“I bet.” He found a red tie crumpled into his loafer. “I probably won’t be back here until the day after tomorrow.”
“I have to go home anyway. I’m running out of clothes.”
“And leave my palatial penthouse?”
Cassandra glanced around Harvey’s sloppy, one bedroom dump on One Hundred Fifty-eighth Street. She looked at him skeptically.
“Okay,” he admitted, “Versailles it’s not.”
“A human dwelling it’s not.”
“Granted, it might need a little work.”
“It might need a bulldozer.”
“You are spoiled rotten.”
Cassandra smiled. “Bet your ass.” She sat up and put the pillow behind her head. “Harv, is it true? Do you really have a cure for AIDS?”
“Not a cure exactly,” he said, tying his tie and then loosening it. “More like a treatment.”
“I had a good friend die of AIDS,” she said slowly. “He was my ad partner at Dunbar Strauss. God, he was so creative, so alive. I remember visiting him at the hospital until he was in so much pain he wouldn’t let anyone see him.”
Harvey nodded. “It’s an ugly disease, Cassandra.”
“How does your treatment work?”
He stopped. “You really want to know?”
“Yes.”
Harvey sat on the edge of the bed and held her hands. “AIDS,” he began, “or Acquired Immuno-Deficiency Syndrome, does not, in and of itself, kill people. You see, the AIDS virus, known as HIV, attacks the immune system. It causes the immune system to break down to the point where the patient is readily susceptible to illness and infection. Eventually these illnesses or infections become fatal. With me so far?”
“I think so,” she said. “You’re saying that the AIDS virus tears down the wall that protects you from disease.”
“Exactly. How the HIV destroys the immune system is a bit complicated, so I’ll try to be as nontechnical as possible.”
“I’m listening.”
“Okay. The HIV attaches itself to what are called T cells. It then crawls inside the cells and destroys them. Still with me?”
Cassandra nodded.
“The part of the cell where the HIV first attaches itself is called the T receptor. In other words, the HIV searches around and is attracted to T receptors. Then it latches onto the receptors and moves in for the kill.”
“Got it,” Cassandra said.
“What we do at the clinic is inject our patients with a powerful, addictive drug we’ve created called SR1—S and R stand for Sidney Riker, my brother. The negative side effects with SR1 are many and unfortunately the patient needs to take larger and larger doses over a long period of time.”
“What does SR1 do?” she asked.
Harvey squeezed her hand. “Again, it’s complicated, so let me try to cut through all the medical jargon. In the human body SR1 greatly resembles T receptors, so the AIDS virus is drawn to the phony T receptors.”
“So,” Cassandra said, “the HIV attaches itself to the SR1 T receptors rather than the real T receptors.”
“Something like that, yes. It’s almost like SR1 is wearing a mask and disguising itself as a T receptor. The HIV is drawn to it, latches itself onto it—”
“And then the SR1 kills the HIV.”
Harvey shook his head. “I wish. One day it might happen that fast, but we’re still years away from anything like that.”
“So what happens?”
“Well, after the HIV latches itself onto the SR1’s T receptors, they struggle. It’s almost like a tug-of-war inside the immune system. At first, the HIV is really pissed off by all this. The SR1 is actually activating the virus, stirring it up. We give additional and escalating dosages of SR1 until the drug begins to wear down the virus. For a while the effects of AIDS are put into a holding pattern. Eventually, after a long, hard struggle, the HIV dies.”
“SR1 wins the tug-of-war.”
He nodded. “We believe so, yes. Several long-term patients have actually changed from HIV positive to HIV negative.”
“Amazing.”
“The problems are obvious. Aside from the dangers and addictive factors in SR1, we can save only the immune system. If a person is in the latter stages of AIDS—if a patient is already seriously ill with some AIDS-induced infection—our cure will do little if any good. SR1 can stop only HIV. It doesn’t cure Kaposi’s sarcoma, for example, or any of the other diseases AIDS may eventually give you. As a result, we have to catch the virus early, before infections and disease settle in. And of course, more research is needed. We’ve only scratched the surface.”
Cassandra said, “You’re sure to get the funds you need once Sara does her report.”
“I hope so.”
“What do you mean, hope so? Once everyone sees the evidence they’ll support the clinic—even my father.”
Harvey slipped on his shoes and stood. “That’ll be the day.”
“You’ll see. He’ll back you.”
“Maybe,” Harvey said, more to keep the peace than anything else. “But he’s not the one I’m afraid of.”
“Then who?”
“Dangerous whackos who are making a name for themselves off the deaths of young people. People like that Reverend Sanders—”
“You think he’s out to sabotage the clinic?”
“It wouldn’t surprise me.”
Cassandra rolled over, exposing the long smooth curve of her hip. “He was in my father’s study the other day.”
Harvey spun back toward Cassandra. “Reverend Sanders?”
“Yup.”
“But your father told me he didn’t know Sanders personally.”
“I heard him in my father’s study the morning after the party. They were arguing.”
“Arguing about what?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Cassandra, it’s important.”
She tried to collect her thoughts. “I remember my father telling Sanders that he should never come to the house.”
“What did Sanders say?”
“He just told my dad to relax. I remember that Sanders sounded so cool. His tone was such a contrast to my father’s angry one. Then Sanders said something like ‘There’s still work to be done.’ ”
Harvey’s body went rigid. “Jesus.”
“That’s all I heard. I left after that.”
“Are you sure—”
The phone rang. For a moment neither of them moved, their eyes locked onto each other’s. Then Harvey lowered his gaze and moved toward the phone.
“Hello.”
Eric’s voice came in a rush. “Get down to the lab, Harv. Hurry.”
“What’s the matter?”
“It’s Michael, Harvey. Oh God, it’s Michael.”
MICHAEL pressed the button and held it down. Slowly and with a whir, the bed began to move, curling his frame into a sitting position. He coughed twice into his fist and then smiled at Sara.
“Go ahead,” she said. “Take a sip.”
Michael brought the plastic cup to his lips and drank.
“How’s the orange juice?” Sara asked.
“Tastes like paint thinner,” he replied. “What time is it?”
“Seven a.m. Did you sleep well?”
“Not really,” he said. “I don’t like sleeping in separate beds.”
“Neither do I,” Sara said, “but my bed is only a yard away.”
“Makes it worse. Sort of like being able to see the Holy Grail and not grasp it.”
“How poetic.”
“To put it somewhat less poetically, I want your bod.”
“And I yours,” Sara said. “Every time you stand up I see your cute little ass hanging out the back of your hospital gown. It drives me crazy.”
“I know. I’m such a tease.” He pushed the orange juice away and glanced up. “So tell me, how’s the story on Harv’s clinic going?”
“We start shooting the interviews later today. It’ll be hectic a
s all hell, so I may not be able to stop in as much.”
“Good. I’ll be able to get a little peace and quiet.”
“Not so fast, handsome. I’ll still be able to come by around lunch and dinner. And I’ll still be sleeping in that bed come this evening.”
He grabbed her and they kissed. “Can’t get rid of you, huh?”
“Never.”
They kissed again.
Behind them, the door opened. Sara turned and watched Harvey and Eric enter. Their grim expressions seemed to magnify into looks of tremendous pain when they saw Michael and Sara embracing. Sara took a second look at their faces, at the way they held their heads, at the way their hands stayed still in their pockets. And she knew. She knew without question or hesitation. It was over. Everything was over. She held Michael closely, feeling his muscles stiffen. She wanted very much to scream.
Harvey stepped forward and closed the door. “We need to talk.”
10
JENNIFER Riker lifted her face toward the sun, enjoying the feel of the warm rays against her skin. She passed a store window, stopped, took two steps backward, and examined her reflection. The late forties, she thought, had not been particularly easy on her looks. Her petite figure was beginning to spread a little. The small lines around her eyes were deepening into full-fledged (no sense denying it) wrinkles. Her neck was starting to crease. She looked again and wondered for the millionth time if she had done the right thing, if she had not, as so many had warned her, jumped out of the frying pan and into the fire.
She thought about it a moment before acknowledging that, in truth, there had been no choice. To stay with Harvey would have meant to wither away in a world of watching too many soap operas and feeling utterly worthless. To remain married would have meant playing the dutiful wife to a man who had dedicated his life to a cause and assumed those around him had chosen to do the same. Just looking at Harvey on those rare nights when he’d come home from the clinic, exhaustion blanketing his face and posture, made Jennifer feel inadequate and selfish. She had to get out.
And so she left. She made her escape before the weight of her depression had a chance to squash her spirit completely. She moved to Los Angeles, where she now lived (quite happily, thank you) with her sister, Susan, and her young nephew, Tommy. During her twenty-six years of marriage to Harvey, Jennifer had rarely ventured off the East Coast, never visiting California, not even going as far west as Chicago. She and Harvey had been snobbish Northeasterners, believing that the only cultural life of the country bloomed within the boundaries of the original thirteen colonies.
But Los Angeles had its advantages over New York, albeit they were mostly the obvious. The warmer climate, for one; the warmer attitude, for another. Jennifer enjoyed the laid-back California lifestyle—especially after the pressure of the last few years. And living with Susan had ended up being fun, almost like reliving her childhood in certain respects. Jennifer and Susan had always been close, confiding in each other even as small children. As they grew older, both sisters decided that they would always live near each other. Jennifer, older than Susan by two years, had gotten married first, to a doctor named Harvey Riker. Almost in a rush not to be left behind, Susan married another doctor, Bruce Grey, a year and a half later. Harvey and Bruce quickly became friends and even medical partners while Jennifer and Susan continued to grow closer and closer. Everything was moving along perfectly until one minor problem began to snag up the works.
Bruce and Susan started drifting apart.
After a few futile attempts to save a dying marriage, Susan left Bruce, moving to Los Angeles and taking their seven-year-old son, Tommy, with her. Jennifer and Harvey had been horrified when they heard. They started to feel isolated and afraid, and for the first time, Harvey and Jennifer began to question their own happiness and examine their own relationship. From then on, it had been only a question of time.
Jennifer closed her eyes and sighed. She took out a key, opened the door, and stepped inside the apartment. Almost immediately the phone rang.
“Hello?”
“Is this Mrs. Susan Grey?”
“She’s not here at the moment. May I ask who’s calling?”
“Is this Mrs. Jennifer Riker?”
“Yes, it is.”
“Good morning, Mrs. Riker. This is Terence Lebrock.”
“Oh, you’re the executor of Bruce’s will.”
“That’s correct. I just wanted to let you know that I sent a post office box key via overnight mail yesterday. You should be receiving it today.”
“A post office box key? I’m not sure I understand.”
“Dr. Grey kept a post office box in the main branch of the Los Angeles post office. I think it would be best if somebody clears out that box right away. There might be important papers in there.”
Jennifer thought for a moment. Odd that Bruce had a post office box in Los Angeles. Of course it could be the same one he had used during his two-year stint in the research department at UCLA, but why would he have saved it? She shrugged. It was probably another example of Bruce’s compulsive personality.
“Don’t worry, Mr. Lebrock. I’ll clear it out today.”
THE silence was staggering. It filled the room, expanding, growing larger and larger until Sara was sure the walls around them were about to give way. First, there had been denial. How could it be? Michael had never experimented with homosexuality. He had never been an intravenous drug abuser. He was not a hemophiliac who needed constant blood transfusions. He had slept with no one but Sara for six years. Any way you looked at it, Michael should have been a very healthy thirty-two-year-old man.
Except he was not healthy. He was lying in a hospital bed with hepatitis B and a positive reading on an HIV test. His T cell count was dangerously low and the most obvious conclusion the doctors could draw was that Michael had received contaminated blood in the Bahamas after his boating accident.
He had AIDS.
She looked at him now. His handsome face showed no emotion, so strange for a man as filled with passion as Michael, a man who rarely hid thoughts and feelings behind a blank expression. She thought about the first time she had seen that face, the first time she had ever spoken to him in person.
The door swung open and Beethoven’s Sonata No. 32 in C minor escaped from the room and moved outside. “Yes?” Michael said. He was surprisingly handsome, tall, of course, with broad shoulders. There was a towel draped around his neck, a glass of what looked like orange juice in his hand. Perspiration matted the ends of his hair together. He wiped his brow with the corner of the towel.
Sara nervously gripped her cane. She was about to stick out her right hand for him to shake, but she suddenly realized that her palm was slick. Her honey blond hair was tied back away from her face, accentuating her already prominent cheekbones.
“Good afternoon. My name is Sara Lowell.”
He looked at her, startled. “You’re Sara Lowell?”
“You sound surprised.”
“I am,” he said. “You’re not what I pictured.”
“What did you picture?”
He shrugged. “Something a little gruffer-looking, I guess.”
“Gruffer-looking?”
“Yeah. Dark, curly hair. Cigarette dangling from lip with an ash about to fall of. Manual typewriter. Black sweater. A little on the meaty side.”
“Sorry if I disappointed you.”
“Hardly,” he said. “What are you doing here, Miss Lowell?”
“Sara.”
“Sara.”
She sneezed.
“God bless you,” he said.
“Thank you.”
“Have a cold?”
She nodded.
“So what can I do for you, Sara?”
“Well,” she began, “I’d like to come in and ask you a few questions.”
“Hmmm. This whole scenario seems a tad familiar to me. Do you have a sense of déjà vu too, Sara, or is it just me?”
“Depends.�
��
“On?”
“On if you slam the door in my face like you slammed the phone in my ear.”
He smiled. “Touché.”
“Can I come in?”
“First, let me ask you a question,” he said. He feigned taking a pencil out of his pocket and writing in a small notebook. “Why the cane?”
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me,” he continued in his serious, reporter-like voice. “You’re using a cane and you have a brace on your leg. What happened to you?”
“Playing role reversal, Mr. Silverman?”
“Michael. Just answer the question, please.”
“I was born prematurely, with permanent nerve damage in my foot.”
“Was it bad when you were young?”
Her voice was soft. “Not good.”
She lifted her head and saw the gentle, almost soothing expression on his face. He’d have made a great interviewer, she thought, except there was an undeniable tension between them, a tension that was not altogether unpleasant.
“You say you were born premature,” he continued. “Were there other complications?”
“Not so fast,” she replied. “My turn. When did you start playing basketball?”
“I don’t know. When I was six or seven, I guess.”
“Were you one of those kids who played all the time, who lived on the playground?”
“It was the best place to be,” he replied.
“What do you mean?”
Michael did not answer. “What were your other complications, Sara?”
“Lung infections,” she said quickly. “So when did you start playing the piano?”
“When I was eight.”
“Your parents hired a music teacher?”
A humorless smile came to his lips. “No.”
“Then who—”
“I think you’d better leave,” he said.
“Let’s change the subject.”
“No.”
“But I was just going to ask—”
“I know what you were going to ask,” Michael interrupted. “How hard is this for you to understand? I don’t want my personal life splashed all over the papers. Period.”
“I just wanted to know the name of your piano teacher,” she said. “I thought you would want to give your teacher credit.”
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