“Toronto.” It was both funny and miraculous.
Anne remembered that Dalton had come into the nursery the day before.
He had held Genny in his arms and talked to Anne about going to Toronto on a business trip. But of all the words to pick, thought Anne. Genny repeated “Toronto” a few more times that day and then promptly forgot it.
But “Toronto” had opened the gates. In the days that followed, new words poured forth from the little girl at the rate of three or four a day. Now, at twelve months—an age when most children had barely uttered more than a “Mama” or “Dada”—Genny’s active vocabulary was well over a hundred words, and she was beginning to put them together into two-and three-word sentences.
Anne was still surprised—even a little frightened—by the strength of her own feelings for her child. Of course she had expected to love her without reserve, but she had never been able to imagine the depth and the intensity of the emotions this infant would stir within her. She understood now the truth of all those old cliches about mother love.
She knew, without a second’s doubt, that nothing else would ever mean as much to her in her life as this unique and precious, vulnerable creature, so full of needs and wants and demands. Nothing else in the world could possibly ever evoke such an all-consuming protective passion.
Anne embraced the demands of motherhood with enthusiasm and joy. But just as she knew that Genny would enrich her own life immensely, so she also understood that she would never be able to separate herself emotionally from her daughter’s fate.
Whatever happened to Genny would, in effect, happen to Anne as well.
She supposed this was what all parents felt, to a greater or lesser degree; but it came to her as a shock to discover that with the happiness there would forever be an undercurrent of anxiety, because she knew as sure as she drew breath that if anything bad should ever befall this child—if she should ever lose hen-the pain would be more than she could bear.
Genny’s arrival had worked an even more profound transformation on Anne’s husband.
Immediately after Genny’s birth Dalton fell into a severe depression.
The cause was clear: Goth’s death and the loss of the greatest financial opportunity of Dalton’s life. After a couple of months, his gloom began to lift. He turned his attention to his new daughter and soon became an even more anxious parent than Anne. He seemed obsessed with the fear that Genny might not be developing properly. Although the child had been subjected to a heavy battery of tests during the first weeks after her birth, Dalton wanted more tests done—especially after she began exhibiting her trancelike moods. Over Anne’s objections, he took Genny several times to special clinics in New York and Boston for further testing. Although absolutely nothing negative turned up, his anxieties remained. For a long time he clung to the conviction that Genny should be doing better, even though every book and every expert consulted suggested that her development was at the very least superior, if not extraordinary.
Then, for reasons Anne could only guess at, his worries about Genny vanished. He became the epitome of the proud and doting daddy.
One night after they had returned from a dinner party, he came out of Genny’s room with tears in his eyes.
Anne looked at him in alarm. “Is Genny okay?”
He nodded.
“What’s the matter?”
“I just . . . realized something.”
“What?”
“How much I love that child.”
Anne laughed. “Does it really surprise you?”
Dalton seemed to be struggling with his emotions. “Yes. I’ve never had these feelings. I’ve just never loved
anything—anybody—unconditionally.”
“Does that bother you?”
“No. But I guess I’ve always been afraid of the idea. It takes . .
.
I’m just not used to it, I guess.”
They went into their bedroom and began to undress.
Dalton quickly recovered himself and laughed. “Too much to drink,” he said. “Makes me maudlin.”
“Maybe you ought to drink too much more often,” Anne replied.
Suddenly Dalton dropped onto the bed. He looked stricken, as if overcome by some terrible realization. Anne sat beside him and put an arm around him. “Christ, what an ass I’ve been,” he whispered, his voice choking.
“About what?”
He buried his face in his hands. “About you, about Genny.
About everything.”
Anne hugged him.
“I’ve been such a goddamned selfish fool all my life, Anne. And somehow I’ve never even noticed. I’m really sorry….”
They both cried. He put his arms around Anne and they held each other for a long time.
From that night on, Dalton Stewart began making a genuine effort to be a good father and a loving husband. He agreed with Anne that it was essential that their child grow up in a happy and secure home, and he promised to do everything possible to repair the damages in their marriage. Their relationship became stronger than it had ever been.
Dalton neglected his work to spend hours every day playing with Genny, or just watching her. Everything the infant did-every move, sound, or facial expression—got his complete attention. He read all the books on child development and urged Anne to do the same. He was eager to know precisely what to expect at each stage of development. All their discussions centered around the baby and how she was doing. Every cough, burp, sneeze, or cry would send Dalton scurrying to consult a book or to call the pediatrician. The doctor, who had an office nearby in Great Neck, was Dalton’s choice, not Anne’s. She had wanted Paul Elder, the pediatrician she had visited in Manhattan before Genny was born. But since he had rebuffed her so rudely, she had accepted Dalton’s choice without complaint.
They hired a nurse-governess also: Mrs. Denise Callahan. She was a middle-aged woman with impeccable credentials—she had been a nanny for one of the Rockefeller families for fourteen years. She was a stiff, rather formal person, and Anne didn’t relate to her terribly well, but she had many virtues: she was steady, efficient, hardworking, knowledgeable, and completely reliable.
And she was good with Genny. She didn’t especially fuss over her, but neither did she ever show impatience or anger.
Although now Dalton was once more heavily immersed in his business activities, he still checked in on Genny’s progress several times daily. If he was away on a trip, he always called at the end of the day for a full report.
Every time Anne thought of the changes that Genny had wrought on her mother and father in one short year, she felt moved to tears. Not only had the child brought great happiness into their lives; she had actually made them better human beings.
“Would you like to play, too? Here, give me your hand.”
Anne took Genny’s tiny hand in hers and brought it up to the eyboard.
She held the girl’s middle and forefinger together and gently pressed them on the G below middle C. Genny squealed with pleasure as the note sounded. Then up an octave they went, to the next G, then back to F, then E, C-sharp, D, A; D, B, A, G, F-sharp, G, C, and so on, until they had completed the song’s melodic refrain.
Anne guided Genny’s fingers through the melody a second time.
With her free left hand she added some chords. Genny giggled with barely suppressed excitement all through the exercise.
Anne hugged her hard. Yesterday—the first day of the new year, 2001—had been Genny’s first birthday. Anne had arranged a small party for her, attended only by Dalton, Hank Ajemian and his wife, Carol, Lexy Tate, and the house staff. Anne had tried to find a child Genny’s age somewhere nearby, but that part of Long Island’s North Shore was not a neighborhood of young families.
Lexy had stayed overnight, and she and Anne had both gotten a little drunk, reminiscing about that fateful New Year’s Eve on Coronado.
Lexy’s gunshot wound was now a small round scar about the size of a quarter, high on the outs
ide of her left arm, just below the shoulder.
She was very proud of it. She wore short sleeves as much as possible, just to show it off, and would regale anyone willing to listen with an extremely detailed account of how she had received it.
Anne picked Genny up from the piano bench and carried her back into the nursery. Mrs. Callahan was there, putting clean sheets on the crib.
Anne put Genny down. The little girl scampered across to the enormous pile of stuffed animals arranged on the window seat and began pulling them down onto the floor and hugging them.
“Dalton and I are having an early dinner tonight, Mrs. Callahan. He’s leaving for Washington early tomorrow. I’ll be back to nurse her at eight.”
Mrs. Callahan’s expression became stern. “Very well, Mrs.
Stewart.”
Anne smiled to herself. Mrs. Callahan didn’t believe in breast feeding after six months, and she had made her position in the matter quite clear. Anne had listened to her advice politely and then ignored it. But now, with a year gone by, she knew it was time that she come to some sort of decision. Her head told her to begin weaning Genny, but she was still reluctant to give it up.
Well, perhaps another month, and then she’d decide.
Dinner with Dalton was a strained affair. The two of them sat at one end of the enormous table in the mansion’s forbiddingly ornate dining room and talked aimless trivialities. Dalton seemed tense and preoccupied.
“Is something wrong?” Anne asked.
Dalton shrugged, then nodded. “Some business problems.
Things are a bit difficult right now.”
“You can’t elaborate?”
“What’s the point? You wouldn’t understand.”
“You promised me you weren’t going to do this anymore, remember? ” “Do what?”
“Shut me out of your world. Maybe I would understand.”
“I don’t mean you can’t understand. I just mean it’s all rather complicated and boring to anyone on the outside.”
Anne lifted her wineglass and looked at it. “So I’m still someone on the outside?”
“You know what I mean.”
“I know that I’ve learned more from Hank Ajemian about the whole industry of biological engineering in the few times he’s been here to dinner than I’ve learned from you in three years.”
Dalton chuckled. “Ajemian likes to talk. Besides, he’s got a thing for you. He likes to impress you.”
Anne didn’t reply.
Dalton sighed. “Stewart Biotech is in trouble. If we don’t get some cooperation from the banks in the next few weeks, we’ll have to go into Chapter 11.”
“What’s that?”
“We’ll have to get protection from our creditors until we can reorganize.”
“Bankruptcy ? ” “Does that shock you?”
“Well, yes. Shouldn’t it? I haven’t had a clue from you that things were so bad.”
Dalton stared at the big silver candelabra in the center of the table.
“Although from what I’ve heard, businesses do it all the time,” Anne continued. “And go right on as if nothing had happened.”
“It’s serious, just the same. The banks would take control. And we could eventually lose the company.”
“Why have things deteriorated so? Didn’t you tell me that last year the company had the best year in its history?”
“It did. But it’s complicated. We got overextended, and the economy turned sour, all in the same year. And we lost a lot of money in Coronado.”
“How?”
“How do you think? We made a big investment in Goth. When the wing of that damned hospital burned down, everything went with it—Harold Goth, his research, his papers, his files, his computer disks—everything we had counted on to make back our investment. And we didn’t have a dime’s worth of insurance. Nobody would cover us.”
“What was it that he had discovered? Why was it all such a big secret?”
Stewart looked faintly embarrassed. “We were afraid of competition.
Goth had developed a gene therapy that could have been enormously profitable. At least that’s what we thought at the time. Now, we’ll probably never know.”
Anne sensed her husband was avoiding something. “What exactly was this program of his supposed to do, anyway? You never really explained it to me.”
“I’m not sure I understand it myself.”
“I find that hard to believe.”
“It had to do with a complicated series of genetic alterations to the germ line. Goth had developed a genetic formula of sorts that he believed could produce a child with superior attributes-health, intelligence, and so forth.”
“Did he ever test his formula?”
Dalton looked directly at his wife. “Not that I know of.”
“Why did you take such a risk on something untested?”
Her husband laughed nervously. “Good question. I was naive.
And greedy. All I could think of was the profit it could turn.
Maybe it was best that it all came to such a quick end. I doubt the formula would ever have worked.”
After a silence, Dalton folded his napkin and dropped it on the table.
“In any case, the whole venture cost us a lot of money.”
He pushed his chair back. “I’m going back into town tonight.
Meet with Ajemian. There’s supposed to be a snowstorm tomorrow, and we absolutely have to sit down and review our strategy before we see the bankers tomorrow. Ajemian thinks we can arrange for some short-term financing that’ll at least give us a little breathing room—maybe four or five months. After that, who knows. Let’s go in and see Genny.”
On their way to the nursery they passed the music room. A light was on inside, and someone was hitting keys on the piano.
They looked in. Mrs. Callahan was standing by the door, hands on her hips. She turned and greeted Anne and Dalton. “I’m sorry,” she said,
“but she just ran in here. I was just about to take her back into the nursery.”
Mrs. Callahan started toward the piano, but Dalton held her arm.
“Wait a minute,” he whispered.
Genny was standing between the piano bench and the keyboard, reaching up to the keys with her right hand and hitting them in a very deliberate pattern—G, G, F, E, C-sharp, D, A; D, B, A, G, F-sharp, G, C….
Dalton glanced at Anne. “Did you teach her that?”
Anne shook her head. “No…. I played it for her, this afternoon. I did guide her fingers over the keys a couple of times. But that was all.”
The three adults listened while Genny’s tiny hand picked out the melody of “When You Wish Upon a Star.” At the end of the song’s refrain, she hesitated, then moved to her left to reach the keys further down the keyboard. She struck those in what appeared to be a random pattern.
Anne clapped a hand to her mouth. Dalton and Mrs. Callahan looked at her.
“Amazing,” she whispered. “She’s playing the same chords I used—one note at a time. Listen . . . those three notes were a C chor Now an A Mrs. Callahan nodded. “Well, she’s inherited your musical talent, Mrs. Stewart, that’s for sure, the little thing.”
Dalton Stewart opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. His face had turned quite pale. He stared across the room at his daughter as if he had never seen her before.
Ambassador Haikido Mishima stopped and stared up directly over his head, shielding his eyes from the bright glare of the skylights. “I really don’t feel entirely secure, walking under those things,” he said.
“Those things” were several large airplanes suspended from the ceiling of the National Air and Space Museum, on Washington’s Independence Avenue.
Yuichiro Yamamoto followed his gaze. “I don’t think they’ll fall on us,” he said. “American technology isn’t that bad.”
Mishima chuckled. “I’m just a superstitious old man. Here, let’s go this way. That looks interesting over there.”
The two men strolled across the floor to the World War II aviation exhibit. Yamamoto had been to the Air and Space Museum many times, and he never tired of the place. Mishima, on the other hand, was not much interested. The ambassador’s tastes tended more toward symphony orchestras and art galleries than science.
“Is Goth’s program completely dead?” Mishima asked.
“Nothing survived,” Yamamoto answered.
“What about that lab assistant of his? The one who promised to sell us a copy?”
“Kirsten Amster. She’s disappeared.”
“What happened to her, do you think?”
Yamamoto shrugged. “People disappear on that island all the time.
Despres’s security police. They’re the lowest kinds of brutes.
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And I understand she was careless about going out after dark.”
“We have no evidence, though.”
“No.”
“An unlikely coincidence, then, don’t you think?”
“It’s also possible that the baroness killed her.”
“You shouldn’t joke about such things.”
“I’m not joking, Excellency,” Yamamoto replied, annoyed.
“She was suspicious of Amster.”
“But why would she care? Stewart had already beaten her out of the Jupiter program.”
“But she hadn’t given up. It was probably her thugs who set fire to the laboratory and killed Goth. She may have been trying to steal the Jupiter formula. Amster may have died in the fire with Goth.”
“But her body was not found.”
“No.”
“Surely the baroness is not so ruthless.”
“I mention it only as a possibility.”
“Do you think the baroness ever obtained a copy of the Jupiter program?”
“No. It’s been over a year now, and our sources in Hauser Industries haven’t heard anything of it. And there’s no activity in any of their labs to support the idea.”
“Do you think Dalton Stewart has Jupiter?”
“It would only have been prudent for him to protect his investment by making sure that at least one copy of the program was locked in a secure place. That’s just my speculation, of course. No proof. And in fact, there’s nothing unusual going on at Stewart Biotech, either.”
Tom Hyman Page 17