Lady Professor

by Switzer, Robert L. ;

  The Lady Professor

  by

  Robert L. Switzer

  © 2017 Robert L. Switzer

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be

  reproduced or transmitted in any means,

  electronic or mechanical, without permission in

  writing from the publisher.

  978-1-945805-12-7 paperback

  978-1-945805-13-4 epub

  978-1-945805-14-1 mobi

  Cover Design

  by

  Bink Books

  a division of

  Bedazzled Ink Publishing, LLC

  Fairfield, California

  http://www.bedazzledink.com

  Dedicated to the Memory of my Mother,

  Elva Allison Switzer

  (1907 – 1977)

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I am most grateful to C. A. Casey, my editor at Bedazzled Ink Publishing, above all for believing in Emma’s story and taking a chance on an unknown, first-time novelist, but also for her thorough and thoughtful editing of the manuscript, polishing the writing and curbing my excesses.

  It is a pleasure to acknowledge the years of constructive criticism and encouragement I have received from the members of Champaign-Urbana’s distinguished Red Herring Fiction Writer’s Workshop, especially from its longtime leader, Elaine Fowler Palencia, who is the author of splendid prose and poetry and a gentle, but firm exponent of the craft of creative writing.

  I also gratefully acknowledge others who read the manuscript of The Lady Professor and offered both criticism and encouragement: Peter Beak, Chip Burkhardt, Bob and Judy Jones, and Clark McPhail. Two real-life lady professors, Susan Martinis, Professor of Biochemistry, and Brenda Wilson, Professor of Microbiology at the University of Illinois, Urbana-Champaign, shared their comments and insights on the manuscript. These reader friends contributed many improvements to the manuscript; the flaws that remain are my responsibility alone.

  Special thanks go to my life’s companion, my wife of many years, Bonnie George Switzer. The example of her self re-invention as a fine artist in midlife spurred me to strive to become a creative writer in the years after my retirement as a biochemistry researcher and educator. The Lady Professor is a novel about a life in science, but it is also, in part, a story of love and family. Most of what I know of love and family I learned with Bonnie; some of what I learned permeates this novel.

  CHAPTER 1

  1985

  HER GRANDMOTHER’S SUMMONS had come to Maria printed in an unfamiliar hand, not her usual neat graceful script, which had been always written in black ink with an old-fashioned fountain pen, the kind with a sharp metal nib and a little rubber bladder inside. She had dictated this note to her nurse; that fact alone was painful evidence of her advancing disease, of the urgency of her request:

  Dearest Maria,

  I hate to intrude on your medical training, which I know is most intense just now, but I beg you to come and see me while I am still able to talk to you. There are some things I must tell you, not least among them how much I treasure you. Please do not delay.

  Love, Grandma

  Maria managed to negotiate two days off and hurried to her grandmother’s home. She still had a front door key left from her younger days, so she let herself in and stood now in the big front room enveloped in a nostalgic fog of memories provoked by the odors and sight of the room.

  The rooms looked very much as they had during the years when she came here as a girl; they were furnished with dark Victorian furniture, heavy drapes pulled back, thick Persian carpets, and with light filtering in through the surrounding trees. A soft odor of furniture oil and old books permeated the air. Ranks of bookshelves lined the walls, every shelf packed with neat rows of books and unbound scientific journals. The many papers on her large desk lay in neat piles; a dust cover shrouded her old Underwood typewriter. Stacks of books, journals and unopened mail lay on the dusty dining room table. She must be no longer able to keep up with it; she would hate the disorder and neglect.

  Maria had only gradually come to realize what a remarkable woman her paternal grandmother was. Throughout her childhood years she had simply been her “Grandma”, though there had always been a special bond between them. She had loved visiting her in this old house at the edge of the campus with its upstairs rooms—her personal museum—full of taxidermically mounted animals and birds, carefully labeled specimen boxes with glass tops, bottles of pickled creatures—fish, amphibians, snakes—even ugly parasitic tapeworms, which she told Maria had been removed from the intestines of animals. She had been fascinated and frightened by a little yellowish near-term human fetus floating in formaldehyde; it was a little boy, his small, perfectly formed genitalia proved that; a purple umbilical cord dangled from his belly; his eyes were closed and his face was scrunched up in a worried expression. “He was stillborn,” Grandma explained matter-of-factly in response to her nervous questions, “That happens sometimes, but not often. Sometime I will show you the entire collection of preserved human fetuses at the Natural History Museum, so you can see all the steps by which a fertilized egg, called an ovum, develops from the earliest stages into a baby like this one. Come, I set up the microscope in the next room. I thought we would look at the slides of insect mouth parts today. We can see how they are adapted to the insect’s life habits.” Small and neat, gray hair clipped short, quick precise movements, intelligent dark blue eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses. Her gentle hand on Maria’s shoulder as she peered into the microscope as strong a declaration of love as any words.

  She was always keen to share her love of biology, eager to engage a willing student, even if—no, especially because—she was her granddaughter. During the many hours they had spent together, she had amused her, she had taught her, she had challenged her, and now she realized that she had molded her in her own image into the physician-scholar she was training to become. In high school and college, she became aware that her Grandma was also known as Dr. Emma Hansen, Professor of Biology at Harrington College, and that her life had followed an extraordinarily challenging path. The youngest daughter of a hardscrabble farm family, she had somehow managed to scratch out a college education and to become one of the first women to earn a Ph.D. in biology from Cornell University in the 1920s, a time when women were strongly discouraged or even banned from graduate study. She was the first female appointed to the science faculty at Harrington, a small liberal arts college, and in time became a respected biology teacher and established the only active scientific research program in the college until the appointment of younger faculty in the 1950s. At the time of her retirement in 1970 she had been universally regarded as the most eminent scientist in the college.

  A WHITE-CLAD nurse stepped soundlessly into the room, startled her from her reverie.

  “Oh, Dr. Bellafiori, you’re here. She will be so glad to see you. She has been somewhat agitated all day, knowing that you were coming.”

  “How is she?”

  “Not well, I’m afraid. Weaker and losing weight. She can still get to the bathroom with a walker, but I worry about her falling when I’m not here. She absolutely refuses to go to a nursing home. She needs to have around-the-clock care.”

  “Oh, my. She has always been so capable, so independent and dignified. She’s been a widow for decades, very self-sufficient. I can imagine how hard all this is for her to accept.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Is she in pain?”

  “Yes and it is getting worse. Metastatic to her bones, as I think you know. I’ve been giving her Percocet p.r.n.—as needed. And she is using quite a lot. Is there more you’d like me to do?”

  “Oh, no. You should follow her doctor’s orders. I’m just starting my residency.
It would be inappropriate for me to supervise her care. Just think of me as her granddaughter.”

  “Yes, well, please go in. I know she’s eager to see you.”

  “MARIA, OH, DEAR girl, come here.” A weakened, wavering voice, not as Maria remembered it.

  “Grandma!”

  Grandma was propped up in bed with pillows, emaciated and pale, but smiling. Maria embraced her carefully, as though the bones that she could feel so easily through her flannel nightgown might break—as indeed they could—and kissed her dry cheek. She tried to hide her shock at the deterioration in her health since she had last seen her.

  “I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to come to see you. The internship was just grueling. I couldn’t get away.”

  “Oh, I know. I’ve never understood why medical schools abuse interns the way they do. It’s just hazing, like in the military academies. Graduate schools are more humane, especially nowadays. And effective, I daresay. Is it better now that you are in your residency?” Her eyes drew her in with well-remembered intensity.

  “No, it’s just as bad. And with more responsibility. It took some pleading to get away.”

  “I’m sorry. I wouldn’t have asked you to come if it weren’t important.”

  “I know, Grandma.”

  “You must miss the research lab. Have you decided on a specialty?”

  “I’m pretty inclined toward oncology. I think there are going to be some exciting opportunities for research. New discoveries about oncogenes, genes that normally regulate cell growth but go haywire in cancer. They might be targets for new therapies.”

  “That’s wonderful, Maria. You really must choose an area where you can do research. Use that fine mind of yours.” Still encouraging, prodding, setting the bar as high as she could possibly reach.

  “But, Grandma, that’s enough about me. I came to see you. See how you’re doing. You sent for me.”

  She waved a skeletal hand dismissively. “Oh, that’s clear enough, isn’t it, dear girl. I suppose I am paying for all my exposure to x-rays back in the 30s and 40s. The cancer is quite advanced now. I intend to die soon.”

  “Oh, Grandma. Don’t talk that way.” She bit her lip. How could she be so matter of fact about it?

  “Now, hush. You know I’ve always tried to do things rationally. It’s time. My disease is progressing rapidly, and I will soon become incapacitated. Intolerably so. I’m eighty-five years old. I can no longer do useful work. I need to do this while I can still think clearly. And I need you to help me.” She broke off abruptly, closed her eyes, and gripped her blanket with her fists. Muscles tightened in her face.

  “Grandma, you’re in pain, aren’t you?”

  She did not speak, but nodded slightly.

  “Aren’t you taking your medication?”

  “Some.”

  “What do you mean, ‘some’?”

  “Maria, dear Maria, listen to me,” she said softly. “You are my favorite grandchild. They say you shouldn’t have favorites, but I’m sorry, I do. And it’s you.”

  Maria fought tears. “I know. I guess I’ve known that for a long time. I think my brothers knew it too, but . . . but, maybe it doesn’t matter now.”

  “Yes, it does. Because I want you to help me. ”

  Maria raised her hands to ward it off. “Grandma, I can’t—”

  “Oh,” she interrupted. “I won’t ask you to violate your medical ethics. Just tell me how much I need. The pain pills. I’ve been saving them, not taking them except when it gets really bad. I’ve hidden them away where she can’t find them. And I won’t tell you where they are either.”

  “Grandma, please . . .”

  “Now, Maria, listen to me.” Such strength, such determination. It had brought her this far, and it would take her the rest of the journey. “Listen now, my dear. You know how I hate messes. Hate being dependent. I’m going to do this anyway, so just help me to do it right. I’ve talked to my lawyer. Got my affairs in order.”

  “Shouldn’t we call Dad and Mom?”

  “No! Bring them all the way back from Africa? Spoil their holiday? No, wait until after. Your father is just like his father, dear Joe, so emotional, so passionate. No. I need calm now. No scenes. Peace.” Weak as her voice was, it was whip-taut with determination.

  The knot in Maria’s throat blocked a reply.

  “I just need two things from you,” Grandma said quietly.

  “Two things?”

  “Yes, now first, tell me how many of these pills will I need?”

  “Grandma . . .”

  “Maria!” The familiar tone when she disobeyed.

  “OK.” Maria sighed and picked up an empty vial from the dresser. Her grandmother weighed less than a hundred pounds now, perhaps only eighty-five to ninety. “These are 7.5 milligrams of oxycodone plus 325 of acetaminophen. I’d guess thirty at one time. Unless you’ve been taking them regularly and become habituated. Then it will take more. Forty, even fifty.” She broke off, choked back a sob and covered her face with her hands.

  Her grandmother stirred in the bed, groaned and with obvious effort leaned over to tug gently on Maria’s hands. She pulled them to her lips and kissed them.

  “I’m sorry to put you through this. Please try to think of it as an act of love. You’re the only one I can trust.”

  Maria couldn’t reply, but fished in her purse for a handkerchief and dabbed tears from her face.

  “There’s one more thing. Something else I need for you to do.”

  “What’s that?” She feared to ask, but knew there was little that she could refuse.

  “Look in the top left drawer of my dresser over there. There’s a key in the back behind my jewelry case. So-called jewelry.” She chuckled. “It’s all cheap costume stuff that I rarely wore. Find it? It’s a key to the metal file cabinet by my desk out in the living room. Unlock it and look for a thick, sealed manila envelope in the file called ‘Am. J. Genet.’ American Journal of Genetics. Top drawer. Bring it in here, please.”

  Maria went to the living room and fumbled with the key to the file cabinet. She was crying again, so she paused and took a few deep breaths to get herself under control. Grandma would want that. She found the file exactly as described. She returned to the bedroom. Her grandmother was lying back on the bed with her eyes closed, lips parted, exhausted by the effort of their conversation.

  “Remove the letter on top. The handwritten one from me. There’s a longer typewritten one under it,” she whispered. “Read it. Take your time. Read it carefully.”

  As Maria read, she became more agitated. Her pulse throbbed at her throat. “This is incredible. Grandma, I can’t believe this.”

  “Shh. Finish reading it. Then read my letter on top.”

  She completed reading; her hand trembled as it held the document. “You want me to send these letters to the editor of the American Journal of Genetics to be published? My God.”

  Her grandmother did not sit up, did not open her eyes. “Yes,” she said softly. “After I’m gone.”

  “It’ll cause a huge scandal. What if he refuses to publish it? He probably will.”

  “Tell him you’ll send it to the New York Times. And if he still refuses, do it.”

  “Oh, Grandma, why now? After all these years?”

  “This is not about settling scores, Maria. All the principals are dead now. Or soon will be. This is to set the historical record straight.”

  “What if they don’t believe you?”

  “Oh, the truth will get out. I trust the historians.”

  “You think they have more integrity than scientists?”

  “No. I just know academics. Careers are made by overturning the conventional wisdom, the established order of things.”

  CHAPTER 2

  1912

  THE SKIES DARKENED to a glowering blue-gray in mid-afternoon, and heavy wind-borne snow began falling soon after; slanting sheets of white obscured the pupils’ view of the surrounding fields. Miss Connor wa
s forced to light the kerosene lamps because the daylight from the tall schoolhouse windows became too dim. A cold draft chilled the older pupils, whose desks were ranked along the west wall nearest the windows and distant from the coal-burning stove in the center of the room, but Emma Hansen was warmly dressed and so absorbed in solving algebra problems that she didn’t notice the approaching snowstorm until an especially strong wind gust rattled the windows.

  It would be a cold walk home through snow-clotted roads; there would be no shortcut through corn stubble. She would much rather stay here in her favorite place, the Hamilton Grove School, warmly encouraged by Miss Connor, than trudge to the big old farmhouse where evening chores and an ill-tempered mother awaited her.

  Emma dwelt in two worlds, both situated in the undulating fields and woods of a northwestern Illinois farming community and peopled by second- and third-generation northern European immigrant families like the Hansens, but separated by a mile and a half: the world of the little one-room country school where she now sat, and the world of the farm where she lived with her parents and her siblings: three older and one younger. She much preferred the school. Although she was not yet thirteen, she was in the eighth grade because she had skipped third grade. If some of the sixth and seventh graders called her teacher’s pet, she didn’t mind, because it was true, but well deserved. Besides, the younger pupils adored “Miss Emma” because Miss Connor had deputized her to teach them reading and arithmetic; they flocked around her, competed to hold her hand. And—mirabili dictu—they learned as quickly under her guidance as they had from Miss Connor. Emma was the only eighth grader, so Miss Connor had designed a special program for her: algebra, Latin, English literature and grammar, geography and world history. It was not the standard eighth grade program prescribed by the county superintendent of schools, but his visits to the many rural schools in the county were so infrequent that he would never know.