by IGMS
Dr. L squeezes my shoulder, turns my face back toward him. His voice is suddenly guarded, suspicious. "Rachel, what are you doing here? Why aren't you in Vermont?"
"My brother's sick. I brought him back to Boston looking for help but MGH was closed and there were people with guns at Children's. I thought maybe you'd found a cure."
"Where's your brother, Rachel?"
"Outside in the car. He's bleeding badly."
Dr. L flinches, but he keeps his hand on my shoulder. Behind him, one of the grad students gasps and steps away.
"Listen to me, Rachel," he says. "You can't go back to your brother. I know how hard this is, but you can't go back. You can't help him, and you'll only infect yourself." He pauses, taking his hand off my shoulder. "If you haven't already."
"I won't infect myself," I say. "I'm immune."
With that, all activity in the room stops. Twelve eyes bore into me. The generator whirs through the silence.
"Say that again?" It's the old man in the corner, Dr. L's advisor.
"I'm immune," I say. I haven't thought it through until just now, but it makes sense. The white cells. "I was exposed to an infected dog the same time as my brother, I've been bitten by flies and mosquitoes carrying infected blood, and I've been with my brother all day, plugging his nose. My white cells are elevated, but Dr. L's lamp says I'm clean. So I must be immune."
The old man stands up from his computer, reaches for his cane, marches toward me. He has a narrow, unfriendly face with sunken eyes and a peeling red nose. His voice is like gravel.
"Does she lie, Henri?"
"No," says Dr. L.
"Are you lying?" he says to me.
I shake my head.
"You're not immune," he says, "but you're resistant. We've heard about cases like yours. People at Mass General avoiding infection, or fighting it off before it becomes systemic. But we haven't seen one yet. Sit down, I'm going to draw your blood."
The old man points at the Chinese woman, and she rushes over with a phlebotomy kit.
"Will my blood help Stevie?" I ask. "Do I have antibodies?"
The old man ignores me, opens up the kit, connects the syringe to the bag.
"Will the blood help my brother?" I ask again, shouting now.
Dr. L puts his hand back on my shoulder. "Rachel . . ."
"Sure, it might," says the old man. "Now sit!"
I sit on a lab stool and the old man stabs my arm. It takes him three pokes to find a vein. He fills two half-pint bags before Dr. L makes him stop. I haven't eaten since morning, and I start feeling dizzy.
"If I bring Stevie here, will you transfuse one of those bags into him?" I ask.
"The blood won't help your brother," says the old man. "He's already systemic. And we have to figure out how to extract the antibodies anyway. But it might help others."
A wave of dizziness sweeps over me and I brace myself against the lab bench. The old man ignores me, continues.
"You have to stay here, so we can study your immune system. The women sleep in the third lab down the hall, the one that says Professor Cauley over the door."
I grab one of the half-pints and the dirty phlebotomy kit and run out the door. I hear Dr. L call after me, but I keep running, through the barricade, down the squeaking hallways, and back out to the parking lot and the Land Rover.
Stevie isn't there.
The passenger door is open, and there's a trail of blood drops leading away from the car. I follow it around the building and find Stevie sitting against a tree in a green space behind the labs, looking out over the Charles River.
He's holding my bloody shirt in his hands. The bleeding has stopped, and his eyes are open and calm. I sit down next to him.
"I've got something that might help you," I say, holding up the pint.
"I don't need it," says Stevie. "I'm feeling much better." He crumples the shirt into a ball, sets it next to him, and rests his head on my shoulder. He closes his eyes, his breathing calm and steady. I lean back against the tree.
I must have fallen asleep, or passed out from the blood loss. When I wake up, the sun is low in the sky, its reflection spread over the river, dancing on the ripples, and Stevie is dead.
I sit there next to him until the sun sets. Then I carry him to the jeep and start driving back to Vermont, stopping for the night somewhere along I-91. I sleep in the back of the jeep, curled up next to Stevie.
I arrive at my father's fort at eleven the next morning and see immediately that something is wrong. The gate is busted open, and the electric fence is off. My father never turns off the fence.
I crawl up the gravel driveway, then jerk to a stop at the top of the hill.
The house has been ransacked. The porch door is off its hinges, windows are smashed, and dozens of my father's orange crates are spread across the front lawn, their contents dumped and scavenged. The solar panels face the ground, peppered with shotgun blasts.
There's a red arrow spray painted on the ground, pointing toward the post in front of the barn. A note sits on top, underneath my mother's dinner bell.
The note's laminated, of course.
Dear Rachel,
In the unlikely event you survive your impulsive trip to Boston, I am leaving you this note.
The looters arrived a few hours after you left. There were four of them, and they were all armed. I could not defend the house alone.
They did not take all of our supplies. I've left plenty of fuel and food for you -- you'll know where to find it.
I am taking the minivan to Canada. I will wait for you for two weeks near the town of St. Malo, in the place we camped three summers ago, before I head farther North. I hope you will come.
Love,
Your Father
I bury Stevie in the woods behind the barn, using Chase's leash and collar as the grave marker. I keep a few strands of his hair.
I spend the rest of the day sitting in the apple orchard, staring out over Sable Mountain and the broken fence, deciding what to do next.
I've packed the Land Rover with food, gasoline, clothes, bug repellant, and extra ammo for the nine millimeter. I take the rest of my father's hidden supplies and drop them at the foot of the driveway, outside the fence, in case Julie or someone from the town comes looking for food. My father wouldn't approve, of course. Wasteful.
Before leaving, I take my microscope to the pond. I place it on the grass, at the point where the pond brush meets the forest's edge, where I showed Michael protozoa while Stevie wandered the woods, looking for Chase. Sitting there in the tall grass, next to my abandoned jeans and sandals, the scope looks like some kind of modern still-life painting. I wonder who will find it, and what they'll think it means.
I walk back to the house and the waiting jeep quickly, before I change my mind.
I'm going back to BU, to Dr. L's lab, to let the old man study my immune system. Someday, I may follow my father to the wilderness of Canada, but not yet.
I start the jeep and accelerate down the driveway, spraying gravel behind me. It's a long drive back to Boston, and I want to get there before the sun's rays have spread over the river.
The Tile Setters
by Ami Chopine
Artwork by Kevin Wasden
* * *
The first time Paul Atkinsley saw a Massys floor was at an engagement party for one of his clients' daughter. He enjoyed these kinds of functions. It gave him a chance to network, gain new contacts. This was where business happened, at least for the first half of the event. After that, unless there was someone of particular interest he was talking to, Paul got bored and started thinking about going home. Such was the case now, but something held him there, sitting alone at his table and watching a few lingering couples dancing on the floor.
He looked up to see Lawrence, his client, watching him.
Grasping for something, Paul said, "That's a fantastic floor." As soon as he said it, he knew it was the tile floor that had drawn him in. Each tile was an exquisite
piece in itself, the patterns in soft golds and greens, weaving and swirling. Each one was, as far as he could tell, completely unique, yet they matched together perfectly. The whole of it invoked a focused calm that Paul found rather pleasant.
"You like it?" Lawrence asked.
Now that Paul was aware of the floor, there were no words. He wanted to get down on his hands and knees and touch it, let his fingers follow the patterns. And suddenly there he was, on the floor. The tile was warm and soft, like flesh turned to stone yet still alive. A few people in the room stared at him, but Lawrence got down to where he was.
"It's remarkable, isn't it?" Lawrence said.
Paul nodded.
"Do you want a floor like this?"
The possibility hadn't occurred to him. Yes. Of course he must have it. At the agency. That was where he needed a floor like this. It would pull customers like it pulled him.
"I would," Paul said, but instead of the take charge voice he meant to use, it came out in a whispered awe.
"Arthur Massys made and set the tiles. I'll get you his address."
Paul nodded. The people were still staring. He stood up.
Lawrence looked at him a while, with concern. "Paul, there hasn't been time or circumstance tonight but how are you?"
A question about his father. That is what it was. Lawrence didn't care about Paul, but about his father being gone. People still wondered if he would be able to handle business without the great experience and whatever else they thought his father had that Paul didn't.
"I'm doing great, Lawrence. The business is great. We've just hired some new creatives that are going to take us in great new directions," Paul said. Must keep the client confident in their abilities.
Lawrence nodded, the concern not quite wiped from his face.
"I'm almost the last one here. I really should go."
"Paul, if you need anything, don't hesitate."
"Thanks."
Paul walked towards the door, but he couldn't leave before he turned around to see the whole floor. He stood there a few seconds, then his gaze touched on Lawrence, who still held that concerned look on his face. Paul turned and left.
Paul tried not to show his irritation to the young woman who answered the door to the grayish, run-down cottage that turned out to be the residence of Arthur Massys. It was not what he expected. An artist of this ability should live in something as beautiful as his work. Not this dump. He struggled to be respectful.
"I'm here about the floor," Paul said.
The woman lead him through the halls to the back of the house where there was a workroom. She seemed to be about college age. Wisps of light brown hair escaped the clip that she attempted to hold it back with.
Paul assumed it was Arthur at the table, kneading clay, sweating so much that it dripped into the clay. Sometimes he dipped his hands into a little bowl of brown powder. The girl took a jar of powder from a shelf, poured some into another bowl and set it by the first. He looked up at her, put a hand on her shoulder, and smiled. Paul fidgeted.
"I don't have time, use my daughter," Arthur said, not bothering to look at Paul.
The girl looked surprised. "Really?"
"It's time, Gwynne."
Paul rolled his eyes at the touching scene of a father and his daughter apprentice.
"You're Arthur Massys?" Paul asked.
"Yeah."
"I'm hiring you, not your apprentice."
Arthur glared. "Look at the floor."
For the first time, Paul saw the floor of the workroom that was dingy everywhere else -- everywhere but the floor. Here was the stunning beauty he thought should be here. In fact, he'd walked all the way through the house without seeing it. It wasn't quite what Paul wanted.
"I want something a bit more . . . expansive. Bolder."
Gwynne looked disappointed.
"Father?"
"You'll know," said Arthur.
"She'll know what?" Paul asked.
"She'll know exactly what you want and your floor will be exactly what you need."
"I don't want your apprentice." Apprentices were not to be trusted without the master.
"You will have my daughter or you will not have a Massys floor. That is what you want, isn't it?"
Paul considered. What he wanted was the best image for the company. Advertising firms had to have an image to advertise their ability to sell images.
Arthur looked at him for a while. "People will come to your firm, and they will see a Massys floor, and they will be stunned by its expansive fabulousness. My daughter is actually a better artist than I am."
"No. I want the man who did the floor at Lawrence Tyler's house."
Arthur went on, ignoring Paul. "Tomorrow she will come to your office. She'll be in and out, wandering around for about a month. Don't restrict her. Then she'll come back here to make tiles, which will take about three months, and then she will go back to your office and lay the tiles, which will take another month."
This isn't how it is supposed to happen. Paul should be telling them what to do. He turned around to leave.
"If you want a Massys floor . . ."
No floor was worth this.
"No other advertising firm will have a floor like this, and you will gain clients you don't even dream of having now."
Paul knew it was true, but he didn't know why. He just stood there, watching the patterns of the floor that somehow didn't quite grab him like the floor at Lawrence's house, yet promised an ability to do so . . . if he could only see what the pattern did beyond the wall. Arthur nodded, Gwynne smiled, and then Paul walked away, knowing she would be at his office tomorrow.
The next day, Paul's secretary told him that Gwynne Massys was there and asked if she should show her into the office. No, he would go out and show her around. Gwynne needed to understand what this place was about. It was important to convey an image to people that was strong and colorful, creative and energetic, but focused -- even when getting that image included getting a Massys floor from intractable artists.
He walked out of the office and into the reception area. The girl was so quiet that if he had not gone there specifically to meet her, he would not have even noticed her.
"Hi Gwynne," he said, extending his hand to shake.
A wry smile passed briefly across her face before she returned the grip. "Hello, Paul."
Paul contained the scowl and the urge to demand that she call him Mr. Atkinsley. "Let's start at the beginning. What did you see when you walked in?"
"A tired receptionist."
"Yes." Paul laughed. "She does do a lot around here, yes Stephanie?" The receptionist laughed with him a bit, but Gwynne just stared. Insolent little twit.
"Okay, I meant the décor. What does the room look like?"
Gwynne sighed. "There is a big logo above the big desk where the tired receptionist sits. It says," and her voice deepened, "'Atkinsley Advertising' all in colors meant to attract the eye and give the impression that this is a place where things happen. This is a place that people should pay attention to. The furnishings are meant to make visitors happy and alert. Comfortable, but not relaxing. Stimulating." It was exactly what Paul wanted to convey, but it sounded like a school lesson coming from her.
Paul wondered if he should ask the next question he'd prepared in his mind, but nothing else was there, so he did. "Can you make me a floor that will do that?"
"I don't know. We'll see."
"I need a floor to do everything this room does."
"No, you want a floor that does those things. You need a floor that will attract many clients and give you a good steady business."
"You are a snippy little girl."
"My dad's better at talking to people."
"Not from what I experienced."
"He was working on the clay then. Besides, you were being a toad."
Paul got the impression that she still thought he was being a toad.
"Is it okay if I just walk around now?" she asked.
"Let me show you around."
"No, thank you." Gwynne walked away into the other side of the reception area where the offices were. Paul looked at the receptionist who watched him. If he ran after Gwynne to stop her, he would look out of control and powerless. He'd already let too much of that show. That irritating slip of a girl. The receptionist was still watching.
"Heh, artists."
The receptionist went back to her desk. "But it's just as well," she said. "I think you have that meeting with Mr. Robertson."
How could he have forgotten Robertson? It had taken Paul the better part of six months to figure out exactly which of his old man's cronies were useful to him or not. Paul had to see them in action without his father. Firing Robertson had been saved as the final action Paul accomplished to purge the agency of his father's spirit.
Paul remembered the time he'd seen a layout that would have worked better in yellows. He mentioned this to the guy working with him, who loved the idea and had decided to experiment with it to see if the company might like it better than the original blue they'd asked for. Robertson called a meeting with Paul's father, where he informed Paul that the company had requested the blue colors that had originally made the layout and that Paul really should know his stuff before he went snooping around other people's work. Father had kept silent.
When Robertson walked in, Paul made a show of studying the files in front of him and then studying Robertson himself. By the time Paul spoke, Robertson was quite pale.
"Mr. Robertson."
"Paul."
Paul said what he'd wanted to say with Gwynne. "That's Mr. Atkinsley."
"Mr. Atkinsley," Robertson said, shrinking into the chair.
"Mr. Robertson, why should we keep you?"
"I'm one of your best account managers."
Paul nodded. Robertson was arrogant even when he whined like the sniveling suck up he was. There were five applicants this very afternoon interviewing to take his place. None of them remembered putting Paul in his place. At least one of them would be as good.