A Fierce Radiance

by Lauren Belfer

  Resisting him, she firmly turned right and began walking the few blocks to Seventh Avenue. Her house was at the western end of Grove Street, where it gently curved toward Hudson Street. The Village streets, laid out on pathways among farms and along meandering streams, intersected at odd angles and sometimes turned back on themselves. West Fourth Street intersected with West Tenth, West Eleventh, and West Twelfth. Charlie and his friends loved to meet at the corner where Waverly Place met Waverly Place. Another favorite was the junction of Minetta Street and Minetta Lane, two small thoroughfares that looked identical. What made one a street and one a lane? This was a continual source of debate for Charlie and his friends. Grove Street, with its trees and hundred-year-old town houses, with its hidden courtyard entered through a narrow gate, was among the loveliest in the neighborhood. Even so, Claire’s house wasn’t especially desirable, too close to the bars and waterfront commerce of Hudson Street.

  In the nineteenth century, the Village had been affluent and elegant, but for decades now, immigrants and youthful newcomers to the city had gravitated in the Village to take advantage of the inexpensive rents. Radicals of one sort or another had settled here for generations. The neighborhood boasted a gritty avant-garde culture that was separate from Claire’s sedate way of life. It was a culture of late-night, boozy parties and impromptu jazz concerts, art openings, shoestring theatrical productions, and political zeal. The Republic of Bohemia, tourists sometimes called the Village, coming here to search for the artists of every stripe (many of them artistes, in Claire’s opinion) presumed to be holding court at every corner.

  Claire’s mother had been in the thick of the radical movements of the teens and twenties. She was friends with Mabel Dodge, Jack Reed, Louise Bryant. She was a patron of the Provincetown Playhouse. The playwright Eugene O’Neill had once come to dinner.

  One family, with three generations in the Village: Anna, the radical sympathizer and activist, part of the seething cultural ferment of her time. Claire, the bourgeois seeking a staid and conservative life with her children. And Charlie…he knew nothing of radicalism. For him the Village was a place from fairy tales. He loved to search the streets for the narrow alleyways, the width and height of a horse, that led into hidden gardens with small houses and old stables. He loved Grove Court, to him a secret street behind his street. He liked to take friends to Charles Street, between Perry and West Tenth, and to the restaurant that shared his name. The Charles restaurant, at Sixth Avenue and Eleventh Street, was too expensive for a family dinner and anyway served French food, which Charlie didn’t care for, but nonetheless, seeing his name on street signs and restaurant windows added to his sense of enchantment.

  As Claire passed the cast-iron gates and small front gardens of her neighbors, she noticed that the street was surprisingly quiet. The sweet scent of wood burning in fireplaces filled the air. She felt close-knit into the fabric of the neighborhood. And she felt a sudden, surging happiness, that she was lucky to be here, alive, at this moment, on her way to pick up her smart, healthy son, with a steady job that she loved waiting for her on Monday, and an actual dinner date, not simply a quick mutual seduction, in the days ahead.

  On Seventh Avenue, across from the subway station, stands of Christmas trees gave off the aching, memory-laden fragrance of pine and balsam. On Christmas Eve morning, Claire and Charlie would choose their tree. As always, they’d search for a Douglas fir. Claire loved its silky needles and deep scent. Artie, the handyman who worked at the tenement down the block and did small projects at Claire’s house for extra cash, would help them carry the tree home and set it up in the living room. These were the comforting rituals of years. After dinner, Claire and Charlie would pull out the box of decorations kept in the closet under the stairs. Claire’s favorites were the collection of iridescent ornaments given to her by her grandparents. Charlie had a collection of carefully detailed ships inside glass globes. Charlie loved Christmas Eve, and Emily…at three years old, bursting with energy, Emily had spent her final Christmas Eve running around the sofa chasing Hughie, Lucas’s predecessor.

  Claire went down the stairs to the subway. She changed trains twice to travel uptown to her father’s. After a lifetime of subway riding, she made the transfers almost without conscious thought. Her mind wandered back to James Stanton, to the flick of his lab coat behind him as he walked, to the magnetic presence of his body near her as she looked into the microscope. She imagined herself unbuttoning his shirt, placing her hands upon his chest, feeling their bare skin touching, their bodies entwined.

  Long-distance phone call for you, Dr. Stanton,” said Nurse Brockett, coming into the hospital ward. It was midafternoon on a typically busy Saturday. The ward faced the Institute gardens, dusted with snow. “The switchboard can put it through wherever you like.”

  Phone call? Long-distance? Whatever it was, it could wait until he finished with this patient. “Thank you.” He wasn’t going to interrupt his work for a telephone call. Stanton sat at the bedside of Gino Puccio, fifty-one years old. He examined the festering wound in Mr. Puccio’s calf. The wound wasn’t life-threatening, so the radical step of amputation was certainly not called for, but the wound refused to heal.

  This ward had three patients being treated for inflamed, suppurating skin infections. The wounds were extremely painful, although contained, somehow cordoned off within the body. None had sparked blood infections, so the body was fighting back. How? Why did one person die within days from a seemingly trivial abrasion, while another fought back for months or years? Stanton didn’t know.

  He was experimenting with gauze bandages soaked in a diluted penicillin solution. For topical application, on the surface of the skin, much less penicillin was needed than for injections. Even so, three patients were the most he could manage. He’d told several doctors at area hospitals about the experiment, and these three patients had been referred to him. Although they weren’t bedridden, they were staying here at the Institute for two weeks to receive the treatment in a controlled environment, with the Institute paying their salaries and a stipend. That, Stanton reflected, was what it meant to say that the Institute was funded in full by the Rockefeller family.

  The patients had been in residence for four days, with little progress. Mr. Puccio, a butcher, weighed upward of two hundred pounds. His calf had been sliced open in a freak accident at work, and the wound had become infected about a week later. After three months, despite debridement, the removal of damaged tissue, his infection still hadn’t resolved. The wound was six inches long, raw, swollen, and oozing. Stanton used a pocket flashlight to examine it closely.

  “Hurts a little less today, Doc,” Mr. Puccio said. “I think it’s getting better. Hasn’t throbbed since last night.”

  “That’s good,” Stanton said. “It looks maybe three percent better.” He felt frustrated by the slow progress.

  “I don’t care how it looks, I just want it to stop hurting.”

  “Then I’m glad for you,” Stanton said. “What time is your daughter bringing her fiancé?” He’d already met Mr. Puccio’s wife and three daughters.

  Mr. Puccio shrugged dramatically. “Five-thirty. But like I told you before, I don’t like him.”

  “You haven’t even met him,” said Mr. Kutner on the far side of the room. Bandages were wrapped around his head and covered his left eye. Mr. Kutner was a retired sewing machine operator in the garment district. Four weeks earlier, he’d taken a tumble on the subway stairs and gotten a bad scrape on the brow, along with a lot of bruises. The bruises had healed, but the scrape had turned into an ugly abscess. Kutner was seventy-six, which didn’t stop his ward-mates from speculating that he’d been drunk at the time of the tumble. Initially Mr. Kutner was irate about the teasing, but recently he’d begun giving back as good as he got.

  “That’s the point,” said Mr. Puccio. “What kind of guy can he be, if the first time you meet him is when he’s already engaged to your daughter? Aren’t you supposed to meet him befor
e the engagement?”

  “Maybe he was afraid you’d take a butcher knife to him,” said Mr. Kutner. “Meeting here at the hospital, at least he’s safe.”

  “No guarantees,” Mr. Puccio said. “I still got a lot of fight in me, with or without a knife. Hey, Doc, don’t you wonder who’s calling you long-distance? Could be something serious.” The words long-distance often evoked an edge of anxiety.

  “Everybody I care about is either in New York or dead, so what the hell.” Nonetheless Stanton was touched by the concern. “Can’t be too important.” He placed several sheets of gauze freshly soaked in penicillin solution upon Mr. Puccio’s wound.

  “You take the call before you get to me,” said Mr. Dunleavy, whose turn was next. He was a longshoreman, thirty-one years old, physically fit, with a deep gash on the left shoulder. He’d been injured six weeks before. “I want your complete attention.”

  “Since it’s the only attention he’s getting these days,” said Mr. Kutner. “His wife hasn’t been here in forty-eight hours and counting.”

  Nurse Brockett said, “Let me finish up with Mr. Puccio, Doctor. I can do the bandaging.”

  “She does better bandaging than you anyway,” said Mr. Dunleavy.

  “Thank you for the compliment,” Stanton said, getting up. He gave the tray of supplies to Nurse Brockett. Exiting the ward to the voices of his patients teasing Nurse Brockett, he walked down the hall to the semiprivate office behind the nurses’ station and called the switchboard. “Dr. Stanton here. I understand you’ve got a long-distance call for me.”

  “Hold on, Doctor, I’ll connect you,” the operator said. “The call is from Washington, D.C.”

  While he listened to the static and clicks on the line, he looked out the window at the river. Two dozen police boats and Coast Guard vessels were massed together in some kind of exercise or patrol. The boats were too well ordered to be responding to an actual emergency. He stretched his back and neck. Oh, boy, he was tired. As usual. Later, he had a meeting scheduled with his sister and David Hoskins. He needed to increase the dose of penicillin in the solution he was using for the current research. Edward Reese came into his mind. He’d written a condolence note to Patsy Reese and received a very kind reply, thanking him for his efforts on her husband’s behalf. They’d been so close to saving him. If only, what if…so many unanswerable questions.

  “Is it Dr. Stanton?” a woman’s voice asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Please hold for Dr. Bush.”

  Dr. Bush—who was that? The Washington operator was off the line before he could ask for details. Although Stanton was frequently asked to consult on cases, he didn’t recall a Dr. Bush working in infectious diseases in Washington.

  “Stanton!” A hale-and-hearty male voice.

  “Yes.”

  “Vannevar Bush here.”

  Now he remembered. Vannevar Bush was the head of the government’s Office of Scientific Research and Development. He was a Ph.D., not a medical doctor. This call, unexpected, made Stanton wary.

  “I’ve got some news for you. I’ve decided to do something for our troops.” Bush’s tone was strangely glib. “I’m starting a program to supply the entire military with penicillin within the next year or two. Got millions of dollars budgeted for it. Top priority on supplies. Researchers lined up around the country, ready to get to work on mass production. What do you think of that?”

  Why should Vannevar Bush care what I think? Stanton wondered. But apparently he did, or he wouldn’t be asking. “It’ll never work. Penicillin’s not ready. It may never be ready. We’re producing it in milk bottles and bedpans. So far its greatest success is in treating mice. Don’t go forward, that’s my advice.”

  Bush laughed. “Good answer. I appreciate honesty—bear that in mind down the road, Dr. Stanton. I need somebody to be the national coordinator of scientific research. Keep the milk bottles full and stop the pharmaceutical companies from killing one another on the road to mass production.”

  Bush wanted his advice on personnel? “Even though you’re making a mistake, I’ll try to think of somebody and phone you back.”

  Raucous laughter. Stanton wasn’t happy about the amusement he seemed to be providing Vannevar Bush. “The person I’m thinking of is you. I already spoke to Dr. Rivers. Looks like you’re a perfect fit. You’re not beholden to anyone—especially not to the commercial companies. You’re in the research trenches already. Your work at the Institute flows right into the government’s work. Come to Washington on Monday and we’ll discuss it.”

  Stanton couldn’t keep up with this. Was Bush offering him a job, or was he calling him for an interview? What exactly was the job? Did he want it? He tried to delay, to give his thoughts a chance to catch up. “I’m in the middle of a project here. Monday doesn’t work for me.”

  “Turn the project over to one of your assistants.”

  Okay, Dr. Lind was already involved, Stanton thought. Lind could take over.

  “By the way,” Bush continued, “the interview is pro forma. Unless we turn up something in the security check, the job is yours.”

  What had Bush called the job? Scientific coordinator? That sounded bureaucratic. Stanton didn’t want to be a cog in a bureaucracy. “Why me?”

  “Any reason to say not you? You’re not a Communist, are you? A sympathizer, fellow traveler, hanger-on?”

  Now Stanton laughed. Imagining himself involved with politics was ludicrous. He was lucky if he found time even to vote. “None of the above. But I am in the middle of a penicillin project here.”

  Bush lost patience with him. “Your project is now officially my project. Anything to do with penicillin is under my jurisdiction. Part of the cause. There’s a war on, as you possibly recall. Penicillin’s going to be a weapon in this war. Get our wounded and sick troops back in the field while the other guy’s troops are still sick or better yet dying in the hospital. I’m calling you up for active duty in the navy starting today. Consider yourself to be following orders.”

  Stanton said nothing for a moment, then, “Why are you doing this? Penicillin’s never even saved a life.”

  “Sulfa drugs have too many problems, they’re too limited,” Bush said dismissively. “My docs tell me penicillin’s the best we’ve got. So let’s make the most of it. Now then, my girl will get on the line and give you the details, train, hotel, expense account. I’ll see you at 10:00 AM on Monday at my office. Welcome aboard!” He finished with the same flourish he’d begun.

  Stanton took notes from the girl, who gave her name as Tracey. After hanging up, he stared out the window, although he no longer noticed the police and Coast Guard patrols. What had Bush called penicillin? A “weapon of war”? Well, Stanton supposed it was a weapon of war. In the Civil War, 50 percent of the wounded died from infections. In the Great War, 30 percent. Venereal disease was rampant in the military during any war. Streptococcal infections spread like wildfire when thousands of men were transported on troop ships. Theoretically, penicillin worked against gangrene, syphilis, meningitis, pneumonia, blood infections, scarlet fever, and more. These diseases were caused by the so-called gram-positive bacteria, which stained violet or blue in the standard test. The hypothesis was that penicillin worked against all gram-positive bacteria, but no one knew for certain. The necessary clinical tests hadn’t been conducted. The supply of the drug was too small for large-scale testing.

  But if Bush’s project succeeded and penicillin was indeed mass produced? Presumably the medication would be available for civilians, too—and that would mean a world transformed. No more hospital wards filled with victims of chronic, suppurating infections. No more thirty-seven-year-old men, and three-year-old girls, dying from scratches on the knee.

  Stanton rubbed his neck. He was sweating. Bush’s goal was intimidating and inspiring both. If it succeeded, being part of it would be the accomplishment of a lifetime. And yet…being drawn into the military, governed by military regulations. This was hard to fathom
. Called to active duty. Following orders.

  Without preamble, he’d been pulled into the war.

  When Claire came out of the subway at Lexington and Seventy-seventh Street, she was forced to stop daydreaming and pay attention to her surroundings. On the Upper East Side, she felt as if she were in a different country. Her father’s country. Here, the shop windows and apartment entryways gleamed with ostentatious cleanliness. The Christmas trees in the regimented stands along Lexington Avenue cost twice as much as those downtown. As if passing judgment on each passerby, the strictly uniformed doormen regarded the street severely. Even the newsboys, shouting reports of Japanese triumphs far away, looked better groomed than those in the Village. The standardized buildings cut and recut the sky, as if forcing it into the city’s Uptown grid. Christmas shoppers bedecked in mink coats streamed around one another in a graceful dance. As Claire crossed Park Avenue, the wind blew hard against her, the monolithic wall of apartment buildings transforming the street into a wind tunnel.

  Claire shivered. She crossed her arms, making herself into a fortress against the wind. By the time she reached her father’s building at Fifth Avenue and Eighty-first Street, across from the Metropolitan Museum, she felt numb from the cold. The building was renowned for its monumental entryway, a glass and steel marquee that made anyone who walked beneath it look and feel small.

  “Good afternoon, ma’am,” the white-gloved doorman greeted her. He called upstairs on the house phone to announce her. His similarly white-gloved colleague operated the elevator and nodded at her with detached formality. Charlie knew their names, knew the names of everyone who worked here. He had serious discussions with them about topics of concern to him alone, such as the relative speeds of the passenger elevator upon ascent and descent. He used his grandfather’s stopwatch to make the comparison.