Murder Is Pathological

by P. M. Carlson

  “Sure.”

  “But you aren’t now?”

  Monica fought down her own irritation and said, “Maggie, we’re both excessively prickly on the subject, I think. So let’s not discuss it.”

  “My turn to put my foot in it. I just wanted to know if you had a recipe for turning yourself off. Abstractly. As a neuropsychologist.”

  “No. I guess I’ve never wanted to turn myself off. Do I seem that way to you? Turned off?”

  “Yeah, a bit. I mean, I wish I could be more like you. The only thing you really care about is your work.”

  “I see.”

  “How do you do it?”

  An invitation to a confidence Monica did not want to give. Yet she found herself hesitating before she said lightly, “Oh, it’s interesting work, not hard to get involved in. And someday I can make a lot of money. Same reason you’re in statistics instead of French or something, right?”

  “Partly. What do you want money for?”

  “A South Sea vacation with the gigolo of my choice. Let’s talk about something else, okay?”

  “Sorry. I thought I was talking about something else.”

  The wise blue eyes were unoffended, friendlier even, and Monica had a sudden uneasy sense that she had revealed something after all. She tried to turn the conversation. “You care a lot about your work too.”

  “Yeah.” Maggie was suddenly talkative, as though responding to the confidence Monica had not given. “I care about my work and my friends. And music and theatre and food and gymnastics. And everything was going according to plan until I bumbled into Nick. Damn it, Monica, why can’t I shake it off?”

  “People can’t shake off what they’re built to do.”

  “I am not built for that!” Another flare of anger, or was it despair?

  Monica said mildly, “I thought you were asking a neuropsychologist about yourself as a human animal. Abstractly.”

  Maggie’s tense hand pushed back a windblown black curl. “Abstractly. Right. Okay, I’ll be good. Lecture away.”

  Monica kept her voice dry and detached. “There’s not that much to lecture about. We belong to a species that goes in for pair-bonding. So the majority of us develop a strong attachment to someone else. It involves sex, nurturing, grooming, feeding, rearing of young—practically everything we can share. And since human infants are helpless for such a long time, having two parents has turned out to be a good way to see that the species survives.” She stopped; she could hear the bitterness seeping into her own voice.

  Her friend had heard too. “Yes. Abstractly, it’s great. It may even be a good life for people who want to raise infants, and who stay pair-bonded, and who don’t suffer other catastrophes. But for the rest of us it’s hell. For you and me, right?”

  “All for the good of the species.”

  “Good?” asked Maggie. “To have so many people miserable? Because nothing hurts more than when that pair-bond breaks.”

  “Some things do,” snapped Monica, and found those eyes appraising her again. In hasty explanation, she added, “Like death.”

  “Yeah.” Maggie looked back at the road. “Or losing a child. You’re right, there are other ways to break bonds. Other agonies built in for the good of the species.”

  “Maggie, all I’m saying is that’s how we are. You can’t turn it off. Some people feel it more and some less, but it’s part of being human.”

  “So if I feel it more, why do the objects of my silly attachments feel it less?”

  “Yeah, that can probably happen sometimes,” said Monica sympathetically.

  “No probably about it. My first great love disappeared the minute a problem arose. Pretty good for the survival of the species, right? My second, well, it turned out that good old Rob was playing games. He was already pair-bonded, as you say, to someone else. Nature’s happy program blasted to bits, twice. And I’m still full of shrapnel.”

  “Maggie, I’m sorry.” Monica touched the hand knotted around the steering wheel. No wonder she was prickly on the subject.

  “But I’m not going to turn into one of those miserable women who wastes her life stumbling from one mistake to the next. I know there are things I can’t do. Can’t draw, can’t sing opera, can’t pick men. So why try? I just want to give it up. To stick to my work and my friends. To ride off into the sunset all alone and unhurt. Don’t you, Monica?”

  “No. No, Maggie. It was such a happy time. When it’s working it’s very good. You have to remember.”

  “Yeah, I remember, all right. Damn.”

  Monica patted her hand again, surprised at the strength and tenderness of her own feelings. Humans were built for friendships too, she reminded herself, a fact she had been neglecting since her move here to begin the strenuous program. They finished the trip in sad companionable silence.

  The lab atmosphere was like a splash of vinegar water, bracing but sour. Everyone was working at top efficiency; the microscope room was in full use, Les, Tom, Barbara, and Martin all working on Weisen’s project. Monica was on her way through to the breeder room to see what animals Gib could give her for Moore’s new project. “How are you doing?” she asked them.

  “Rotten!” exclaimed Barbara. “I’ve got kidneys dancing before my eyes!”

  “Try hearts,” grumbled Les. “At least you’ve got the odd bit of damage to keep things interesting.”

  “Not much. And I’ve got a thesis to run too,” retorted Barbara. Neither had looked up from the eyepieces. “My rats are all outfitted, and nothing to do. Wish he’d assigned me the gallbladders.” Everyone smiled; rats have no gallbladders.

  “Martin’s the lucky one,” said Les. “The brains have some variety.”

  “Sure,” said Martin. “But meanwhile my own thesis molders away.”

  “At least you’ve got one to molder away,” snarled Tom. He’d spent the night at the lab the night before, and was probably short on sleep.

  “Well,” said Monica, “sorry I asked.” She stepped to Barbara’s side and said quietly, “I could spell you for an hour today if it would help. Weisen drilled me on kidney lesions too.”

  “Bless you, Monica!” Barbara looked up from the microscope, a rare occurrence. “If I could just have time to familiarize my rats with the experimental apparatus it would be wonderful.”

  “Okay. How about eleven to twelve?”

  “Terrific!” Barbara planted a damp kiss on Monica’s forehead, then her face disappeared behind the eyepiece again. Dr. Weisen bustled in.

  “Good, good!” he said, beaming at the activity. “We’ll make it, people, I’m sure!”

  In the end, Monica helped Barbara twice, once before lunch and again late in the afternoon, because Barbara had only had time to work with eight of her twelve animals during the first hour. She could see why it was such tedious work for her friends. One kidney sample after another had to be checked for signs of abnormality, and the signs did not occur. It became very boring. In all of the slides Monica looked at, only one kidney appeared to have more than minor problems. She caught herself dithering over it, trying to describe the abnormality in detail, as though it deserved a full write-up as reward for breaking the monotony. I’ll write it a poem, she thought, amused at herself. Then, briskly, she checked off the proper boxes on Dr. Weisen’s form, tubular and interstitial cells both damaged, and went on to the next slide.

  Les had quit early. He said he had to come back that night anyway, he might as well finish the slides then. Tom, who was not on duty, finished the last of his liver slides a few minutes after six and stood up exultantly, free for the weekend. Barbara still had a long rack of slides to finish, but she was on duty that night with Monica and Les so she could finish later too.

  “How many more of these will you have?” asked Monica.

  “Gobs,’’ said Barbara. “We’ve only got this stack to do now. But next week will be worse. A big batch Tuesday, and another Friday or Monday. And they’ll have to be done instantly, because the drug compa
nies will be here a week from Thursday.”

  “Close to the wire,” remarked Tom, pausing in the door.

  “Sure is. Listen, Tom, did you get any sense of how much longer this night duty will go on?”

  “Not long, I think. Tonight may even be the last. This new guy is working out well, Weisen says. He certainly didn’t make any mistakes last night.”

  “Terrific,” said Barbara. “I could use some sleep.”

  “Just two more weeks,” said Tom, and left.

  “Dinner?” Barbara asked Monica. “I’ll treat you to a cheeseburger. I’m overflowing with gratitude.”

  “Sure, but I want to buy my own. I’d rather have you owe me one, for when I get strapped for time someday.”

  “I was afraid of that,” said Barbara good-naturedly. “But at least let me drive.”

  They sat in a wood-grained plastic booth to eat their hamburgers and cole slaw. “Got any thesis ideas?” asked Barbara.

  “I’m working up three or four. Right now the most promising one involves hormones in rats.”

  “Yeah, that’s interesting. But you spend so much time at that nursing home, I expected you to think of something involving patients. You know, like Bill and his aphasia study.”

  “Well, yes, that’s what I want to do eventually. But right now I want a project where I can really tell exactly what’s happening physically. With patients you just don’t know what’s intact and what isn’t.”

  “Right. With a rat you know exactly what the problem is.”

  “Weisen says they’re developing some computer-assisted X- ray scans that look promising. Someday we can do humans too.”

  “Yeah. One of these days we’ll be able to look right in.”

  “But until that happy day comes, I’d rather do something more concrete for a thesis.”

  “Me too. That’s the beauty of my little bionic rats. Train them, stimulate them, dissect them, write it up. Abracadabra, Dr. Burke.”

  “Yeah.”

  “And pots of money and prestige.”

  “Well, that depends on where you work.”

  “Nope. Where I work depends on the money and prestige. Look, honey, I’m going to be a black female Ph.D.! Every big research outfit or university in the country is going to bid on me.”

  “Bid on you?”

  Barbara laughed comfortably, her teeth flashing white in her dark face. “My mother had a job like poor old Norman’s. She told me it was better than slavery. I told her sure, she was free to quit and get even poorer on welfare. That’s not for me. This little slave is setting her own price. I don’t give a damn how they want me to spend my time if they meet my price.”

  “God, Barbara. I couldn’t do that. I mean, they could put you to work testing cosmetics or something. I’ve got to be working on something that’ll help people eventually.”

  “Yeah? Well, maybe you honky idealists can afford to do that. But look how long it’s taken Weisen to do it.”

  “He made a lot of other contributions, too.”

  “Yeah, but nothing this big. See, I took a look at his career, and thought, Barbara honey, right now your degree and your color are salable, but five years from now, who knows? So that’s where I’m headed. Money first. Altruism later.”

  Monica smiled at her. “Don’t let Tom hear you.”

  “Another honky idealist. I watch my tongue around him, don’t worry. I won’t disillusion him. But you know, Norman told me once he wasn’t as idealistic as he seemed.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Oh, nothing more than that.” Barbara stood up, shot her used plate at a trash can, missed, and went over to stuff it in. “Let’s get on back to the lab.”

  Monica had a stack of journal articles to read and spent the early part of the evening working alone in the office while Les and Barbara completed their work for Weisen in the microscope lab. Then they returned to transfer the data to the master sheets. At about ten o’clock Rick knocked politely on the door frame.

  “Hi, Rick. Come on in.”

  “Hey, Rick. How you doing?”

  “Fine, thanks. I just wanted to say there was fresh coffee if you all want some.”

  “Rick, you mind reader!’’ Barbara gave him an exuberant hug and hurried down the hall. He looked after her, startled.

  “Don’t let Barbara bug you,” said Monica, smiling at him.

  “Okay. She’s a very definite person,” he said earnestly.

  Les laughed. “So she is. Come on with us, Rick. Aren’t you having some?”

  “Okay. Thank you. Yes.”

  They followed Barbara to the alcove that held a little sink and the coffeepot. She was already sipping at her cup. “Terrific coffee, Rick,” she pronounced. “You should go into the business.”

  “Well, yes, you see, I’ve been a waiter.”

  “Some posh place?”

  “A place in New York City. They were very particular about coffee.”

  “A man of many talents.” Les lit a cigarette. “What else have you done? I mean besides hospital custodian, waiter, animal keeper?”

  “I was a bouncer in a bar for a while. And a carpenter, I liked that. But I couldn’t get into the union so there wasn’t much work.”

  “Anything else?” Les was probing, still suspicious, Monica realized. But Rick’s innocent brown eyes met Les’s calmly.

  “Not unless you count the army.”

  “Les doesn’t count the army. Do you, Les?” said Barbara.

  “I got back in one piece. What more could anyone ask?”

  Nothing, thought Monica, thinking of Ted in the nursing home.

  “That’s true enough,” agreed Barbara.

  “Well, back to work now,” said Les. “Rick here, of course, can do anything. But my brain turns into a pumpkin at two a.m. or so, so I’d better finish Weisen’s stuff.”

  They went back to work. Les accompanied Rick on rounds once about midnight while Barbara checked her own animals. Alone in the office, Monica put down an article on the effect of testosterone on the brain of the rat and leaned back wearily in her seat. So much to learn. And to do it she had to sacrifice so much that she wanted to do. She seldom allowed herself the luxury of questioning her course of action, but tonight all her doubts seemed very near the surface. After all of this, would she actually be able to do anything useful? Would she even be able to accomplish the minor goal she had confessed to Maggie, of making enough money? Was Barbara’s strategy better? Was all this work worthwhile?

  Usually the trip to the nursing home helped, but yesterday’s had not. Mary had slept the whole time, the kindly personality more and more difficult to rouse from her perpetual doze. Jock was unchanged, but Mrs. Audley at the desk had murmured sadly to Monica that his wife hardly ever visited him anymore. She was finding his lack of improvement too depressing, she said. And then, during the math lesson in the sunroom, Ted had lifted his eyes from the book to Monica’s face, with his little apologetic smile. Oblivious of the others in the room—all in his damaged right visual field—he had said, hesitatingly, “Monica, I love you.”

  Tears blistered her eyes. She always braced herself against being moved too much by their problems. She made herself focus on little attainable goals and rejoiced with them as they were reached. But this was so unexpected, so sweet, so impossible. There was nothing she could say. He frowned a little, understanding on some level that she was distressed. Then his eye fell on the book again, and his unexpected demonstrativeness vanished into the vague chaos from which it had come. “Four,” he read. “Something. Five.”

  “Four divided by five. Good.”

  The lesson continued, but she had been shaken deeply. What ideas of her drifted wispily in the aimless tangle of his thoughts? It was so unfair.

  “Hey, kid, you look beat.” It was Les, returning with Rick from their tour of the animal rooms. Monica roused herself and smiled at them.

  “Well, kid, I am. Aren’t you?”

  “Sure. Down but not
out. I’ve got too much to do.”

  “Do you want to borrow my cot, Miz Bauer?” As usual, Rick seemed anxious to please.

  “No, no, Rick, you need that. You do this every night. Maybe I’ll go to the technician’s office.”

  Les said, “I’m afraid Barbara beat you there. Tell you what. I want to get these slides done tonight, so I can go camping this weekend. I need a break before the big push next week. So why don’t you stretch out in the van awhile? You three can sleep now, I’ll get a nap later.”

  “Sounds good,” said Monica. “You’ll wake me in a couple of hours?”

  “Right.”

  Les’s van was outfitted with foam rubber pads under the carpeting. “Pillows there, blankets there. Just push that camping stuff aside,” he said, unlocking it for her.

  “Okay, thanks. See you later.” She closed the door behind her and pulled the pins from her coil of dark hair. The night was cool, not cold; it was almost June, and flowers were blooming already along the roadside. A pleasurable change out here from the odorless purity of the lab air. She shifted a box of camping supplies aside, dried food, soap, cigarettes, and plumped up her pillow. It felt very good to stretch out. Monica pulled a blanket over and slept deeply and gratefully.

  It was probably the smell of smoke that woke her. Cigarette smoke. The parking lot lights shone faintly through the windows, and in the dimness she could see his eyes, his mustache, the tip of his cigarette glowing.

  “Sorry,” she said groggily, sitting up. “Have you been here long?”

  “Not very. I didn’t want to wake you after all. You look so different when you’re sleeping, Monica. Peaceful. Soft.”

  “Yeah, well, everybody does.”

  “Not Anita. She looks exactly the same. I think maybe she never wakes up.” He was leaning against the opposite wall of the van.

  “Her life probably isn’t very stimulating, just now. With the kids.”

  “That’s God’s truth. And she gets tired.”

  “Yeah. That’s part of it too, I guess. Well, thanks for the nap. It’s my turn to go rounds with Rick, isn’t it? I’d better get back in there.”