“And you must be Linda Cunningham,” I said. “Dr. Draper’s assistant.”
“Right on!” she cried, slapping the envelope into my hand. “And here’s your report. Now you tell Kenneth you got it, y’hear? He was so nervous!”
“I’ll tell him,” I promised. “But what if I have questions about it? Who do I contact?”
“Me,” she said, giggling. “My name, address, and phone number are on the report.”
“Super,” I said, getting high on her breath. “You may be hearing from me.”
“Super,” she said, still giggling.
I folded the heavy envelope lengthwise and jammed it into my jacket pocket. I was prepared to talk nonsense to her a little longer, just to hear her giggle, but a long drink of water in a lab coat dragged her away. I looked around the crowded room. Most of the guests were straggling into the dining room where I could see a table laid with cold meats, potato salad, dishes of this and that. I saw Thorndecker talking to the Reverend Koukla. I turned back to Constable Goodfellow, but he was gone.
“Hello, Mr. Todd,” Edward Thorndecker said in his half-lisp. “Going to get something to eat?”
“Soon,” I said. “How are you, Edward?”
“Okay, sir,” he said politely. “I wanted to get Julie a plate. Have you seen her?”
“Not recently.” I said.
“She’s around here somewhere,” he said fretfully, his beautiful eyes anxious. “I saw her, and then she just disappeared.”
“You’ll find her,” I said.
He moved away without replying. I watched the mob at the buffet, and decided I wasn’t all that hungry. I wandered out onto the porch to smoke a cigarette. The tobacco kind. But a flock of chattering guests came after me, juggling filled paper plates and plastic cups of coffee. I didn’t want noisy company; I wanted quiet, solitude, and the chance to sort things out.
I stepped down from the porch. Cigarette in my lips, hands jammed into pockets, shoulders hunched against the cold, I sauntered slowly down the deserted street.
What happened next was a scene from an Italian movie: as wildly improbable.
There were street lights on both corners: orange globes with dim and flickering halos. But mid-block, sidewalks and street were shadowed, black as sin and not half as inviting. I was moving toward my parked Grand Prix. Across the street I could see, dimly, the official cruiser of Constable Ronnie Goodfellow. In 1976, it had been painted in a gaudy Bicentennial design. Now the bold stars were faded, the brave stripes mud-encrusted and indistinct.
It seemed to me, as I glanced at the cruiser, that slender white arms were beckoning me from the back seat. I spat out my cigarette, ground it out quickly. I slipped farther back into the gloom, behind a tree. I waited until my eyes became accustomed to the dark. I peered cautiously around. I saw …
Not slender white arms, but bare feet, ankles, calves. The window frame cut off the legs at mid-thigh. A woman’s legs, waving in the air as languidly as a butterfly’s wings. A slave bracelet glinted about one ankle. I watched without shame. I could make out a man’s shirted back bent between those stroking legs. The image, in that somber light, had the eerie and stirring quality of a remembered dream.
I glanced back toward Koukla’s house. I saw the lights, the guests on the porch. I heard faintly the tinkle of talk and laughter. But the two in the car were oblivious to everything but their own need. The broad back rose and fell, faster and faster. The slender white legs stretched and flexed in response.
I caught something in peripheral vision: the brief flare of a lighted match. I turned slowly …
I was not the only silent stalker, the only bemused witness. Halfway between me and the lighted Koukla home, Dr. Telford Gordon Thorndecker stood back from the sidewalk, observing the scene in the cruiser, quiet and contemplative while his wife was being done. There was no mistaking his massive frame, his leonine head. He smoked his cigarette with care and deliberation. Nothing in his manner or posture showed anger or defeat. Resignation, possibly.
Then I moved, as silently and stealthily as I could. I slid down the row of trees to my car. I unlocked the door, pulled it quietly shut behind me. I started the engine, but didn’t turn on the lights. I backed up to the corner, so I wouldn’t have to pass that busy official cruiser of the Coburn constabulary.
On my way back to the Inn, I did not reflect on Thorndecker’s hurt or on the lovers’ scorn. All I could think was that if they had dared it, in such a place, at such a time, then they knew he was aware. And his knowledge had no significance for them. They just didn’t care.
And if he knew, and they didn’t care, then why was Ernie Scoggins snuffed? My beautiful scenario evaporated.
It was not until I had parked in the lot of the Coburn Inn, and was stumbling across Main Street to Sandy’s Liquors and Fine Wines, that the squalidness of the scene I had just witnessed bludgeoned me. I saw again that calm, silent husband watching his wife getting it off with a man half his age. I saw again the frantically pounding back, the jerking, naked legs.
Did he love her that much? Did they both love her that much?
I wanted to weep. For their misery and doomed hopes. For the splintered dreams of all of us.
I had no desire for food, wasn’t sure I ever wanted to eat again. But I did want to numb my dread. I drank warm vodka from a bathroom glass caked with Pepsodent around the rim.
I sat in one of the gimpy armchairs, pulled a spindle lamp close. I began going through the report Linda Cunningham had delivered. I think I mentioned that I’ve had no formal education or training in science, so most of the research papers meant little to me. But I could grasp, hazily, the conclusions.
They weren’t very startling, because I had read much the same in the preliminary investigation of Dr. Thorndecker’s work by Scientific Research Records for the Bingham Foundation. It had been found that normal human body cells reproduced (doubled) a finite number of times in vitro. There seemed to be a significant correlation between the number of doublings and the age of the donor.
When normal human embryo cells were nurtured and reproduced in vitro, about fifty doublings could be expected. As donor age increased, the number of doublings decreased. The normal cultured cells did not die, exactly, but after each doubling became less differentiated and simpler, until they bore little resemblance to the original normal cells.
All this argued forcibly, as Dr. Thorndecker had said, for a “cellular clock,” an X Factor that determined how long a normal human cell remained viable. When I read the reports on reproduction in vitro of normal mammalian cells other than human, the same apparently held true. So, obviously, each species had a built-in lifespan that was reflected in the lifespan of each body cell of which it was composed. When the cells completed their allotted number of doublings and died, the organism died.
“I’ll drink to that,” I said aloud, and took another hefty belt of Pepsodent-flavored vodka.
One thing bothered me here. It concerned a paper on original research done by the Crittenden lab on the morphology of normal chimpanzee body cells. The conclusions were consistent with the research on normal body cells of other species.
But there was nothing in the report concerning the testing of an experimental cancer drug on chimps. Yet I had seen that young, comatose specimen in the basement of the Crittenden Research Laboratory. He had been a mass of putrescent, cancerous tumors, and Dr. Draper had stated that the animal had been deliberately infected, then treated, and the experimental drug had failed.
There was nothing of this in the report I received. But after thinking about it awhile, I could understand why it might not be mentioned. The lab was undoubtedly engaged in several research projects. One of them might be the development of drugs efficacious against sarcomas and carcinomas. But information on this project was not included in the report prepared for me simply because it was extraneous. It had nothing to do with Dr. Thorndecker’s application for funds to investigate the cause of aging. It had nothing
to do with my inquiry.
That made sense, I told myself.
Finally, the report tossed aside, vodka in the bottle getting down to the panic level, I closed my eyes, stretched out my legs, and tried to determine exactly what it was in that report that was nagging at me. There was a question I wanted answered, and for the life of me I couldn’t determine what it was.
Sighing, I picked up the report and skimmed it through again. It told me nothing more, but the feeling persisted that I was missing something. It was something that wasn’t stated in the report, but was implied.
I gave up. I capped the vodka bottle. I went into the bathroom. I peed. I washed hands and face in cold water. I combed my hair. I slapped cologne on my jaw. I decided to go down to the bar. Maybe Millie Goodfellow was lounging about, and I could buy her a drink. After all, it was only what any other normal, red-blooded American boy would—
I stopped. “Normal, red-blooded American boy.” The key word was “normal.” I rushed back to the living room. I grabbed up the research report from the floor. I flipped through it wildly.
It was as I remembered. Now I remembered. It was all about normal body cells, normal mammalian cells, normal human embryo cells, normal chimpanzee cells. In every instance, in every report on reproduction, doubling, aging, the qualifying adjective “normal” had been used to describe the cells in vitro.
I took a deep breath. I didn’t know what the hell it meant, but I thought it had to mean something. I found the phone number of Linda Cunningham.
“Hi!” she said, and giggled. “Whoever you are.”
“Samuel Todd,” I said. “How’re you doing?”
“Super?” she said, and I believed her. I could hear punk rock blaring in the background—it sounded like the Sex Pistols—and there was a lot of loud talk, yells, groans, screams of laughter. I figured she had invited a few friends to her home, for something a little stronger than fruit punch and white wine.
“Sorry to interrupt your party,” I said, “but this will just take a minute. Linda? Linda, are you there?”
“Super!” she said.
“Linda, in that report—you know what report I’m talking about, don’t you?”
“Report?” she said. “Oh sure. Report. Who is this?”
“Samuel Todd,” I repeated patiently. “I’m the guy you gave the report to earlier tonight at the Reverend Koukla’s party.”
“Oh wow!” she cried. “Harry, don’t you ever do that again! That hurt.”
“Linda,” I said desperately, “this is Sam Todd.”
“Super!” she said.
There was a louder blast of music, then the sound of scuffling. A male voice came on the phone.
“Are you an obscene phone caller?” he asked drunkenly. “I can breathe heavier than you.”
More scuffling sounds. Crash of dropped phone. I heard Linda say, “Now stop it. You’re just awful.”
“Linda!” I yelled. “Linda? Are you there?”
She came back on the line.
“Who is this?” she said. “Who—whom are you calling?”
“This is Samuel Todd. I am calling Linda Cunningham, that’s whom.”
“Mr. Todd?” she cried. “Really? Super! Come on right over. We have a marvelous party all our—”
“No, no,” I said hastily. “Thanks very much, but I can’t come over. Linda, I have a question about the report. You said I could contact you if I had a question about the report.”
“Report? What report?”
“Linda,” I said as calmly as I could, “tonight at Koukla’s party you gave me a report. Dr. Draper prepared it on orders of Dr. Thorndecker.”
“Oh,” she said, suddenly sober. “That report. Well, yes, sure, I remember. This is Mr. Todd?”
“Right,” I said gratefully. “Just one little question about the report, and then I’ll let you get back to your party.”
“Super party,” she said, giggling.
“Sounds like it,” I said, hearing glass smashing in the background. “Sounds like a jim-dandy party. I wish I could join you, I really do. Linda, in that report you keep talking about normal cells. Normal embryo cells, and normal mammalian cells, and so forth. All the statistics have to do with normal cells—right?”
“Right,” she said, and it came out “Ri.” She giggled. “All normal cells. Normal body cells.”
“Now my question is this:” I said. “Do all those statistics hold true for abnormal cells, too? Do abnormal cells decay or die after a limited number of reproductions?”
“Abnormal cells?” she said, beginning to slur. “What kind of abnormal cells?”
“Well, say cancer cells.”
“Oh no,” she said. “No no no no. Cancer cells go on forever. In vitro, that is. They never die. Harry, I told you not to do that again. It’s really very embarrassing.”
“Cancer cells never die?” I repeated dully.
“Didn’t you know?” she said, giggling. “Cancer cells are immortal. Oh wow, Harry, do that again. That’s super!”
I hung up softly.
I didn’t go down to the bar that night. I didn’t finish the quart of vodka either, though I put a hell of a dent in it. But the more I drank, the more sober I became. Finally I undressed and got into bed. I didn’t know when sleep would come. Maybe in about ten years.
Didn’t you know? Cancer cells are immortal.
I had a vision of a pinhead of pulsing jelly. Becoming something about as large as a dried pea. Discolored and wrinkled. Growing. Swelling. Expanding. The tiny wrinkles becoming folds and valleys. The discolorations becoming blobs of corruption. Larger and larger. A tumor as big as the Ritz. Taking over. Something monstrous. Blooming in wild colors. Runny tissue. The stink of old gardenias. Spreading, oozing, engulfing. And never dying. Never, never, never. But conquering, filling a slimed universe.
Immortal.
The Fifth Day
I DON’T KNOW WHAT your life is like, but sometimes, in mine, I just don’t want to get out of bed. It’s not a big thing, like I’ve suddenly come to the conclusion that life is a scam. It’s a lot of little things: Con Edison just sent me a monthly bill for $3,472.69; a new shirt was missing when my laundry was returned; a crazy woman on the bus asked me why my nose was so long; a check from a friend, in repayment of a loan, promptly bounced. Little things. Maybe you could cope with them one at a time. But suddenly they pile up, and you don’t want to get out of bed; it just isn’t worth it.
That’s how I felt on Friday morning. I looked toward the light coming through the window. It was the color of snot; I knew the sun wasn’t shining. I wasn’t hung over. I mean my head didn’t ache, my stomach didn’t bubble. But I felt disoriented. And I had all these problems. It seemed easier to stay exactly where I was, under warm blankets, and forget about “taking arms against a sea of troubles.” Hamlet’s soliloquy. Hamlet should have spent a week in Coburn, N.Y. He’d have found a use for that bare bodkin.
But why the hassle? There was no reason, I told myself, why I should get out of bed. What for? No one I wanted to see. No one I wanted to talk to. Events were moving smoothly along without my intervention. Corpses were getting shoveled into the ground at two in the morning, old geezers were disappearing, young wives were cuckolding their husbands in the back seats of police cars, cancer cells were reproducing like mad. God’s in His Heaven; all’s right with the world. What could I do?
It went on like that until about ten in the morning. Then I got out of bed. I wish I could tell you it was from stern resolve, a conviction that I owed myself, my employers, and the human race one more effort to tidy up the Thorndecker mess. It wasn’t that at all. I got out of bed because I had to pee.
This led to the reflection that maybe the memorable acts of great men were impelled by similarly basic drives. Maybe Einstein came up with E=MC2 while suffering from insomnia. Maybe Keats dashed off “Ode on a Grecian Urn” while he was constipated. Maybe Carnot jotted down the second law of thermodynamics while enduring an
attack of dyspepsia and awaiting the arrival of Mother Tums. It was all possible.
I record this nonsense to illustrate my state of mind on that Friday morning. I may not have been hung over, but I wasn’t certain I was completely sober.
Breakfast helped bring me back to reality. A calorie omelette, with a side order of cholesterol. Delicious. Three cups of black coffee.
“Another?” the foot-sore waitress asked when I ordered the third.
“Another,” I nodded. “And a warm Danish. Buttered.”
“It’s your stomach,” she said.
But it wasn’t. It belonged to someone else, thank God. And my brain was also up for grabs.
I came down to earth during that final black coffee. Then I knew who I was, where I was, and what I was doing. Or trying to do. Caffeine restored my anxieties; I was my usual paranoiac self. Stunned by what I had seen and heard the previous evening. Wanting to put the jigsaw together, and looking frantically for those easy corner pieces.
I signed my breakfast tab, then wandered through the bar on my way to nowhere.
“Hey you, Todd,” Al Coburn called in his raspy voice. “Over here.”
He was seated alone in one of the high-backed booths. I slid in opposite, and before I looked at him, I glanced around. Jimmy was behind the bar, as usual. Two guys in plaid lumberjackets were drinking beer and arguing about something. I turned back to Al Coburn. He was drinking whiskey, neat, with a beer wash.
I jerked my chin at the booze.
“Taking your flu shot?” I asked.
“They killed my dog last night,” he said hoarsely. “Poisoned her.”
“Who’s ‘they?’ Who poisoned your dog?”
“I come out this morning, and there she was. Stiff. Tongue hanging out.”
“You call a vet?”
“What the hell for?” he said angrily. “Any fool could see she was dead.”
“How old a dog?”
“Thirteen,” he said.
“Maybe she died of natural causes,” I said. “Thirteen’s a good age for a dog. What makes you think she was poisoned?”
The Sixth Commandment Page 20