"Actually, Howard, I’m the big-picture gal. I give the parties and raise the money. I can quote the case studies that will generate the most astonishment or turn on the tears, but I don’t really know a lot about the nuts and bolts."
She retrieves her coffee and relaxes back into the chair, wrapping both hands around the smooth mug.
"Albert was asking me earlier about how you and Michael started working together in the first place," Lily continues. "And I couldn’t answer him very well. Perhaps you could."
Howard’s small, sharp eyes snap with enthusiasm at this idea.
"We had been following Michael’s Alzheimer’s work since the early days, long before he became a media celebrity. Nesler had already achieved a modicum of success with a hypertension product as well as our cornerstone product, VeriLethic, which as you may know, is one of the top cardiac medications."
I nod. This was one of the few details I was able to find out about Nesler. It seemed to be their original claim to fame. After my impressive beta amyloid protein speech, this should cement my expertise as a medical writer.
"I covered VeriLethic for a couple of the trades when it came out in ’94," I say, uncrossing my legs and leaning forward. "It caused quite a sensation. One of the very first formulations targeted at the geriatric market."
Howard’s left eyebrow lifts, but he makes no other show of surprise.
"Yes. Yes it was. It’s still popular although some generics are out there now. It positioned us in the field of geriatric pharmacology, which is when we started watching Michael’s work. My first thought, foolish as it might have been, was to get him to come to work for us. But by the time we had our product to a point where we could approach him, he had become so well known and successful that he didn’t need to work for anyone. So, my next idea was to at least convince him to work with us."
"When did you start talking?" I ask.
"It must have been late ’99. Turn of the century and all. Everyone was aiming for something to bring out in the new millennium."
"And at that point, you’d already conducted your initial testing phase?"
"Of course. We’d never have gotten Michael to talk with us without those initial results.’
I needed to see those tests. I needed to understand what originally drew Michael’s attention. What had he seen in these people that was so astonishing? But both Howard and Lily believed I already knew everything about them. Maybe I could stir up Howard’s ego.
"You know," I say, drawing out my words so they sound heavy with importance. "I was just thinking. I only have Michael’s perspective on the initial testing. I’m wondering if you have another way of looking at it, something from the company’s view. Something that conveys your mission in developing the drug?"
Howard looks at me, but not with pride. His jaw clenches and his blue eyes go flat. It’s just an instant. He blinks, which seems to release his features, and his smile takes control again. A big, full smile with lots of teeth.
"I think that’s a fine idea," Howard says. "Unfortunately, I don’t have an official packet prepared you could take with you today, but I’d be happy to put together something that summarizes case histories and outlines the company’s objectives. I appreciate you providing us with a platform to tell our story."
"Michael was adamant this book be about his research, not just about him. More than anything, he wanted people to understand the real story."
"The real story? As opposed to what, Mr. Mackey?"
Howard’s big, toothy smile is gone again. So is some of the color in his face. His hands are flat down on his desk, as if he might push himself up and out of his chair at any moment.
"What it’s really like to suffer with Alzheimer’s," I answer, haltingly, questioningly. "What it’s really like to struggle to find a cure. Did I say something wrong, Howard? You look a little tense and you’re back to that Mr. Mackey stuff again."
Howard pulls his hands into his lap.
"My apologies. The media has descended upon us since Michael’s death. They want to know exactly when the next round of clinical testing starts, when the new lab will be up and running, when the drug will be ready for final FDA approval. I’ve been unable to give them definitive answers so now they’re insinuating I’m evading the questions, that perhaps the whole release is completely off track. No offense to you, Albert, but reporters can be very trying."
"It’s what we do best."
"I’ve had half a dozen calls just today, including the one that interrupted our tour. When they can’t get any information out of me, they start calling our board members and then the investors in the lab expansion. As you can imagine, these people do not want to be bothered. I get the calls explaining exactly how much they do not want to be bothered ever again."
"It’s true," Lily interrupts. "I’ve had to deal with some of it myself. Sometimes I get the feeling the media is just waiting for us to fall. Like they want the house that Michael built to collapse."
"The bigger they are?" I suggest.
"The harder they fall," Lily agrees. "Everyone loved Michael, but people still seem to get a weird satisfaction out of watching famous people fail. It’s the ultimate, ‘I told you so.’"
"Please, Albert," Howard says, standing up and extending his hand. "Please accept my apologies for jumping to conclusions. It’s been a bad day, but that’s no reason for me to lose my temper. I’m very grateful you’re telling the story. The real story."
I stand to shake Howard’s hand and take this as the signal that our meeting is over. Lily is standing too and Howard comes around the desk to give her the obligatory two-handed clasp. Personal yet businesslike. They walk toward the door discussing lab construction issues. As I step around my chair to follow, my coat brushes a napkin from the coffee service onto the floor. I bend to pick it up and drop it into the nearby wastebasket. As I do, I notice a discarded paper resting at the bottom. It looks like an Internet search results page, "Medical Writers or Technical Writers - Freelance" is the page heading.
"Albert," Lily calls from the doorway. "Howard says he can have that report ready for you in a couple of days. I told him to have it sent over to your condo. Is that okay?"
I look up from the wastebasket, wad the napkin and drop it in.
"That would be great," I answer, hurrying over to meet them. As I reach the doorway, I see Gavin coming down the hallway.
"Gavin will see you out. These old buildings are a bit of a rat’s maze. I hope we’ll hear from you again soon, Albert."
"I’m sure I’ll have more questions."
"If you need anything, just call. I’d welcome a friendly phone call."
Howard is smiling again. His teeth are very white and very straight. Everything about him is straight. I bet he’s not even rumpled when he gets out of bed in the morning.
"I’ll do it. And those reporters who are bothering you? Tell them ‘no comment.’ We hate it when people do that."
SIX
It’s getting harder to make it out of the office early. Yesterday, just as I was putting on my coat to leave, Dennis came in with some statistical report he felt the need to share with me, for about an hour. Then today was Ernie Johnson’s birthday. There was a card going around and cake in the lunchroom. Ernie’s a nice enough guy. I think he might have been kind of popular when he was young, maybe a football star or something. He still acts as if the world is his locker room. There’s a lot of slapping on the hand, the back, even the butt if he’s particularly jovial. He likes to tell bad jokes really loud, which he must believe get funnier with age because he’ll tell you the same damn joke ten times unless you stop him. There’s a collection of baseball caps lining the top of his cubicle, most with team or beer logos but some with funny sayings. My favorite is, "If I throw a stick, will you leave?"
I sneak down the stairwell and out through the maintenance offices. This forces me to walk two blocks around the building to get to my car, but does save me from singing Happy Birthday to a grown man
in a brown suit and Snoopy tie.
As if that wasn’t bad enough, I also had to turn down another house-sitting client. Rita McElvoy in accounts payable is going to Hawaii with her family. I house-sat for them last year when they went to Disney World. She was counting on me, she said. She never thought I’d be busy. Well, think again Rita. Charlie’s made plans and they don’t include you. Of course, I didn’t say that. I just told her I was already sitting for someone else. And then I apologized again and again and again. She still looked like she was going to cry.
Working two jobs like this is going to kill me. If I don’t make some serious headway on the Klein case, Dennis is going to get suspicious. But Lily has the rest of this week and the next planned out, and she is paying me too. That’s a flimsy excuse. I’d work for Lily for free. Hell, I’d pay her to let me hang around.
Howard’s report is leaning against my front door when I get home for lunch. It’s not as big an envelope as I’d expected. Must be the CliffsNotes version. I pick it up and unlock the door. The message light on my phone machine is blinking as I walk into the kitchen. Lily was appalled I didn’t have a cell phone and insisted I at least get an answering machine. Fine with me. Seeing how Albert Mackey doesn’t have any friends or relations, the only person ever on my answering machine is Lily. I punch the message button.
"Albert, it’s Lily."
What did I tell you?
"Did you get the report Howard promised? Let me know what you think as soon as you read through it. I’ll be at the lab construction site this morning. The local press is getting a walk-through of the progress and guess who’s the tour guide? Hey, maybe you should come with me and coach me on my ‘no comments.’"
She laughs and even on the tinny phone recording it sounds lovely.
"I’ll call as soon as I’m done and shoot over there to meet you. We can discuss how you want to use the new information. See you then."
Click. Beep.
"Hello, Albert, Howard Stanich here. Just confirming the papers were delivered safely. Please call me at your convenience."
Howard has my phone number?
Click. Beep.
"Hi, it’s Lily again. It’s a little after noon. I’m on my way. Hope you’re home when I get there."
Click. Beep.
I look at my watch. 12:20. I must have just missed Lily’s last call. She’ll probably be here any minute. The place isn’t too messy, just a comfortable, lived in look. But this outfit has got to go. Something tells me most writers don’t conduct research in a suit and tie. I undress while running down the hallway, a skill I perfected in my teenage years that allowed for an extra six minutes of sleep before school.
I’m pulling a sweatshirt over my head when the door bell rings. No time for shoes.
"I am starved," Lily says, striding in and dropping a large, suede shoulder bag on the couch. "And my feet hurt. I think I walked ten miles with those reporters."
She looks very much the society maven in a navy suit with red trim. Her hair is swept up and clipped with a gold and pearl comb. Clusters of red and white stones glitter on each ear. I’m sure they’re real rubies and diamonds. She glances at my feet.
"Hey, no fair, you’re not wearing any shoes."
She pulls off her navy blue heels and deposits them in the leather bag on the couch.
"Much better."
"How’d it go?" I ask.
"Fine," she says, dropping into a chair at the dining room table. "They ask the same questions every time. How will Michael’s death affect the opening of the new laboratories? What’s happening with the research now that’s Michael’s gone? Who will be taking over Michael’s work? It’s exhausting."
"Did you try ‘no comment’?"
She smiles and smoothes a few stray hairs back into place.
"Actually, I forgot. I did try to get them to concentrate on the construction. The project manager was there with me, but I don’t think he said more than two words."
"He’s probably not as good looking as you."
I regret this statement as soon as it leaves my mouth. I’ve been fantasizing about Lily from almost the first moment I saw her, but I never planned on admitting it.
I suck back in a gulp of air, as if I can suck the words back in with it. Two thin vertical lines form on Lily’s brow. She sits straighter in the chair. And then she smiles. I’ve seen that smile before. It’s a noxious mixture of sadness, kindness and pity. Women use this smile when they’re trying to explain a complicated concept to a small child or when they are about to tell a man he is a pathetic oaf.
"I’m sorry," I, the oaf, interrupt. "That didn’t come out right. In fact, it sounded down right idiotic. Let’s pretend it never happened. Let’s pretend instead I said, ‘Gee, Lily, I’m sorry you had such a crappy morning. Let’s go grab a sandwich and talk about Howard’s report.’"
Her eyes register some relief, but the worry is still there in her smile.
"Okay," she says. "I am pretty hungry."
"Lily, please don’t take what I said the wrong way. It was just a compliment. I’m not going to hit on you. I would never dream of it. Michael was my friend."
I know I’m rambling, but I can’t stop. I want to fill the silence with something until she stops looking at me like that.
"I have way too much respect for you, and if anything I do ever makes you uncomfortable . . . "
"Albert," Lily says, interrupting my scramble for dignity. "It’s okay. I believe you. Besides, if you keep going, you’ll probably tell me I’m really quite unattractive, and then I’ll be offended and you’ll have to start apologizing all over again."
She smiles and amusement shines through this time.
"Thank you," I say. "I promise not to say anything stupid for the rest of the day. And, I’m buying lunch. Deal?"
"Deal."
Sandwich King is just a few blocks from the hospital. In a world of cookie-cutter fast food joints, it’s a welcome beacon of individuality. The place must have originally been retail, because there’s a huge plate-glass display window along the front. The Sandwich King folks added red gingham half curtains along the bottom and bright blue shutters across the top, then they painted the building itself neon yellow with orange dinner plate-sized polka dots. The land of Sandwich is a colorful place. There are actually two Sandwich Kings, this one and one downtown by the high school, but this is the original location. I’ve always liked their logo, which is painted almost life size on the door. It’s a tubby, smiling monarch, but rather than the traditional robe, scepter and crown, the Sandwich King sports a bejeweled apron, a spatula held aloft and a bacon, lettuce and tomato club perched jauntily on one side of his cartoon head. My liege.
There are several people in green scrubs at the small tables. One of them, a short, beefy man with thick gray hair and one continuous eyebrow, calls over to Lily as we walk toward the counter.
"Hello, Grayson," Lily says, crossing to the man and taking his outstretched hands in hers. "I’m surprised to see you taking a break."
"Lily," he says. "How are you doing?"
"As well as can be expected, I guess. Each day is a tiny bit better than the last." She gestures in my direction. "Grayson O’Donnell, this is Albert Mackey. He’s the man working on Michael’s biography."
The man turns and extends both his hands to me. I guess he’s not a one-hand-shaker kind of guy. I bring up both my hands and he immediately grabs them, squeezing tightly and hanging on.
"You’re the one who spoke at Michael’s service. Incredible story, just incredible."
With each adjective, he gives my hands another squeeze to emphasize his point.
"In case you haven’t guessed by the fetching green outfit, Grayson’s a surgeon. He worked with Michael at the hospital," Lily says. "He’s one of the best vascular guys in the business."
Grayson, apparently distracted by Lily’s compliment, drops my hands and turns back to her. She tilts her head to one side and smiles at him. Mutual admiration socie
ty; but then, who wouldn’t love and admire Lily? How could you not?
"You have always been one of my biggest fans, and believe me, I am quite grateful for the attention. But seriously, dear, is there anything at all I can do for you? Anything? Because you know Sarah and I would be happy to help in any way we can."
"I’m fine, really. I’ve been keeping so busy I’ve barely had time to think, which is probably a good thing."
"If you ever need to talk, you call me. Promise?
"Promise."
"That’s my girl. Now, go get some lunch. The ham and cheese hero is the special today and I can personally vouch for its quality."
"Thank you, Grayson."
"Pleased to meet you, Dr. O’Donnell," I say.
He nods and sits back down to his own lunch.
"He’s got an awful lot of energy," I whisper to Lily as we cross to the counter.
"Grayson? He’s a delight. He probably just got through with a surgery. Michael used to be the same way. He’d be exhausted, but if things had gone well, he’d also be as hyperactive as a two-year old."
We stand and look up at the menu on the wall. A bored teenager with a nose ring and too much eye makeup waits for our decision.
"Based on Dr. O’Donnell’s four-star review, I’m going for the ham and cheese," I say.
"Sounds good," says Lily.
"Two ham and cheese specials," I say to the teen.
"You want the Royal Sauce on the sandwich or on the side?" the teen asks, twirling a pen between two blue fingernails.
"Royal Sauce?"
"It’s Sandwich King’s secret sauce. Some people like it on their sandwich and some people want it on the side."
"So many options. I’ll take it on the sandwich."
"Put mine on the side," Lily says, leaning around me and smiling at the clerk.
"For here or to go?"
"For here," I answer, pulling out my wallet.
"That’ll be $11.90. Here’s your cups. The beverage bar is over there. Thank you for choosing Sandwich King and have a nice day."
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