Appetite

by Sheila Grinell

  “I’ll call you.” He rose, kissed her hand, and walked down the steps.

  Maggie pulled the dorm door open and climbed the stairs to her room, heart pounding. Sarah lay prone on her bed with an open book. Maggie changed into the baggy cotton shorts in which she studied and sat on the edge of her bed. Tomorrow’s final didn’t seem important; she needed to think.

  “Why are you sitting there like that?” Sarah asked. “You’re giving me the creeps. Go study something.” Sarah sat up and brushed back her long hair. “I’m going to put on a record.”

  Maggie hesitated. Talking to Sarah meant risking a barrage of violent opinion, especially about Paul. Sarah had disliked him from the moment they met. They were both the kind of person who uses up all the oxygen in a room, both tough-minded, neither willing to back off for the sake of harmony. But Sarah was a friend, and worldly. Sarah could fly where other people walked; Maggie often imagined wings fixed to her back, like a dragonfly’s, iridescent in the sun.

  “Paul is transferring to Michigan, and he wants me to go with him.”

  “Well, that’s a shocker. Do you want to go?”

  “I think I’m in love with him. But I don’t know. And my parents . . .” An undercurrent of fear surged through her.

  “Your parents are irrelevant. This is about you.” Sarah sat beside her.

  “Paul wants us to live together. He has a job. He said I could go to school.”

  “Do you want to live with him?”

  “My parents would never approve.” Disingenuous: her mother would roundly criticize anyone she brought home, and her father would hardly notice.

  Sarah reached for a pen and a notebook. “Let’s not worry about your parents. You don’t need them. With your grades, you might get a scholarship. Let’s make a list of the conditions for cohabitation.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Sarah wagged her head as if to say, “Isn’t it obvious?”

  “Like who pays for what, and who does which chores. Sort of like a contract for the relationship.” She sat cross-legged on Maggie’s bed and held the pen poised.

  Maggie stared at the floor. This wasn’t about chores.

  “Believe me, you need a contract. Otherwise you’ll get exploited.”

  Maggie pictured Sarah’s latest beau, a bearded, skinny guy all too willing to carry posters and armbands to rallies for her. “I don’t think you have contracts with your boyfriends.”

  “I don’t have boyfriends. I see guys who are into the same things I am, and we communicate, mind and body. Which is fine for me. You’re the marrying kind. You’ll take a load of crap.”

  “Paul doesn’t want to marry. He said he wants to try us out.”

  “That’s dandy, but you need to protect yourself. You need to be clear about what you expect.”

  Maggie didn’t want to hear Sarah’s theories about equality in domestic relationships. She wanted to know how to think about what Paul said. “I don’t know what to expect. I’m not sure I should even switch schools.”

  Sarah put the pen down. “If it were me, I wouldn’t transfer. If a guy wants me, he has to help me do my thing, and my thing is the movement. You could use some consciousness-raising, my dear.” She uncrossed her legs. “Think about what you want.”

  What did she want? She’d always assumed that she’d get a modest job after graduation and concentrate on doing well. In time, she’d marry a decent man and raise children much better than her mother had raised her. Paul made her think differently. So smart, so dedicated to science, so certain he would do great things. A life with him might be exciting in ways she couldn’t imagine. If she could keep up.

  “I want to get a degree. And Paul wants me to.”

  “You can study accounting anywhere,” Sarah said. “The issue is the deal with Paul.”

  No, Maggie thought, the issue is responsibility . . . to Paul, to her parents, to her future. She stood and reached for her keys. “I’m going for a walk. Thanks for listening. I’ll think about what you said.”

  The warm air felt soft, so welcome after the hard Ohio winter. Maggie could smell the new leaves and the sap running through the trees along the path that led away from the dorm. She hurried through the quadrangle opposite the ag building, afraid Paul might exit and see her. He’d caress her and she’d want to kiss him, and then she’d cry. And then he’d get that gentle look on his face and ask her what was wrong and listen to her babble through her tears without judging her. And that would be the end of thinking.

  Her mother might accept a transfer to Michigan because of its reputation, and her father would only care about the cost. But living with a boyfriend? Her parents would be appalled. They’d think radicals on campus had perverted her and would insist that she come home. Could she follow Paul and lie to her parents? She couldn’t compromise her principles. Would sharing an apartment with Paul work out? What if he got frustrated with her cautious ways? Did she know enough about housekeeping to live with a man? Would it be smart to make a contract, like Sarah said? Would Paul respect her more or less for wanting one?

  The bell tower chimed, breaking into her thoughts. She walked briskly, trying to concentrate. Rooming with Sarah, she had learned to think beyond the obvious. When Maggie needed help with a paper, Sarah asked pointed questions that led to new ideas and additional paragraphs. When they talked about issues on campus, Sarah opened new dimensions. She made Maggie read Betty Friedan, although, according to Sarah, the book was old and the women’s movement had already moved on. Maggie thought Sarah had moved on, to the environment and dolphins caught in tuna nets, while she still struggled with being both feminine and strong. The “feminine” girls in high school had seemed trivial, talking boys and clothes. The “strong” girls Sarah collected were unkempt and belligerent, snubbing Maggie for her lack of political muscle. Sarah was the only girl who seemed to achieve both. She chose her clothes carefully and used lemon juice on her dirty blond hair. She grabbed the megaphone at rallies to exhort the crowd, sure of herself and her ideas.

  Maggie came to a crossroad where the path led off toward the stadium. Realizing how far she’d walked, she turned to retrace her steps. Sarah might be close to the ideal girl, but Maggie could not hope to equal her. Sarah might think Maggie a mushy-minded sellout if she followed Paul to Michigan. But maybe staying at State would be, for her, selling out, picking security over possibility. As she headed toward the dorm, her mind resolved. She knew what to do. She would find a way to follow Paul to Michigan and hitch onto his dreams. Her dream for a good life would fold neatly into his. Sarah would have to understand. The hardest part would be convincing her folks.

  In the end, she stayed in Ohio because Michigan didn’t offer her a scholarship. But she doubled her course load, graduated in eighteen months, and moved into Paul’s apartment. They married shortly after. Her mother heartily disapproved.

  SIX

  “I can’t add one more thing,” Alicia protested. “I have to maintain the quality of my work, and everyone else’s for that matter.” The lead researcher removed her glasses and stared unblinking at Paul, then Tim and C. K. The four of them sat around a Formica table in the hospital’s ninth-floor employee lounge, which they used for staff meetings. It was just before lunch hour, and the place was still quiet except for the buzz of the Coke machine and the fluorescents overhead.

  “Whoa, I’m not asking you to do any more,” Paul said. He could have predicted her response to hearing that the grant had come through. Poor, diligent Alicia. She hardly smiled, and the tight bun fastened at the back of her head made her look even more severe. Now in her late thirties, she had worked for him for her entire career. Meticulous, persistent, and unoriginal, she oversaw the research agenda and kept the others on task. He appreciated her work ethic, and the research team had gelled around her, prissiness notwithstanding. He watched her close her laptop and cross her arms in front of her chest. Could be attractive with a little work.

  “I’m gonna bring in anoth
er person. Sandi posted the job a couple days ago. I’m relying on you, Alicia, to integrate him or her into our process.”

  Alicia uncrossed her arms. Her voice softened. “I hope you get someone who knows what he’s doing. I don’t have time to teach.”

  Tim poked C. K. with his elbow. “Harmony restored,” he said in nearly accent-free English.

  Tim looked like an elf—slight build, earth-colored clothes, and pointy shoes—and he acted the imp. Born in Germany, he had learned his science in the Stockholm lab with which Paul had been corresponding for the past three years. He shared an apartment in Queens with another foreigner, C. K. from Singapore, who was also willing to work for the salary Paul offered. They were an odd couple, Tim quick and sharp, C. K. slow and round. In the lab, they ganged up on Alicia like little boys. She scolded them in return. Paul didn’t mind a little fun as long as the work got done and done well. Surrounded by women and foreigners, he made the rules, and he made sure they were fair. Everyone deserved to catch a break.

  “I’m interviewing today. You all carry on with what you’re doing. The new guy will start with a new cytokine as soon as possible.”

  “Where will he sit?” Tim said.

  “Sandi is gonna make room in her office for a desk. I expect you guys to clear up some bench space. Or else I’ll come in and clean out your junk,” Paul teased. Tim feigned a shudder. The last time Paul had reorganized the wet lab, they couldn’t find their slides or reagents for days. “Any other questions?”

  Tim shook his head no. Alicia sighed.

  Satisfied, Paul pushed his chair away from the table. He figured it would take a month or so for the expanded team to settle into their new routine. He could wait. Patience came easy with the crew. He liked feeling responsible for their livelihoods. It felt like wearing a thick blanket around his entire body that no one else could see; it warmed him despite the weight.

  “Enjoy your lunch,” Paul said, rising to leave.

  The others stood, chair legs scraping on the linoleum tile. Hugging her laptop, Alicia walked quickly down the corridor. Tim and C. K. made for the elevator. Paul considered joining them to go get a greasy corn dog from the pushcart they patronized outside the hospital’s main entrance. He liked to stand around at the curb, eating and watching human behavior—fancy fauna, after all—and root for the secretaries gesturing urgently for taxis, their skirts riding high up their thighs, hoping to squeeze in a visit to the dentist or a shrink during lunch hour. But a corn dog might give him heartburn. He’d better get Sandi to order a tuna sandwich while he wrote up the cytokine protocol. Years before, Sandi had asked if she could donate sick days to one of the secretaries, a friend of hers with a serious illness. Paul had said yes, and then donated extra days of his own. A small thing, he had thought, but to Sandi consequential. She’d catered to him ever since.

  A cluster of nursing trainees spilled into the corridor outside the employee lounge, chattering about the class that had just ended. Paul walked past the elevator bank, between them. This particular bunch of would-be technicians—black, white, brown, mostly female—looked good to him, not overstuffed and bedraggled like so many others. He tipped an imaginary hat. It amused him to think of their printed scrubs as pink and lavender and aqua flowers blooming against the faded green walls. Indoor flora on a gigantic scale. He loped down the corridor.

  As he opened the door to his lab, Robert Stamford stepped out.

  “Ah, Paul. I’ve brought you a candidate for your new position. Your lab isn’t easy to find, and I feared she might lose her way. She’s the young woman I mentioned the other day, Hope Caldwell. I trust you’ll give her a good hearing.” Stamford jingled keys in his left-hand pocket.

  Paul frowned. “Actually, Robert, I’m going to lunch. She should make an appointment with Sandi, like the other applicants.”

  “Yes, certainly. But Ms. Caldwell happened to be visiting, and I thought you might be able to interview her now. I hope you won’t hold my informality against her?” Stamford’s chin tilted upward, eyebrows arching above a little smile.

  “I doubt this is a casual visit.” A metallic taste developed in Paul’s mouth. “I take it you’re leaving?”

  “Yes, of course. I’ll expect to hear from your office when the search concludes. Good luck.” Stamford bustled away down the hall, his round behind bouncing like a woman’s beneath the tails of his sport coat.

  Paul contemplated heading for the hot dog cart. Nah, he should get the interview over with. He strode into his office and sat at his desk, buzzing for Sandi and pulling a handful of forms from a folder. He would handle the interview by the book—ask the right questions, in the prescribed order, take precise notes—and write the standard rejection letter.

  Sandi entered, grinning, and handed him a résumé printed in purple on embossed letterhead. “She’s in my office,” Sandi said. “When do you want her?”

  “I don’t want her. Stamford’s pushing me. An interview is all he’ll get.” He fished reading glasses out of his top drawer. “Give me a minute to read this.” He waved the résumé at Sandi.

  “Don’t jump to any conclusions.” Sandi placed hand on hip, which hitched up her habitual blue smock and exposed beige capris underneath.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Sandi turned on her rubber heel and withdrew, closing the door behind her.

  The purple text, to Paul’s surprise, showed that the girl might be qualified to work in a lab like his. She had a biology degree from a credible school and one year’s graduate work in a zoology program a few years back. He picked up a pen and was about to call Sandi when the door opened and Hope Caldwell walked in. Tall, athletic shape, blond hair sleeked behind her ears into a knot, all pink cashmere and pearls. A Grace Kelly type, expensively groomed. But not pretty. He shook her outstretched hand.

  “I’m really pleased to meet you. I’ve read about your work.” She sat in the folding chair beside the desk, crossing muscled legs beneath a soft pink skirt, clasping her hands in her lap. She leaned toward him, waiting. He guessed she was pushing thirty.

  “Which part of my work interests you?”

  “I’d like to learn about the genetics of cancer. Isn’t that where the answers lie?”

  “Not entirely. The environment of the cell counts too.” He riffled through the folders in his bottom drawer, pulling out a set of dog-eared, black-and-white photos. He spread them across the desk for the woman to see. “These are cells from a single brain tumor we analyzed decades ago. Look at the genetic material.”

  The photos showed nuclei in each of six cells, with chromosomes standing out like dark lines against a lighter background. In one nucleus, the chromosomes looked like an array of tiny tubes poised in orderly fashion. In the other nuclei, the arrays looked successively messier—in the sixth, multiple tubes extended wildly in all directions. She pointed to the sixth photo, saying it looked like trouble.

  “That’s the easiest cell to recognize as cancer and kill. The deadliest one is the closest to normal.” He picked up the first photo, ready to give his usual spiel about the mutability of cancer and the interaction of genome and environment.

  She interrupted, “Is every tumor all mixed up or only in the brain?”

  “We think, more or less, every tumor. But it’s hard to generalize without longitudinal data.”

  “Now I see why you want to work in a hospital. You can get lots of samples from the same patient.” She leaned back in her chair. “It would be a privilege to work for you. I’d learn a lot.”

  She caught on quick, he thought. But he felt vaguely discomforted. She had somehow taken charge, as if she were interviewing him. Replacing the photos in their folder, he picked up the purple résumé and removed his reading glasses.

  “I see that it’s been a few years since you studied biology. What are your career goals?”

  She uncrossed her legs and cupped both hands over her knees. “Well, my undergraduate program was unexceptional, and I wasn
’t sure what I wanted to do, so I went to work in my parents’ art gallery. It was exciting at first, meeting the people they represent and their clients.” She gazed off into the distance for a beat. “But I realized that I couldn’t really make a contribution, and biology was my first love. So here I am, looking for a fresh start.” She smiled. “And I wouldn’t mind not having a window. I’ve spent enough time behind plate glass.”

  A little jab? A veiled complaint about the lab’s being windowless? Or was he overreacting? Job applicants don’t try to piss off the boss. Maybe her manners came from the art world, where you’re supposed to be coy.

  Someone knocked hard on his office door. Recognizing Alicia’s urgent rhythm, Paul invited her in to buy time. She looked surprised to see Hope Caldwell and took a step backward. He introduced Alicia as his lead researcher and asked her what was up.

  “I had an idea, but it wouldn’t be appropriate to discuss now.” Alicia stood in the doorway, shifting her weight from one leg to the other like a nervous adolescent. She stared straight at Paul.

  “If you’d like privacy, I’ll be happy to wait outside. But I’m interested in your work, so please feel free to discuss your idea. If you don’t mind,” Hope said, smiling sweetly. “I probably wouldn’t understand anyway.”

  Alicia nodded. No one moved. Alicia said, “No thanks. I’ll send an email,” and turned to leave.

  Hope stood and extended an arm to shake hands, saying, “It was a pleasure to meet you. I hope to be able to assist you.” Alicia nodded again and hurried away.

  “Don’t take it personally,” Paul said, “she’s not long on social graces, but she does an excellent job.”

  “I’m not the least offended. I don’t mind difficult people. You have to be thick-skinned when you work in an art gallery. But that’s another story.”

  Hope resumed her seat and crossed her legs. She folded manicured hands on top of the pink cashmere skirt. “Can I answer any other questions?”