Prizes

by Erich Segal

  “Have lunch with the man. Play the game. Cavanagh’s first-rate and it won’t take him long to recognize your abilities. But help him get to know you.”

  “I’m afraid it’s too late for that,” Adam replied dejectedly. “He dropped a little bombshell in my cubbyhole this morning. Apparently—because of ‘financial restraints’—he’s had to slash my next year’s budget—and my salary—in half.”

  Lisl reacted angrily. “Excuse me while I revise my opinion of him. By cutting Max’s most cherished project, he’s just proved how petty he is. That money business isn’t even a good lie. One of the reasons he got the job was his talent for grantsmanship, not to mention his ties with the biotech industry.

  “He’s probably intimidated by you, Adam. But you mustn’t let him make you resign. Do some clinical work to bolster your income.” She placed her hand firmly on his arm. “Just promise you won’t give up.”

  “No, Lisl,” he said with fervor. “I won’t. This is something I’ve got to do for Max.”

  “No,” she said emotionally. “You have to do it for yourself.”

  Adam was determined to protect whatever little territory he still possessed in Max Rudolph’s former laboratory. To make up the shortfall in his salary, he signed on as a supervisor in obstetrics at the Lying-in.

  This meant the senior men could rest secure while the lowly residents handled the routine cases—with Adam close by to step in for the emergencies.

  Moreover, since the terms of Adam’s new employment required him merely to be in the medical school area, he could actually work in the lab, able to sprint to the delivery rooms of either the Lying-In or Brigham & Women’s Hospital in less than five minutes. And whenever he was dejected by the enormity of his research, the part-time job gave him an emotional uplift.

  His spirits were always buoyed by the sight of the wriggling, wailing, red-faced newborn creatures destined to change the world of their new parents.

  And perhaps even change the world.

  And yet he found it hard to discuss this aspect of his work with Lisl. He felt that, if anything, Max’s death had exacerbated the pain of her childlessness. But as the months passed, she had begun to come to terms with her loss. At least enough to realize that he had not.

  “Trust me, Adam. Max wouldn’t have wanted you to retreat from life. You’re a young man. You should be thinking about your own babies, not just other people’s.”

  Adam shrugged. “Give me a little time, Lisl,” he replied evasively. “Cavanagh’s still doing his best to make life difficult for me.”

  “Incidentally, how do things stand between you and that nice girl from Washington?”

  Adam shrugged. “What can I say, I’m here, she’s there. Geography just about sums it up.”

  “Why don’t you see if you can dislodge her?”

  Adam didn’t wish to go into details about Toni’s complicated social nexus. But he allowed Lisl’s pressure to tip the scales in favor of his own inclinations. When he got home that night, he telephoned Washington and invited himself for the weekend. Toni did not hide her delight.

  She met his flight. Something about her seemed different. Was he right in thinking she was more sedate? They sped off back across the Potomac in her car.

  Though they had kissed perfunctorily at the airport, there was an uneasy silence for the first minute or so. After which she remarked, “Thank you.”

  “What exactly for?”

  “For what you’re thinking but are too shy to say—that you’re glad to see me.”

  “What makes you so sure?” he asked.

  “Most people don’t smile when they’re unhappy.”

  In her apartment, Adam took off his jacket, donned an apron, and helped her prepare the salad. They worked like lab partners.

  “Why are you so incredibly talkative?” she joked.

  “I’m a scientist,” he said as he patted the lettuce leaves dry. “I’m just trying to analyze the data.”

  “And what is your conclusion, Doctor?”

  Adam turned and gave vent to the feelings of frustration that had seized him once again since he had entered her apartment.

  “I’m confused, Toni,” he said candidly. “I mean, you give off all kinds of different signals. On the one hand you have this incredible ability to make me feel like I’m the only man in the world. And yet we both know you have this commitment.”

  “To my job, Adam. To the Department of Justice. You, if anyone, should appreciate that.”

  “You mean your employer, don’t you?”

  Toni did not disguise her irritation.

  “If you don’t mind, I run my own show. Believe it or not, I employ two paralegals and two secretaries. How I spend my spare time is none of your business. I never asked what kind of involvements you have back in Boston.”

  “They’re not married women, I assure you,” he retorted.

  “Well, good for you, Adam.” She gave a sarcastic laugh. “You live in a town where the ratio of women to men isn’t five to one. In case you haven’t noticed, this village is not only our nation’s capital—it’s a political harem.”

  She paused for a moment and then commented, “Did you come all the way down from Boston just to bicker? You must be trying very hard not to like me.”

  “You’re right,” he admitted. “In my game I’d call it an ‘autoimmune reaction.’ ”

  Suddenly she put her hand gently on the back of his neck and whispered, “It’s all over with him, Adam. It’s been over since the minute I got back from being with you in Boston. I was going to tell you but when Max died it hardly seemed the moment. I’d discovered the difference between a man wanting you and needing you. I hope it doesn’t sound presumptuous, but I honestly felt I made a difference in your life.”

  “You did. You do. I only wish you’d told me sooner.”

  “Well, for once, the timing was right. Have I changed anything?” she asked hopefully.

  “Yeah,” he smiled. “I’d say it sort of changes everything.”

  The rest of that weekend was a kind of prologue to commitment. Toni finally felt secure enough to open her psyche as well as her heart.

  Her childhood had been antithetical to his at almost every point. While he had climbed above his father by mounting the diving platform, she had viewed the world from the height of the pedestal on which Tom Hartnell had placed her.

  He had divorced her mother and married twice more thereafter—being sure to synchronize one of his nuptials with his ambassadorship to Great Britain. He had two sons, but neither had the fire of his daughter Toni.

  Buried somewhere in the Levittown of middle management at the Bank of America, there was even a Thomas Hartnell II. He had sorely disappointed his namesake by opting for the quiet life. Young Norton Hartnell was still more retiring than Tom Junior and had chosen an even quieter existence—teaching English as a second language in a Texas hamlet.

  Understandably, Toni—or “Skipper” as her ex-Navy father loved to call her—was far and away his “favorite son.”

  Adam realized that her predilection for mature men was an inevitable continuation of her deep attachment to the Boss.

  He understood what he was up against, but he was man enough to confess his qualms. “Look, Toni. Nobody knows better than I how close you are to your father. Do you think your relationship with him would allow you to forge another?”

  “I don’t know.” She shrugged. “Why don’t we try taking things one day at a time?”

  “Well,” he answered with a smile, “I was working within the parameters of ‘the time being’ and ‘forever after.’ Does that seem too onerous?”

  “To be honest,” she replied, “I can’t even imagine being lucky in love.”

  “Actually, neither can I—which gives us yet another thing in common,” he confessed. “Why don’t we go on a honeymoon this summer? Take a house on Cape Cod maybe. Then, if we like it, we can get married.”

  “That’s a novel idea,” she said,
her face radiant.

  “Well,” he smiled, “I am supposed to be a scientific innovator.”

  9

  ISABEL

  March 16

  I picked up an old Latin textbook of Dad’s the other day. It really opened a whole new window in my mind.

  I discovered the origins of so many English words. Like “agriculture,” for example, which comes from agricola, meaning farmer, and “decimal” from decimus, meaning ten.

  I wondered what Dad’s reaction would be when he found out that I was spending some of my valuable time on a nonscientific subject. I was amazed when he told me I had terrific instincts. That not only was this so-called “dead language” a good exercise for keeping the mind sharp, but if I learned it well, I’d be able to “talk chemistry” in a single day—and immediately understand words as easy as “carbon” and “fermentation.”

  For once he was pleased that I was doing something extracurricular, probably because it turned out to be “curricular” after all.

  Good news—Peter has just made the junior varsity team. Yay!

  Just after turning eleven, Isabel passed the final high school equivalency exams, theoretically making her eligible to go directly to college, depending of course on how well she scored on the Scholastic Aptitude Tests.

  One rainy Saturday morning in October 1983, Ray and Muriel—who was struggling to maintain a role, however minor, in the drama of her daughter’s developing psyche—drove Isabel to the local high school. Here, alongside students five and even six years older than herself, she took the SATs that would evaluate her verbal and mathematical capacities. Then after a lunch break during which Ray fueled his daughter with brownies, she took three achievement tests: in physics, mathematics, and Latin.

  On the first page of the questionnaire, she requested that her results be sent to the admissions departments of the University of California at San Diego and at Berkeley.

  The second application, Ray explained, was just an exercise to see how she would be judged by the state’s finest university. Obviously there was no question of her being sent away at so early an age.

  At the end of the afternoon, she walked out as fresh as she had been early that morning.

  Her good humor proved justified when the results arrived. Isabel scored a perfect 1600 on the two aptitude tests, and had done so well in the achievement tests that—although it was the last thing in the world she needed—both schools offered her advanced standing.

  Yet no conscientious, self-respecting admissions committee could avoid taking the applicant’s age into consideration. In fact, both directors wrote to the da Costas suggesting that Isabel wait a year or two—perhaps pick up a foreign language.

  Undaunted, Ray even proposed driving all the way from San Diego to Berkeley for her interview.

  “Isn’t that a little beyond the limits of an exercise?” Muriel objected. “I mean, there’s no point in going all that way when Isabel’s not going to accept the place.”

  She looked into her husband’s eyes and immediately understood his entire game plan. She took a deep breath and said firmly, “No, Ray. This is where I draw the line. We’re not moving to Berkeley.”

  And then he shook her. “I’ve never said we were.”

  “Jesus,” she exploded. “I don’t think you’re in your right mind. Do you imagine any court in the state would grant you custody of a twelve-year-old girl?”

  Ray maintained a serene calm. “Who said a word about custody? We’re not divorcing, Muriel. We’re just doing what’s best for our daughter.”

  “Do you regard taking her away from her mother at that terribly crucial age in a girl’s life as best for her?”

  “Intellectually, yes.”

  “That’s all you care about, isn’t it?” Muriel demanded furiously. “Well, I’m not going to let you twist her personality any further. I’ll go to court and get an injunction.”

  Ray smiled with an unmistakable touch of cruelty. “No, you won’t. Because if you meant what you said about wanting her to be happy, you know damn well that taking her away from me will have the opposite effect. Think about it, Muriel, think about it long and hard.”

  He paused and then added, “Meanwhile, I’ll take Isabel to San Francisco.”

  The Berkeley dean of admissions had in his portfolio not merely ecstatic letters of recommendation, but also two confidential and somewhat disturbing communications. The first was from a high school examiner who had questioned Isabel orally. The second came from the girl’s mother. Both warned in similar terms that there was “an unnaturally close relationship between the girl and her father.”

  These unhappy predictions were borne out the minute Dean Kendall opened his door and beckoned Isabel inside. He pulled up short when he noticed that Raymond was tagging along after her. Faced with a diplomatic crisis, he addressed Raymond in an unmistakably chilly tone. “Mr. da Costa, if you don’t mind, I’d like to speak to your daughter alone.”

  “But—” Raymond began to protest before he realized the awkwardness of the situation.

  “I’m sorry,” the dean cut him off quietly. “But if she’s old enough to be going to college, she should certainly be able to have this chat on her own.”

  “Uh, yes.” Raymond mumbled, ill at ease. “You’re quite right.” And then to his daughter, “I’ll be waiting right outside, darling.”

  Alone with the girl, Dean Kendall exercised supreme delicacy. The child was extraordinarily gifted but there was clearly a problem here. He did not specifically mention Raymond, but in an offhand manner asked, “If we were to admit you, Isabel, do you think you could live in dormitories with other girls, some of them twice your age?”

  “No,” she replied happily. “I’d be living with my father.”

  “Yes, yes,” the dean murmured. “That would seem to make sense—at least for the first few years. But don’t you think that would—how can I put it–inhibit your social life?”

  The little girl smiled serenely, “Oh no. Besides, I’m not old enough to have a social life.”

  When they were gone, the dean had an inner argument with himself. She’s far too young. She’s immature. She should really go to a prep school till she’s old enough.

  But, goddammit, if we don’t take her, those bastards at Harvard will.

  Oscillating between guilt and avidity, he composed a letter of acceptance to Ms. Isabel da Costa, offering her a place in the freshman class of ’88 in order to pursue her studies for a bachelor’s degree in Physics.

  In a pretense of fairness, Ray let Muriel have her say. She was barely able to control her anger.

  “Ray, I hate your guts for what you’ve done to Isabel—and me. But you’re right, the only reason I won’t take you to court is because, unlike you, I genuinely care about what happens to her as a person. And also unlike you, I want her to grow up and be happy. I won’t allow her to be the mutilated prize in a parental tug-of-war.”

  He listened silently, hoping that by fulminating, she would spend some of her rage. His tactics were successful, for in the end, Muriel had no alternative but to capitulate.

  “Take her, if you must, but at least don’t shut me out of her life.”

  He quickly accepted the terms of her truce—which were more like unconditional surrender. Suppressing his feelings of triumph, he responded softly, “Muriel, I swear, it’s what Isabel wants. You can ask her. Berkeley’s got one of the greatest Physics departments in the world. And we’ll be home for every vacation, I promise you.” He paused and asked, “Do we have a deal?”

  “Yes,” she answered acidly. “What we don’t have is a marriage.”

  When they finally drove away from the house Isabel asked, “Oh Daddy, are you sure you packed my violin?”

  He turned on her sternly, “As a matter of fact, I didn’t—.”

  “Well then, let’s go back right away.”

  “Darling, I did it deliberately. You’re a college girl now and won’t have time for recreational activit
ies.”

  “But you know how much I love it …”

  He did not reply. At last she spoke.

  “Daddy, I know you think it somehow ties me to home. But I swear I want my fiddle for its own sake.”

  “Sure, sure,” Raymond agreed all too quickly. “I’m sorry, it’s all my fault. I’ll arrange to have it sent up.”

  “Or Mom could bring it when she visits.”

  Raymond’s expression was saturnine, but his voice held little conviction. “Yeah … sure.”

  August 24

  For the first part of our journey I was excited and happy, like someone starting on a trip to an exotic place. But the closer we got to Berkeley, the more I began to feel afraid.

  I mean, it’s one thing to do college work with your father as the teacher. But it’s a whole other thing when—as I imagined—I’d be sitting in a classroom with kids twice my age and maybe twice as smart.

  Dad did his best to reassure me, and we even spent a lot of time going over the Berkeley catalog (he drove, I read) to be sure we had chosen the right courses.

  Except for “Introduction to World Literature,” which I insisted upon taking even though Dad swore that he could get me out of it, the rest of my subjects were from the upper division. We had to choose five units from physics courses like Quantum Mechanics, Electromagnetism and Optics, Particle or Solid State Physics.

  We also planned on taking lots of Applied Math like Advanced Calculus, and Complex Variables.

  I guess by restricting our conversation to academic subjects, we could somehow avoid confronting our feelings.

  Anyway, by the time we reached Berkeley I was on the verge of panic. And when we got to this dinky little place Dad had rented on Piedmont Avenue, I was almost hysterical at the thought of having to move all the millions of books to the second floor.

  Luckily there were three Berkeley jock types living on the ground floor, wearing sweatshirts that looked as if the sleeves had been cut off to show their biceps, and they helped us carry stuff up the stairs.