosyncrasy, like a penchant for wearing purple headbands. They were concerned with what lay beneath the surface and had little time for vagaries of the human condition. When she met such a person, Deborah felt as though a special perfume had been sprayed on her day.

  But very few such people surrounded her in Washington’s corridors of power. None, in fact.

  Their chief lobbyist left them in the hall outside the Congressional hearing room and went off to determine if the program was running to schedule. Whitehurst remained in deep discussion with Owen MacKenzie. The chairman of Pharmacon had flown down for the hearing.

  She sat in her wheelchair surrounded by power-players. Congressmen and aides hustled by, occasionally snagged by lobbyists and herded over. They came because doing so was the fastest way out. They smiled and shook hands and spoke words by rote and hustled off. Deborah doubted they saw her at all.

  Tiring of the charade, she moved her chair to the hall’s other side. Cofield took the opportunity to walk over and hiss, “This is neither the time nor the place to have your boyfriend drop by.”

  “If you say that one more time,” Deborah snapped back, “I am going to wheel myself out of here.”

  The expression flittering across Cofield’s features confirmed what she had thought—that he did not want her here at all. She wondered what pressure Whitehurst and the chairman had exerted to have him relinquish the spotlight. And why.

  Cofield seethed, “No FDA busybody is any friend of ours. Especially now.”

  She looked up at him in consternation. “What’s gotten into you, Harvey? Since when is the FDA on your hit list?”

  “Not here,” Whitehurst said, sidling over with his number one smile firmly in place. “We must present a united front.”

  Cofield snorted and stomped off. Deborah turned to Whitehurst and demanded, “Is there something going on I don’t know about?”

  “Of course not,” he soothed. “Now, you’re sure you know what to do.”

  “Give them an overview of my research,” she said impatiently. “Keep it short and sweet. But what—”

  “Later,” Whitehurst
said and returned to the chairman.

  Deborah sighed in exasperation and debated going over to them. She had news. Important news. Twice since joining them in Washington she had tried to break in on their discussion, but they had brushed her aside, their attention focused on the hearing. Deborah stayed where she was and vowed they would not pass her off so easily once the circus was behind them.

  She checked her watch. Still a half hour to go before Cliff was scheduled to arrive. She should have made it for earlier. Deborah wheeled farther away from the milling crowds of lobbyists, journalists, congressional aides, and sensation seekers. She looked out a window at a sky of washed-out blue and wondered why she had allowed herself to be goaded into coming at all. She was tired and wanted this over with. It was not a good day. Not a good week, for that matter, and today was only Tuesday. She escaped farther from the worst of the noise, moving around the hall’s nearest corner, and thought back over the previous day.

  Monday afternoon she had returned to the Norfolk Veterans Hospital, dozing fitfully through the trip as Cochise drove her jeep. The big man had scarcely been able to fit behind the wheel, and upon their arrival he had taken several minutes to pry himself loose.

  Once free, Cochise had asked, “Want me to unload the chair?”

  Deborah searched the forecourt for Tom. Where was the old man? “I suppose so.”

  Once seated, she propelled herself up the side ramp. Cochise knew better than to push her. When she came through the front doors, she spotted Tom seated in the main hall. He had pulled his chair away from the others, and was staring blindly out the side window.

  Deborah rolled herself over. “I missed you today.”

  He started, turned, and shrunk inside himself. “It’s you.”

  “What’s the matter, Tom?”

  He sighed and rubbed an age-spotted hand down one side of his face. “Ain’t been sleeping so good.”

  She reached out and grasped his arm, her chest hurting for him. Relapse. It had to be. Of all the people here, why old Tom? “Do you want to tell me about it?”

  The old man lowered his head and inspected her hand. “You always been good to me, Dr. Debs.”