Appetite

by Sheila Grinell

  Stamford frowned and clasped hands in front of his chest. His head bobbed over a ridiculous yellow bow tie—a clown with clout. “That’s the problem. He said it’s a matter of concern for the hospital, and he doesn’t want to confront you.”

  “Confront me? What are you talking about?” His gut began to tighten. He wanted Stamford gone.

  “Evidently Hope Caldwell showed him some of your results. Martin says he discovered anomalies in the data. I suggested he contact you directly.” He paused. “You are listed as second author on the papers he’s questioning.”

  “Always good to advance the team.”

  “I know you are directing the experiments, but are you absolutely sure of your staff?”

  “So that’s why you interrogated Alicia the other day.” His temper was rising.

  “Hardly interrogation, Paul. I am trying to help.”

  “No you’re not. You’re trying to intimidate my employee and undermine me. How did Miller turn himself into your new favorite?” He heard the absurdity in his words, but he couldn’t control them. Miller’s audacity stunned him. Wait, he thought, was Hope behind this? He’d done nothing to her that deserved retribution.

  Stamford raised hands in the shape of a tepee to his chin. “Paul, patience. We’ll get to the bottom of it. I reported Martin’s comments to the ethics board. Hospital policy, you know. They will want the facts from you and your researchers, and they’ll straighten things out.”

  “I don’t have time for your bureaucracy. I have a presentation to give.” You meddling jackass, he thought.

  “The chair is aware of your constraints. The committee will respect your time. Please cooperate. It’s to your advantage.” Stamford took a step backward, as if recoiling from the tension in Paul’s body.

  Paul growled, “You should have come to me first.”

  “I followed policy. I’m coming to you now. I want to help.”

  “Like hell you do.”

  “I’ll leave you to your work.” Stamford took another step back. “I assure you, the board will clear up any misunderstandings.” He nodded and turned on his heel.

  Paul focused eyes on those red and green curves on the screen, but his brain did not cooperate. His arms and legs filled with electricity, demanding action. He stood, phoned Miller’s lab, and asked for Hope. Told she was working from home, he made a rash decision. He’d take the subway and get to her place in twenty minutes, max. Telling Sandi he’d be back within the hour, he left.

  In the underground, the clatter of the ricocheting trains soothed him. He boarded the 5; the rails screamed as it rounded bends. He admired the hard, hot, groaning steel—real power as compared to innuendo. His anger cooled, giving way to confidence that he could make Hope drop whatever game she and Miller were playing. She owed him big, after all.

  He held the door to Hope’s building open for an elderly woman on her way out. Piece of luck—no need to ring to be let in. He took the elevator to the fourteenth floor, rehearsing his opening lines. The hallway on fourteen smelled expensive: echoes of furniture polish, cut flowers, and other East Side indulgences. He knocked on the door. An eye appeared on the other side of the peek hole above the brass 14 C. In a moment, Hope opened the door to her tiny apartment, her face a question mark.

  “This is unexpected.” She gestured to the lone stool in the kitchenette. He entered and sat. She wore leggings and a tight T-shirt, with no makeup. Not pretty, but fabulous legs, hips, tits. She said, “There’s some stale coffee.” He shook his head no. She leaned against the wall across from him, eyes fixed on him.

  The place looked different, messy. Clothes drooped from the edges of the two large canvases; a pile of books sat next to the unmade bed. She had added a reading lamp and a wing chair that looked like it could be one of her mother’s antiques. Shoes lay in a jumble on the floor of the open closet. Text editor was open on a laptop sitting on the counter. So she lived here now, no new guy in the wings. Despite his better judgment, he felt gratified. “They said you’re working from home. I expected to see a lab setup.”

  Hope shook her head. “I’ve been given editorial duties. Most of the others have English as a second language. Martin wants them published well. My very proper education comes in handy.” She shrugged her strong shoulders.

  “Disappointed?”

  “Why are you here, Paul?”

  He had planned to take an indirect approach, but need got the better of him. “I want to know why Martin Miller is complaining about me. What have you shown him?”

  “Nothing. I haven’t been asked to mount any experiments. Yet.” She appeared confused. “I told him what we’d—what your lab’s been doing, and I referred him to the current papers.” She hugged herself, lifting fulsome breasts beneath the T-shirt.

  “Then why did he call your old buddy Stamford?” He stood, frowning, unbelieving. Something didn’t click. “What are you and Miller up to?”

  She shot him a look of what . . . defiance? Desire? “I don’t understand. I’ve hardly said a word to Martin. He’s not hands-on in the lab like you.”

  “I’m told you like his style better.” The memory of Miller’s accusation rankled.

  She shrugged again.

  He lost his last shred of cool. “So if you’re not sleeping with him, why did you leave me?” Dammit, he’d had no intention of going there. Picking at a sore that wouldn’t heal.

  “I told you. It looked like a good career move. I am serious about my future as a biologist, whatever you may think.” She took two steps toward the house phone on the wall.

  Electricity flooded his arms and legs again; he fought the urge to move. “Are you kidding? I made you a biologist. You were a dilettante.”

  Silent, she took another step.

  “I don’t know why you and Miller want to screw with me, but it won’t work.”

  “You’d better go.” She picked up the receiver.

  He glared at her angry horse face. How could he have found her so attractive? “Good luck. You’ll need it.” He strode out.

  He took the fire stairs down two flights, then stopped to catch his breath. He went to the elevator. He’d learned nothing. He kicked himself for coming to see her.

  In the subway, replaying the encounter, an awful thought came to him. What if she were telling the truth? Miller was the kind of chilly, brainy guy who got on a high horse and rode. But why? His answers were right. The field would only benefit from his discoveries. He felt agitated, which unnerved him. He returned to the hospital on autopilot. As he walked through Sandi’s office toward his own, she raised her questioning head. He waved her off. He wanted to burrow into the data; he wanted to be consoled by the mute certainty of the subcellular world, his muse and refuge for so long.

  He entered the kitchen through the mudroom, stepping into a cloud of frying onion. Arun stood with his back to him at the stove; Jenn sat in the nook chopping cilantro on a cutting board. She looked up, knife in the air.

  “Hi, Dad. Nice to see you so early. We’re giving Mom a break and cooking an Indian specialty.”

  “Where’s your mother?” He looked around, anxiety barely controlled.

  “In the living room with Aunt Sarah. Don’t look so worried. We’re roasting a chicken for the carnivores. You’ll smell it any minute.”

  He parked his briefcase and entered the living room. Maggie sat on the couch, glass of pinot grigio in hand. Sarah, now a bloody teetotaler, sat opposite. He poured a bourbon at the sideboard and took a swig. Maggie turned toward him.

  “You’re early. I’m glad. Jenn and Arun are fussing over dinner. I trust we’ll like it.”

  He gestured with the drink to the hallway. She placed her wineglass on the coffee table and followed him. He could see by the cut of her mouth that she was about to lecture.

  “You look awful. Are you getting sick?”

  He didn’t want to explain: he wanted to vent. “Stamford is hounding my staff. I’m sick and tired of his interference.”

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nbsp; She rolled her eyes like a teenager. “Oh, Paul. Robert has a right to talk to your people. He’s probably doing you a favor.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  She lowered her voice. “Robert’s been a good friend to this family. I trust him.”

  “That has no bearing on my work.”

  “I’m not going to fight with you. Let’s try to have a civil dinner. Jenn won’t live here much longer.” She turned on her heel.

  He escaped into the basement and powered up his machine. The office cubby smelled moldy despite the constant cranking of the dehumidifier. The papers and charts he had left in disarray on the desk lay curled and soggy. He hadn’t the heart to sort them. He switched off the computer and mounted the steps. Maybe he should try to reach his brother. Lenny understood intimidation—used it in his business all the time.

  From the hallway, he saw Arun seated on the living room love seat, with Jenn draped against him, opposite the women. Reluctantly, half hiding behind the bourbon in hand, he joined them.

  Jenn said, “I hope you’re hungry, Dad. We made a lot of food.”

  Arun said, “The chicken will be ready in less than half an hour. While it roasts, the flavors in my grandmother’s best vegetable curry will blend. She would want me to serve it properly.”

  Sarah said, “Who did the cooking in your household in India?”

  “When I was small, my grandmother and the cook fought over control of the kitchen. The food was very good as a result.”

  “So how did you learn to cook?”

  “My father made me learn to prepare a few dishes before I came to America. To combat homesickness. It didn’t work, but I discovered that I like to sauté. I like to transform onions into brown sauce, something Americans don’t do but Indian cooks very often do.”

  Sarah pressed on. “What about your mother?”

  “My mother deferred to her mother-in-law. She worked full time in a hospital near our home, so she was glad to honor tradition. My grandmother lived to be ninety. After she died, my mother bought a microwave oven.” Arun smiled and winked at Jenn.

  Sarah said, “Right on, sister.”

  Maggie laughed. “I don’t imagine your parents eat ramen noodles all the time?”

  Whiskey caught in the back of Paul’s throat and he coughed. They all looked at him. He made a choking gesture and waved them on.

  “My parents take most of their meals outside the home. They are devoted to their clinic. They seem to be delaying gratification until their retirement.”

  Paul cleared his acidic throat. “Is that what you expect my daughter to do? Wait forty years for some comfort?” He knew the women would turn on him, but he didn’t give a damn. The fakir deserved to be challenged.

  Arun answered, “The only thing I expect your daughter to do is speak for herself.”

  Jenn sat upright. “Haven’t we been over this? You know I don’t care about things. You and Mom gave me comfort, but I’ve seen the other side. I care about being of service. So does Arun. You should congratulate us on finding a way to live our values.”

  “Fine speech, my girl. What are you going to say when you’re flat on your back with dysentery and there’s no money to bribe the ambulance driver?”

  Annoyance crept into her voice. “Some humane person will get me to the hospital in a pedicab. They do better in traffic anyway.”

  Arun said, “Your daughter has two wonderful qualities in equal proportion: compassion and the ability to get things done. My admiration for her knows no bounds.”

  Paul’s stomach began to turn. Could be the liquor, could be the sycophantic talk. He leaned back to wait out a wave of nausea. “Well, we agree on something.”

  Jenn stood and said, “I’m going to check on the chicken.” Arun and Maggie followed her out of the room. Sarah stayed behind. He suspected she would scold. Sure enough, she sat down next to him, shaking her head.

  “I’m afraid you just blew an opportunity. There are many wonderful ways to be of service in this world. She doesn’t have to follow him to India. I suggest you hush up and let me lead the conversation at dinner.” She looked at him with arched brows.

  He nodded, to be rid of her. The gall of the woman. In his own house. Bile threatened to rise above his epiglottis. He swallowed hard to push it down.

  Sarah said, “You will thank me. I’m on your side, you know. I don’t want them married. My reason is different from yours, not that it matters.” She tapped his arm as if to reassure him. “You don’t like his balls. I don’t like his spirit—too secretive. Maggie is vacillating. Leave it to me.” She rose and left the room, trailing perfume that smelled like rotten fruit.

  If he weren’t fighting with his gut, he’d protest. Both women trying to shut him up. No dice. Time he took Jenn in hand and told her what to do. Every girl needs her father to define things for her. He’d get her alone later and straighten her out. Once and for all.

  He farted and immediately felt better. His gut rumbled and relaxed. He took another sip, and his thoughts returned to Stamford’s words of the morning. No one had challenged his science for a long time, not since graduate school, where carping was a matter of course. When he began getting grants for his specialty, they showed him grudging respect. They may not have liked him, but they admired his ability to invent new approaches to problems. Directing a lab felt great; he’d been pushing himself and his team to accomplish a miracle so sorely needed in biology, and eventually medicine. Miller’s comment as reported gnawed at him. Miller, a superb technician, didn’t play politics like so many of their colleagues. A creeping sensation around his head and tinnitus in his ears signaled a rise in blood pressure. He took another sip of bourbon to lower it.

  Maggie called to him from the dining room saying that dinner would be on the table in ten minutes. He drained the whiskey glass and heaved himself out of the chair, heading for the bathroom to wash up. He’d eat the chicken. After dinner, in the basement, he’d try Irene’s line. Irene understood the pressures he felt at the hospital. She would be sympathetic, although it had been a while.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Last day on the job for Jenn, nine days until the wedding. Maggie pulled up in front of the law office, and Jenn got out of the car. Maggie promised to pick her up at four o’clock. Jenn blew a kiss and sailed into the building, long skirt swishing around her legs. After a minute, instead of going to the post office and supermarket as she’d told her houseguests she would, Maggie drove to Brian’s place. She needed to explain her silence these past weeks. Brian had agreed to delay the start of his workday to hear her out.

  She parked across the street from his condo and sat behind the wheel. Lying to Sarah and Arun had been easy. She’d left them sitting in their separate corners, wary of each other after the previous night’s interchange. Nothing to be done about that bad blood. Something to be done about Brian. Her desire for uncomplicated sex had faded; she had found her juice again and had tired of the subterfuge. But she was grateful to him for warming her without making demands. They’d had a good time that winter. That was enough. She gathered her purse and phone and locked the car behind her.

  He opened his door before she rang the bell.

  “Here for a quickie?” He smirked, waving her in.

  She refused to be baited. “Thanks for meeting me on short notice. I’ve a houseful of people and it’s hard to get away.” She sat in the rocker he had rescued and refinished, barricaded behind its wooden arms. Brian stood leaning against the living room wall, arms and ankles crossed in the lithe posture she’d found so attractive. Before the wedding took precedence. Before the sight of Jenn and Arun exulting in each other had cracked open her longing.

  “I’ve been rude not calling back. I’m sorry.”

  “Why are you here now, Maggie? Want to make a date?”

  “No. I came to apologize. And to explain.”

  “Explain why you’ve been wasting time? My time and your time?”

  This was getting ugly. “I�
��m not wasting your time. And I don’t have to account for mine.”

  “What do you expect me to do, sit by the phone and drop everything when you ring?”

  “I don’t expect you to do anything different than you always do.”

  “Then why aren’t we doing what we always do?”

  This was absurd. They had made each other no promises. He had said he was proud of making no demands. A false pride, now showing its true face. She didn’t want to cater to another man’s pride. In an instant, her heart resolved.

  “Brian, it’s time to call it off.”

  “Call it off? Like a dog on the hunt?”

  She kept her voice even. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I don’t want to waste your time. I’m not available now.” Not quite true, but she wanted to preserve his dignity.

  “I can wait a week until the light turns green.” He grinned.

  “I haven’t toyed with you. Please don’t toy with me now.”

  He unpeeled himself from the wall and sat on the coffee table directly in front of her. “What’s the matter, Maggie? Lost your appetite for sex?”

  If she reached out, she could stroke his face and neck. He’d been an accommodating lover, and she’d enjoyed learning his ways. When she had wanted to experiment with the tantric sex book one of her classmates had lent her, he had looked bemused but gone along. He’d said she was the only intellectual he’d ever fucked. At the height of their lust, he’d said he preferred her to younger women, who were demanding and judgmental. She’d thanked him for the compliment, disbelieving but pleased nonetheless. Her resolve wavered for a nanosecond.

  “I don’t want to run away from my problems at home.” Not quite true, she thought, but face saving.

  He flinched. “Is your husband coming after you?”

  “This is not about Paul. This is about you and me. I can’t pretend I’m happy sneaking around. I’m sorry.”

  He looked surprised. “Happy? Who said anything about happy? ‘Horny’ is the word. Horny you and horny me.”

  She’d taken the wrong tack. “Brian, I respect you. Please let me say good-bye with respect.”