World without Cats

by Bonham Richards

  “What are you doing here?” Noah blurted, surprised she had the gall to enter the building after the job she’d done on him.

  “May I speak with you, please?”

  Noah was inclined to send her away. No, she has the guts to come here, the least I can do is hear her out. “What is it?”

  “I … I came to apologize,” Anneke said. “I know how much of a bother this ban is for you.”

  “Bother! You have no idea. You can’t apologize. The damage is done.”

  “Dr. Chamberlin, please. We don’t know how this is going to turn out. Our committee hasn’t even had its first meeting. We’re getting together this afternoon.”

  “I didn’t know that. It seems that you’re keeping an open mind, anyway.”

  “I’d like to think so. I’ve done some web research on these institutional biosafety committees and animal-care committees. I’ll be honest, until last week’s meeting, I didn’t know they existed.”

  Noah was taken aback by her conciliatory tone. “I see,” was all he could manage.

  “Sir, I promise you that I’ll maintain an objective attitude on our little committee. I’m sure the other members will do likewise.”

  Noah was left speechless by the woman’s sincerity.

  Vera Barnett had agreed to host the first meeting of the ad hoc committee at the clinic. She set out a ring of folding chairs, a box of donuts, and plenty of coffee. After all were seated, Vera spoke. “I think we should begin by electing a chair.”

  The others muttered assent and the group quickly elected the biology teacher, Norman Orgell, to head the committee.

  “Vera,” Orgell said, “how about you and I take on the responsibility of digesting the NIH guidelines for recombinant DNA research. We have the most biological expertise.”

  “Fine with me,” answered the vet.

  “Anneke, would you mind contacting state and federal health authorities about governmental guidelines?”

  “Sure,” she replied. “I think we should also request a tour of the lab facilities. You know, the scene of the crime …”

  “Let’s try to keep an open mind,” Orgell said.

  “Sorry.”

  On the day of the tour, Vera Barnett, DVM, studied her reflection in the mirror and casually ran a comb through her short, blond hair. She paused to consider what appeared to be a new wrinkle at the corner of her mouth. “Damn!” she said aloud. Vera had always thought of herself as ordinary-looking. Now in her mid-thirties, she was becoming increasingly self-conscious about her appearance.

  Vera looked forward to visiting the molecular biology institute. She had been to the university on more than one occasion to attend concerts, plays, and lectures, but had never been inside any of its laboratories. Chamberlin seems likeable enough, she mused. Good-looking too. Although she generally shunned makeup, she decided to apply a light shade of lip gloss.

  She tucked the flaps of her blue shirt into her jeans and switched off the stereo. Vera rented an old, two-story clapboard house built during the early 1950s, when the post-war building boom was in full flower. The owner had agreed to convert the bottom floor to make it suitable for her veterinary practice, provided she agreed to a two-year lease. She co-owned the veterinary clinic with Dr. Kalman Forstner, who had graduated from the School of Veterinary Medicine at UC Davis just the previous year.

  Vera hurried into the room she called “the ward” to check on the animals. They seemed calm and comfortable, except for Sparkles, a toy collie recovering from a urinary tract infection. “Hey there, girl,” murmured the vet, rubbing her finger alongside the animal’s jaw. “They’ll be coming tomorrow and you can go home.” Sparkles responded with a whimper. “Kal, would you keep an eye on Sparkles?” she called out to her partner.

  “Sure, no problem,” he replied from the other room.

  Vera left a note for Jane Brennan that she’d be back in a few hours. She carried her black leather vet’s bag—it doubled as a handbag—upstairs to her living quarters, inserted a few personal items, and set off in her blue Porsche hybrid for the university. She drove the two blocks to Lewis Road and then south on Lewis to the campus. In the city, she generally ran the sports car on battery, but on Lewis Road, she opened it up, and the little car took off with a roar.

  I just love the old Spanish-style architecture of these buildings, she thought. It gives the campus a kind of romantic look. She recalled reading that the older buildings were erected as a state mental hospital in the 1930s. The hospital closed in 1997 and was converted to a state university. Cal State Channel Islands admitted its first students in 2002. The more recent structures, including the library and the molecular biology institute, had been constructed within the last fifteen years.

  Vera was the first to arrive. She was impressed by the conspicuous signs on the lab door.

  BSL-2 LABORATORY

  CAUTION

  BIOHAZARD AREA RADIATION AREA

  NO SMOKING OR FOOD PERMITTED

  No admittance except to authorized personnel

  In case of emergency contact Dr. Noah Chamberlin, Room 506

  Phone: 484-36744 or 388-36748

  Vera’s concentration was interrupted by a masculine voice. “Dr. Barnett, isn’t it?”

  She spun around. “Oh. Dr. Chamberlin. You took me by surprise.”

  “Sorry. Where are the others?”

  “They should be … here they come.” The rest of the committee members were heading down the hall.

  The group entered the lab. Vera noticed that everything was literally gleaming—glossy black countertops, vinyl floor, stainless steel, and enameled machines with their scores of dials, LCD screens, switches, and buttons. In a corner near the door she saw a desk covered with notebooks, graphs, and technical books, as well as a small calculator and a laptop computer on whose screen was displayed a slowly rotating DNA molecule. Above the desk was a bulletin board on which were posted a number of technical papers, notes, and science-themed cartoons. A faint chemical odor pervaded the room.

  Noah introduced Alicia Diaz to the visitors. Jaime Leal exchanged a few words in Spanish with the technician. She was running a chromatography column, delicately turning a small stopcock at the bottom.

  Vera walked over to get a closer look. “What are you doing?” she asked.

  Alicia closed the stopcock. “I’m trying to separate and identify proteins found in sera of MEFA cats, but not normals.”

  “Any luck?” asked the vet.

  “I’ll know within the next few days. It looks promising.”

  Noah explained the various pieces of equipment: incubators, PCR analyzers, analytical balance, pH meter, UV spectrophotometer, gel electrophoresis apparatus, and other devices.

  “Must have cost a fortune, all this stuff,” Yousef Yazdani observed.

  “It certainly did,” said Noah. “The institute was funded by a huge grant from Clonigen. The grant paid for constructing and outfitting the building on the condition that our grad students and post-docs focus their research on projects compatible with those of the company.”

  “Wait a minute,” Vera interjected, “I thought the state universities couldn’t offer PhD programs.”

  “Generally, that’s true,” replied Noah. “It’s not an absolute, however. Originally, doctoral programs were confined to the UC schools. However, a state university can offer PhD degrees in conjunction with a University in the UC system. Ours is UC Santa Barbara.”

  “How long have you been on the faculty, Dr. Chamberlin?” asked Anneke Weiss.

  “I came here in 2017, when the Institute of Molecular Biology was formed. In fact, my first job was to design the labs, both the biosafety level-two and -three labs.

  Anneke pointed to the biological safety cabinet with ductwork connected to a port in the wall. “What’s that used for? Radioactive stuff?”

&
nbsp; “Sometimes,” replied Noah, “but mostly that box is used for working with possibly dangerous biological materials. It uses high efficiency particulate air—HEPA filters for short—to keep any potentially harmful microbes out of the environment.” He flipped a switch on the side of the cabinet. Vera heard the sound of a motor starting up and the steady whoosh of air flowing. “Air is forced down across the opening in the front,” Noah continued, “then through the grill at the bottom. Any particles from the inside or outside are dragged by the airflow into the grill where they’re trapped by the HEPA filter. That not only keeps anything suspended in the inside air from getting out, but also keeps outside microbes from getting in and contaminating the work being done inside.”

  There sure are quite a few safety precautions, Vera thought.

  They went into the cat room, and Noah pointed out that the only entrance was through the laboratory. Even here, Vera noted, although the room was permeated by a faint odor of urine and feces, the stainless steel cages were spotless. Norman Orgell asked how many cats were kept in the room. “We have a capacity for fifty animals,” Noah replied, “but right now we only have nine—two normals and seven with MEFA.”

  “Oh!” said Yazdani. “We won’t catch it, will we?”

  “No, no, not at all. MEFA is in no way contagious to humans—or even to other cats.”

  Vera walked over to the cages housing the ill animals. “Did you have any difficulty in getting a license to use domestic cats?” she asked.

  “I thought it was going to be a long, hard battle, but it wasn’t so tough after all. In the application, I pointed out the obvious similarity between MEFA and human sickle-cell anemia. I learned later that one of the peer reviewers was an African American MD engaged in sickle-cell research himself. He was so intrigued by the proposal that he not only recommended funding the full 1.9 million, but pulled strings to fast-track the approval of the licenses for the use of Felis catus.”

  Noah unlatched a cage door and removed a beautiful but lethargic gray tabby.

  “Why her fur looks like mink!” said Anneke.

  “Yes, it does in a way,” said Noah. “Her name is Ophelia. My students like to name our cats after Shakespearian characters.”

  “Like the cat you brought to the meeting the other day? George, I think his name was?” Vera said, sarcasm apparent in her tone.

  Noah smiled apologetically. “I named that one. I’m not as imaginative as my students. Here’s George right here.” He pointed to one of the upper cages. “Come to think of it, though, I believe there may be a George in some of the history plays. Isn’t one of the lords or dukes in Henry VI named George?”

  Vera was abashed. “I … I don’t know. Are you into Shakespeare?”

  “Yes, very much so. You?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact, I am.”

  Vera’s eyes widened. The guy’s a Shakespeare nut like me. Who would’ve thought? “May I examine Ophelia?” she asked.

  “Of course,” said Noah, handing her the cat. “Here—a ‘harmless, necessary cat.’”

  Vera chuckled, delighted with the Shakespeare game. “Shylock, right? Merchant of Venice?” Noah nodded.

  Vera placed the animal on a spotless countertop and probed here and there, all the while softly stroking the scrawny cat. She pried open Ophelia’s mouth with her fingers and examined the teeth, gums, and tongue. “Well, there really is nothing distinctive, except possibly an enlarged spleen. The general condition is that of a dozen other feline diseases.”

  “Yes,” Noah replied, “and you’re right about the spleen. That’s an invariant symptom of MEFA.” Vera looked up from the cat and saw that Noah was eyeing her. His lips were parted as if he was going to say something else, but he didn’t speak. The vet eyed him in return. Vera wondered if it would be a conflict of interest if she asked the Shakespeare-loving scientist out on a date.

  After a few more questions, the group exited the cat room and thanked Noah for the tour. Vera felt that the tour had gone well and had worked toward Noah’s credibility. Even Anneke acknowledged that the research animals were well cared for. As the five of them made their way down the hallway toward the elevator, Noah rushed after them, attempting to intercept Vera. “Dr. Barnett,” he called.

  “Yes?”

  “Would you mind waiting a moment?” He paused until the others were out of earshot. “I … uh … wonder if …”

  Vera, seeing at once what Noah was about, took the lead. “Dr. Chamberlin, would you have dinner with me some evening? I’d like to discuss with you the significance of this George fellow in Henry VI.”

  Noah laughed heartily. “How about tonight? I know a pretty good steakhouse north of here on Lewis Road.”

  “I think I know the place. The Cock and Bull, isn’t it? Yes, tonight would be fine. What time may I pick you up?”

  “Oh, I’ll drive, after all …”

  “Dr. Chamberlin, it was I who asked you to dinner,” Vera interjected.

  Noah looked her in the eye. He acquiesced. “Okay, you drive. I live over on Agave Road, north of Las Posas, not far from the police station. Do you know where that is?”

  “Yes, I think so. Okay, tonight then. Say, around seven?”

  Noah wrote down his address and drew a simple map for Vera. She strolled out of the building, bemused. Who could have thought the day would turn out this way?

  Vera eased into a dark booth opposite Noah. A single candle on one end of the resin-covered burl table cast ghostly shadows on his face.

  Noah inhaled deeply. “There’s nothing like the aroma of charbroiled steaks!”

  They ordered drinks from the almost invisible waitress. Vera raised her glass. “To George.” Noah smiled and touched his stemmed martini glass to Vera’s scotch. “I looked it up, you know,” Vera announced. “You were right. There is a George in Henry VI. The Duke of Clarence. He also appears in Richard III.”

  “Ahhh, the Duke of Clarence. ‘Our hap is loss, our hope but sad despair …’ George’s opening line in Henry VI. The third part of the play, to be precise.”

  “I can’t believe it! The Duke of Clarence is a relatively minor character, and you know an obscure line like that? That’s incredible!”

  Noah grinned sheepishly. “I looked it up too.” They laughed.

  “Drinking on an empty stomach is going to knock me for a loop,” Noah remarked. “I think we’d better order.” He signaled the waitress, and they ordered steaks and a carafe of California cabernet.

  Conversation was suspended as they cut into the steaks. Finally, Vera stated through a mouthful, “Shakespeare was a male chauvinist.”

  Noah frowned. “Ah yes. Of course. Taming of the Shrew. That must be one of the most sexist plays ever written.”

  Vera nodded.

  “But,” continued Noah, “to be fair, you’ve got to consider Shakespeare’s many strong and sympathetic female characters, Lady Macbeth, Portia, and Cordelia, for example. You can make any case for or against Shakespeare. Many Jews believe he was anti-Semitic.”

  Vera said nothing, but she looked into Noah’s eyes with growing respect.

  Noah returned her gaze and asked, “Tell me, how did you happen to become a veterinarian?”

  “I grew up on a farm in the San Joaquin Valley. I always liked animals. In fact, until I was about eighteen, I preferred them to people. So naturally, I wanted to be a vet. However, my parents were very conservative, very traditional. They didn’t even want me to go to college. I rebelled and broke with my family. But it’s okay now. We’re kind of in touch again. I majored in biology at Cal State Sacramento, got good grades, attended vet school at Davis. That’s about it.”

  “How did you happen to come to Camarillo?”

  “I started by interning with Dr. Graham Wu, a vet at Auburn, in the gold rush country, and then opened my own practice in Placerville. But I coul
dn’t make a go of it.”

  Vera could see that Noah was an attentive listener. “Three years ago, I came across an ad from a vet here who wanted to retire and was looking for someone to take over his practice. So here I am.” Vera shrugged. “I share the practice with another fellow whom I’m training. He’s fresh out of vet school. How about you?”

  “Yeah, here I am too.”

  “No, professor, your history. How did you get into your field? What’s a nice guy like you doing creating Frankenstein monsters in the laboratory?”

  “Well, let’s see. Born in Los Angeles of mixed WASP and Jewish parentage. Followed a pre-med curriculum at UCLA. B.A in 2012 but couldn’t get into med school—wrong race, wrong sex, wrong ethnic background. Maybe my B average had something to do with it too.” Vera’s incipient reproach dissolved into a smile.

  Noah went on, “I wasn’t really turned on academically until I got to grad school. Earned a PhD in molecular biology at Berkeley in 2015. Spent two years as a post-doc at the University of Massachusetts, honing my recombinant DNA techniques. Met my wife there and got married in 2016.”

  Vera was nonplussed. “Oh! I didn’t … “

  “Divorced,” Noah droned on. “Final decree this February.”

  Vera smiled wanly. “Any kids?”

  “No, thank God. That would have made it messier.”

  “Was it messy?”

  “For a while. It’s okay now.”

  Vera nodded. “What is she like?”

  “Myra? Oh, intelligent, witty … like you, I guess. She wasn’t content to live the rest of her life as a faculty wife.”

  “I don’t blame her.” Vera stared at Noah over her wine glass. “What did you mean, like me?”

  “Huh?”

  “You said your wife, Myra, was like me. You don’t even know me.”

  “I don’t know what I … forget it.”

  He changed the subject. “Have you been to the Ojai Shakespeare festival?”