Weed

by Peter Ponzo

  Chapter 4

  I was holding out my hand, palm down.

  "Yes, I see the white blemish and I do believe that it was once a nasty scar, but that's little proof that your ... your weed is responsible for the—"

  "Look, Hans, I'm telling you it works!" I was getting angry; not a familiar emotion for me. I continued: "The scar had been growing larger, some kind of fungal infection, then I just rubbed it with the dried leaves. In fact, the ivory discoloration you see is even larger than the original scar." The exaggerated size of the discoloration actually seemed a little strange, and I now wished I hadn't drawn attention to the fact. "You know perfectly well how many drugs come from wild plants, especially from the rain forest," I said. "My father made his fortune by bringing them to the world. This could be important. This will be important."

  But Hans von Oerschott wasn't impressed. He had graduated in Engineering at the bottom of his class yet had made a success in Plastics and Medical supplies. He was an asshole, but he wasn't about to engage in the requisite research on this weed without more evidence of success. Testing a new drug was expensive. Getting a drug to market, multiple trials, government approval, marketing ... it was a headache and costly.

  The idea is to talk continuously, excitedly, until your enthusiasm is transferred to the listener.

  "But Lloyd believed in it," I continued. "In fact ...in fact, Lloyd gave his life for it." I paused. Maybe it wasn't a good idea to refer to my father as Lloyd. Too personal. "You and Dr. Lloyd Alan Fleetsmith, you were close friends. Doesn't that mean anything?"

  "Lloyd Alan," Hans said. "I thought your father's name was Lloyd Francis Fleetsmith."

  "Yeah, Lloyed Francis Alan Fleetsmith," I grunted. I really hadn't been enthusisatic about calling attention to the Francis in my father's extended name. Although it never came up in conversation, I suspected that my name was a contraction of his middle name. In fact, Lloyd himself always referred to himself as Lloyd Francis … and I often fell into the same habit although I took pains to avoid the reference.

  I looked across the walnut desk at the small balding man with red cheeks and sweaty brow, and waited. He spun about in his chair and stared out the window at the Toronto skyline.

  "If it works," I continued, "Oerschott Medicals will make a fortune." That, I'm sure, was the bottom line.

  Hans turned to me, slowly, smiling. "That means something," he said. He pushed himself to his feet and walked about the desk, then to the wall. He stood gazing at the framed photograph of two army buddies: Hans von Oershott and Lloyd Alan Fleetsmith, my father.

  "Tell you what I'll do," he said, still staring at the photo of himself and Pops. "I'll put you in charge of a small lab, in the basement. You'll have all the equipment you need, technicians, a small budget." He turned to look at me. "You test the ... uh, weed. Give me weekly reports. If I think there's something there, I'll take it to the board."

  He grinned at me, at my red hair falling carelessly about my shoulders. I knew he couldn't resist that feral and sexy look. I could feel my face, pink with excitement. I was told that Hans had admired me since I was a child, wild and undisciplined. He had watched me develop into a young woman of abundant proportion, still wild and undisciplined. Yet I had graduated at the top of my class and had already made important contributions in herbal medicines while still a graduate student. He was thinking. It would be a pleasure to have me in the building ... his pleasure. His marriage was on the rocks, his secretary had filled in temporarily, but now, a delicious Fran Fleetsmith for dessert.

  I recognized the animal look on his face and leaned back in my chair, thrusting my chest forward, crossing my legs so that the short skirt jumped abruptly above my knees. Hans was unhappily married. He was staring at my blouse. He was hooked.

  Charles had prepared a dinner of salmon and asparagus and had brought a delicate Chardonnay from the cellar. After having placed the dish before me, I invited him to sit and he sat opposite and served himself from the large platter. I had always insisted that Charles eat with me as did my father before me, and he was pleased to accept the invitation. Nevertheless, he always waited for the invitation. It had become a standard ritual. He was one sweet man.

  "Miss Fleetsmith, how did it go with Mr. von Oerschott?" he asked.

  "A flimsy blouse, a short leather skirt, and he gave me a lab in the basement."

  "I cannot agree with your methods, but I cannot deny their success," he muttered, leaning over the table to refill my wine glass.

  "How's Pelvis?" I asked. "Still sulking?"

  "I feel we must provide a name. Pelvis is rather crude, you must agree."

  I pushed the last of the salmon into my mouth and jumped up. "Gotta go, Charlie boy." I gulped the last of my wine. "Okay, we'll think of a name."

  "Miss Fleetsmith, where can I locate you this evening, if need be?" he asked, rising from the table and delicately wiping his mouth with an embroidered napkin.

  "Penny," I said.

  "I beg you pardon?"

  "A name for Pelvis. I suggest Penny. Like it?"

  "Yes, quite acceptable. And where can I locate you, this evening? When can I expect your return?"

  I walked out of the room, rather more briskly than usual, pausing to pat the large vase standing at the door; it held the dried leaves of the miracle weed. "Late," I called back over my shoulder. "You and Pelvis are on your own. Be gentle, Charles. She's just a girl."

  Charles Clayton Curran coughed once, turned a deeper pink and followed me to the front door.

  "The lab," I said.

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "That's where I'll be." And I left.

  Charles stood for a moment by the open door, watched me stride down the walk and hop into my red convertible Porsche, then he slowly closed the door. I waited for a moment, staring at the closed door. Charles would walk to the dining room, finish his portion of salmon. After dinner he would wash and dry the dishes, then dream of washing and drying Pelvis. She seemed to collect dirt like a child and would undoubtedly appreciate his attention. He'd bring the leftover salmon to her room and he'd watch her eat, stuffing the fish into her mouth, grunting. He would pour her a small glass of wine. She'd probably sniff it and refuse, dumping the wine on the floor.

  Yes, I was quite certain. He'd first clean the dishes, then clean her room ... then clean Pelvis herself. I left the driveway with tires screaming. It was a delightful scene.

  It was past midnight when I collapsed in the overstuffed chair. I had insisted that the chair be dragged into the lab, in the basement of Oerschott Medicals. It had become one of my favorite places. After a day, or a night, of inflicting small wounds in mice and treating them with concoctions made of the weed, I would spend an hour in the chair, humming to myself, just thinking.

  It really was a remarkable gift, this weed. How had my father discovered it? It was a foggy memory. News had come to him while on a hunting expedition, as I recall. He had been hunting herbs, not animals. My father was a gentle soul and thought everything alive should be protected. During this hunting expedition he got news of a miracle weed, the Chokli village, a rough description of its location. He set out in late August, spent weeks searching for the natives, spent months studying their lifestyle, their use of the weed, made maps. He kept in constant communication with people back home by joining the Chokli on their periodic trips to the Holana settlement and paying someone to carry his letters to the airport.

  He died for his efforts, the circumstances of his death unknown—except that he was found wandering the Amazon jungle, unable to talk except in short gasps without meaning. What had happened, the circumstances of his departure from the Chokli village, how he had managed to come as far as he had—all was a mystery. He died, without fully recovering from his experience, in a local hospital.

  Now I had the weed. It had actually been rather easy to reach the Chokli village, much easier than I had anticipated. It was less agreeable getting back, but
Pelvis had found a small boat, deserted by her people, and although rather small for all three of us, we had managed to paddle downriver to the settlement in less than a week, eating strange plants identified as edible by Pelvis. She was one cool gal, seemingly delighted to be free of the short and ugly natives of her village. Each morning when we awoke she would have a fire burning and some small animal roasting or a strange vegetable hanging from a branch suspended above the fire. I was unaccustomed to having my main meal in the morning, but who were we to argue? We never went hungry, although, at times, I would have preferred to bypass stews filled with floating debris, may of which, I am certain, were once alive and crawling.

  From the settlement we took a rickety bus to a small airport. In fact, had I known the airport existed I would have saved a lot of time getting to the Chokli village in the first place. But the grubby gent who owned the airport and flew the small Cessna was happy to have its existence unknown. He brought supplies to the natives and sold their animal skins to the world, for a tidy profit. Almost all of the animals were on the endangered list. I learned to dislike the man in less than ten minutes.

  But the weed was marvelous. Every test was positive. After inflicting a small wound on a lab mouse, the scab, after rubbing with the weed, would usually diminish in size, then slowly change color to a pale cream, then become smooth as though covered with a satin skin. I say usually because there were occasional deviations from this scenario. Unfortunately, even when the scab vanished, hair would never grow back and the size of the pale colored blemish would continue to grow. I now wish I had spent more time inspecting the Chokli, their skin, their state of health, their hair follicles. I imagined a ceremony to introduce young men to manhood, a crown of weeds, a pale skin forming. Then I recalled that there was that other native group, obviously related to the Chokli, with pointed teeth and completely bald. How were they related?

  There were a million unanswered questions. Why so few females in the Chockli village? Why the difference between the two, obviously related, tribes? When they used the weed, would a creamy, satin skin form for the Chokli, or would it be dark brown? I hadn’t noticed any obvious absence of hair with the Chockli, as was occurring with the mice. But the first group of natives we met, before we met the Chockli … they were bald. That bothered me. Was it significant?

  And, what were the Chokli about to do to Pelvis?

  I looked for the umpteenth time at the back of my hand. It was now entirely pale white, contrasting with my normal tanned color. Yet, the scar was gone, healed. Surely the curative powers of the salve I had concocted justified a full-fledged test on humans. Surely the slight discoloration was acceptable ... as well as the absence of hair. "The mice don't seem to mind," I whispered to myself.

  I made up my mind. Tomorrow, I would approach Hans von Oerschott with the test results, on mice. I must remember to wear that pink blouse and—

  A noise, at the far end of the lab, footsteps.

  The technicians had left hours ago. The lab was off limits to the cleaning staff. The doors were locked, always. Whoever it was, it didn't belong there. Hans had made me painfully aware of industrial espionage. My lab was off limits to everyone except my small staff. Word must have leaked of this new discovery. Whoever was now in my lab was surely a spy. I think I've seen this scene recently … in what movie?

  I slid off the chair onto the floor and waited. Only the light directly above my work bench was lit and the equipment cast long shadows across the darkened room. There, near the window, a shadow moving slowly toward the bench. I held my breath, looking about for some weapon. A waste basket, a small broom, several scraps of paper. Nothing substantial. A large glass beaker lay beneath the bench and I carefully pulled it to my side. I'd castrate the bastard. There was no question in my mind; whoever it was, it was male.

  The shadow was now on the opposite side of the table. I crawled under, waited and saw the feet walk about the bench, to my side.

  "Hai!" I shouted, smashing the glass beaker against the side of the table and simultaneously jumping to my feet, brandishing the jagged weapon.

  Hans von Oerschott almost collapsed, steadying himself against the table.

  "Good God, girl! Are you trying to kill me!"

  "Mmm, Hans, it's you," I said, grinning. I set the broken beaker ever so gently on a table. Mad woman with broken glass; not the proper scene for this gent. I hopped up onto the bench, careful to avoid the pieces of broken glass, and raised my skirt just slightly above my knees.

  He fell into the large chair, perspiring freely; that was a von Oerschott characteristic. He held his hand to his heart. Actually, it was his left hand over the right side of his chest. Perhaps he wasn’t sure of the coronary locale. His face was flushed red, glistening, the blood pounding in his head.

  "Christ amighty," he groaned, "you scared me half to death." When he had gained some measure of composure he began to shout. "What the Christ are you doing here at this time of night? Who in God's name did you think I was? A thief? And what's with this Hai? And what's with the broken beaker? Did you want to disembowel ... ?"

  I slipped off the bench, bent before the seated figure, straddled his kees, pulled his head to my chest and whispered, "Now, Hans, don't upset yourself. Your blood pressure, my dear. Calm down."

  "I was in the building ... thought I'd check on things ..." he said, his words muffled, his head between my breasts, his knees now between my legs, his hands rising to my buttocks.

  I pulled away quickly and Hans was left leaning forward, his hands groping the air.

  "You're right," I said. "It's late. Time to go home." I turned quickly and walked to the end of the room. "Close up when you leave. Okay?" And I left.

  The clock in the hall read 12:47 when I left the laboratory. It was time to go home. Yet, I could see Hans in my mind's eye, sitting for some time, staring at his hands, his face red and sweaty, trembling with passion. Why he was in the lab, and what he did after I left, I had no idea. But I would learn soon enough.