by Erich Segal
“I can’t help it, Doctor,” she pleaded. “I can’t fight the Oedipus complex. My daughter insists on Adam driving her to school.”
“Because he talks to me,” Heather shouted at Schonberg. “He actually asks me what I think about things.”
“But darling,” Toni addressed her, “I take just as keen an interest.”
“That’s bull, Mom. I admit you talk—that is, your lips move—but you interrogate me like a witness. I sometimes think you’re warming up for court.”
Again Toni turned to the arbiter. “You see, Doctor, how can I compete with this? I’m up against a perfect father.”
“He’s not perfect,” Heather acknowledged. “But at least he tries. I mean, he actually listens to what I say. I hate it when you ask me things like what all my ‘little friends’ think about the Republicans’ chances. I don’t give two screws about politics. Maybe things’ll be better if you take that Georgetown offer.”
“What Georgetown offer?” Adam interrupted, glaring at his wife.
Caught by surprise, Toni answered defensively, “It’s just come up. Heather happened to walk into the room while they were sounding me out on the phone—”
“Hey, you guys,” Heather exploded. “Why don’t you fight this out later? Right now you’re supposed to be concentrating on me.”
Both Adam and Toni were suddenly shame-faced, casting self-conscious glances at Dr. Schonberg.
Heather burst into tears.
As she continued to sob uncontrollably, Adam embraced her and glared at Toni.
They drove home in glacial silence. In addition to the humiliation, Adam was furious at having to learn so indirectly that Toni had been making important plans behind his back. But he would deal with that later. For the moment, he had to make things better for his daughter.
“Hey, guys,” he said jauntily. “I just had a terrific idea. I know it’s a little while away, but why don’t we plan to go skiing during the Christmas vacation?”
Toni began to defrost. “That’s great.”
“And listen to this,” Adam continued, enormously relieved that his gesture of conciliation had garnered at least one vote. “I’ve heard about a terrific place in Canada, near Lake Huron. It has lots of cabins and a great indoor pool. It would be a long haul, but I’m willing. What about you, Heather? I could give you those diving lessons I’ve been promising.”
From the back of the car the sound of his daughter’s voice suggested that she was Daddy’s girl again.
“Oh,” she said with artless gratification, “I’d really love that, Dad.”
Adam had no illusions that his other problem would be so easily resolved.
Emotionally exhausted, Heather barely picked at her food, then went up to her room to prepare for bed.
Adam walked into the kitchen and confronted Toni. “What the hell is this Georgetown business?”
“It’s pretty flattering, really,” she replied, trying to gloss over the fact that she had kept it from him. “A visiting lecturer in Con Law just finked out on them, until the end of next term. I was going to talk it over with you tonight.”
“What do you mean ‘talk it over’? You’ve obviously decided yourself.”
“As a matter of fact I have. I could do the whole thing in a single day and be back the same night. I think I deserve a chance to spread my wings a little bit, don’t you? Especially since I could revive some of my flagging Washington contacts.”
“But what about Heather?” he asked, furious.
“I’ve got a lead on a fabulous nanny who’s willing to come in on her day off,” Toni replied.
“Nanny? I thought we agreed not to be parents by proxy.”
“Okay,” she said firmly, “then you can stay home every Wednesday.”
“Come on, you know that’s impossible,” he protested. “I’ve got a lab to run and patients who have unscheduled emergencies.”
“Well, she’s our child, you offer another solution.”
Adam paused for a moment, and then, smoldering, backed down. “Maybe we should see if this nanny’s any good.”
Mrs. Edwina Mallory turned out to be such a pleasant and efficient woman that it sometimes seemed as if their daughter actually looked forward to her Wednesday visits.
By the time Toni returned at ten-thirty P.M., the gray-haired nanny would have served dinner, the kitchen would be immaculate, and Heather would be fast asleep having—rare occurrence—done all her homework.
Toni’s weekly absence afforded Adam the opportunity to have regular phone conversations with Anya. He was able to monitor her mood—and lift it when necessary.
He was sometimes tempted to propose a meeting. But then, he did not trust his feelings. Or, more accurately, he did not want to surrender to them.
One Wednesday evening in mid-October, when Mrs. Mallory was still tidying the kitchen, Toni phoned to say that she had missed the last flight back to Boston.
Irritated, Adam glanced at his watch and frowned. “Don’t tell me you gave a six-hour seminar.”
“Not a chance,” she replied good-humoredly. “But I dropped in on a cocktail party for a special guest and sort of lost track of time. I’ll stay at the Marriott and take the first plane tomorrow. With luck I’ll be there to see Heather before she leaves for school.”
She paused and then added quietly, “Hey, I’m sorry about this.”
“Listen, these things happen,” he commented without much conviction.
Moments after he hung up, a thought suddenly struck him. Wasn’t Toni’s one-time patron, the former Attorney General, now a professor at Georgetown Law School?
At first he blamed himself for even entertaining such untrusting fantasies. After all, he had never cheated during his own solo journeys.
Nonetheless, a half hour later he found himself dialing the number of the Marriott Hotel at National Airport.
“Hello.” Toni’s voice sounded surprised.
Adam was relieved. “I’m just calling to say I miss you,” he said, in what he hoped was a convincing tone.
“Thanks, Adam,” she replied. “I’m really glad you did.”
“Anyway, I hope you won’t make a habit of this,” he cautioned. “Have you had a good dinner?”
She laughed. “Stop talking like a mother. Yes, I had soup and a sandwich in my room.”
They chatted idly for a few more minutes, then exchanging endearments, bade each other good night.
After he hung up, Adam could not help thinking that there was still the possibility that someone else might have been with her. And in a curious way, the notion suited him. For now he dialed Anya to propose a change in their plans.
“Hello,” she said. “I’m so happy it’s Wednesday night.”
“Me too. I was just wondering—if I can get Mrs. Mallory to stay, I might be able to come over and pay a personal visit. Does that sound all right to you?”
“Do you even have to ask?” she replied.
21
SANDY
During his first three undergraduate years at MIT, Sandy Raven’s social pleasures were—to be precise—nonexistent. During summer vacations he redressed this imbalance by dedicated hedonism on the West Coast. But by the time he was a senior, he had made up his mind that he would no longer be a winter monk and a summer satyr.
What seemed to be holding back his social life in Cambridge? The conclusion was all too painfully clear. Here, being the son of a Hollywood producer was no big deal. He was neither tall, nor dark, nor handsome. But he resolved to change as much of that as he could.
To expand his physique he bought a set of weights, although—to his embarrassment—he had to enlist the help of two other undergraduates to haul the equipment up to his room from the lobby, where it had been delivered. Meticulous scientist that he was, he studied the exercises recommended in the pamphlet and embarked on a program that he supplemented with ingestion of protein powder, to speed muscle growth.
They were an odd fraternity, those MIT
boys—fiercely competitive, yet tolerant of one another’s idiosyncrasies. Barry Winnick not only endured the bizarre grunting and groaning emanating from Sandy’s cubicle in the wee hours of the morning, but even agreed to serve as a safety man when Sandy lay on his back to do bench presses.
“I tell you, Raven,” Barry commented as he supervised his neighbor’s exertions, “if this works for you, I’ll try it too. I haven’t been that lucky with girls myself. I can see where you’re getting stronger. But how exactly do you intend to achieve the triple goal you outlined to me? Especially the tall part. Are you going to try and stretch yourself by hanging for hours in your doorway?”
“Winnick,” Sandy protested, “do I look that stupid to you? Anyway, even though my plan’s classified, you’ve been such a good pal that I’ll let you in on it. The dark and handsome part is going to come from a sun lamp I’m buying at Lechmere. These weight exercises will increase my shirt size, which’ll add to the impression of power. But the real secret will be if Dr. Li heeds my appeal.”
“You mean Professor Cho Hao Li from San Francisco?”
“Yes, the one who’s used recombinant DNA techniques to synthesize the human growth hormone—”
“Right, hGH—otherwise known as somatotrophin. It’s a single polypeptide with 191 amino acids. Anyway, it’s for curing dwarfism in children. What good could it possibly do for you?”
Sandy sat up and wiped his face with a towel. “I’ve written to Li, making an appeal to inject me on compassionate grounds.”
“What ‘compassionate grounds’? You’re average height, about five-foot-nine.”
“Yeah,” Sandy acknowledged, “when I stand up straight. But that’s nowhere enough. I’ve asked the professor if he can get me as close to six feet as possible.”
“My God, that much hGH might kill you. Why the hell do you want to be so tall?”
Sandy looked at Barry and shook his head as if to say, You ignorant asshole, isn’t it obvious? He needed no words to reply. He simply pointed to the many pictures of Rochelle pasted around the room, by now so numerous they almost qualified as wallpaper.
“Jeez, are you still hung up on her? I’d have thought you’d gotten over her by now.”
“I don’t wanna get over her,” Sandy replied. “I wanna get her. And I’ve read in the gossip columns that she goes for hunk Hollywood types.”
Barry looked at his classmate for a moment and muttered, “Gosh, Raven, I used to think you were normal—I mean, relative to the other weirdos around here. But now I think you’re really off your tree.”
“I’ll remember you said that,” Sandy countered. “Don’t expect an invitation to the wedding.”
“I never did,” Barry retorted. “I’m not tall enough.”
Sandy waited impatiently for Dr. Li’s reply. When the second week passed and his mailbox remained empty, he gathered his courage and called San Francisco. He actually got through to the great man himself.
“Yes, I received your letter,” the professor acknowledged in a kindly tone of voice. “But I couldn’t possibly reply to the immense number of appeals I get, even from genuinely serious cases. Besides, as far as we know now, the drug is only really effective if administered before puberty. And I assume if you’re at MIT …”
“Yes, Doctor, I am. I understand. Thanks for your time.”
That night he shared the bad news with Barry.
“Well, at least it’s over,” his neighbor consoled him. “So you can start thinking about other more important things.”
“Yeah,” Sandy replied, “like learning enough genetic engineering to make a super hGH.”
Unfortunately, Sandy was not able to become hunk enough for Rochelle—at least this time. In the checkout line at the supermarket the following week, he flicked through one of the tabloids and found the announcement of her forthcoming marriage to Lex Federicks, one of her classmates at the Fox Academy who had graduated to feature roles and become something of a teenage idol.
Predictably, the wedding was an outdoor affair at Malibu. Before a crowd of the ritziest and the glitziest, the couple exchanged vows, kissed, and then ran into the water.
The news broke the day Sandy received word he had been accepted into the MIT doctoral program in biochemistry. Otherwise his spirits might have sunk even lower and he might have contemplated hurling himself into the Charles.
His summers in Hollywood had made him aware that Lex was not only a dimwit, but the owner of a nasty temper whose physical expression did not even respect the female gender.
During the weekly telephone call with his son, Sidney made a Herculean effort to cheer the boy up.
“Hey kiddo,” he commented, “I know how much you liked her. But believe me, marrying an actress is like jumping out of a plane without a parachute. It’s exhilarating for the first few minutes, but pretty quick you’re gonna hit the ground with an awful thud.”
“I know how stupid it sounds,” Sandy confessed openly for the first time. “And she’s used me for a doormat since we were kids, but I love her. It’s—how can I put it, Dad? Like some sort of disease.”
“Just wait awhile, son,” his father reassured him. “I promise you your time will come. A starlet is like the Roman Empire. Sooner or later everything falls. The boobs. The ass. The ratings. In the long run the broads who once took your breath away let the plastic surgeons take their dough away.”
Sandy may have been a step or two behind in the Hollywood social rat race, but he was a front-runner in his choice of speciality, for arguably the most important achievement in the late twentieth century study of the body was the discovery and cataloging of the genes that composed it. As James Watson, the DNA pioneer, stated, “If you’re young, there’s really no option but to be a molecular biologist.”
There were already genetic tests that could reveal the absence of abnormalities in a growing fetus. On the far but visible horizon was the possibility of discovering which chromosome carried which diseases—the different cancers, brain tumors, even Alzheimer’s.
If the specific gene were found, its defects could be studied and, with time, scientists could build the equivalent of a better mousetrap—a new, improved gene, that, like an unmanned spaceship, would automatically do its repair work inside the body.
Just how far these studies could be carried was a matter of heated debate. There were still many who believed genetic engineering was mere science fiction. But in laboratories all over the world medical researchers were busy transforming fiction into fact.
As usual, Hollywood both exploited and trivialized the medical trend. The Six Million Dollar Man may have been a potboiler, but its basic thesis—that various replacement parts of the human apparatus could be manufactured to order—was, at the laboratory level at least, truer than its creators could have imagined.
And in this real-life drama Sandy Raven was determined to become a hero.
The MIT graduation day was doubly festive for Sidney Raven. Not only was his son receiving a Bachelor of Science degree with Honors, but his latest release of the soon to be legendary Godzilla Meets David and Goliath was in its sixth week among the top twenty grossers around the world.
Sandy was allowed to book any restaurant for his celebratory lunch. Without hesitation he chose Jack and Marian’s in Brookline, which served gargantuan sandwiches for gargantuan appetites.
It took only a few outsized bites before the conversation got around to Rochelle.
“She’s going to be huge, Dad, isn’t she?”
Sidney replied with evasion, “Mmmmm …” feigning a full mouth.
But Sandy waited.
“Listen kiddo, let’s not spoil the day.…”
“What do you mean? Is something wrong with Rochelle?”
“No—she’s fine.” He paused and then added, “It’s just that her career’s dead. The studio didn’t pick up her contract.”
“But why? I don’t get it,” Sandy asked, heartbroken. “She had so much going for her.”
> “Yeah, maybe,” his father acknowledged. “But she did lack one small thing—talent.”
“Isn’t there any way you can help her, Dad?”
“Listen, I’ve already gone out on a limb for her lots of times. You gotta realize one thing—Hollywood isn’t a charitable institution. But if it’ll make you happy, I’ll see if I can get her some kind of job with the studio.”
“Oh, thanks Dad, thanks,” Sandy whispered affectionately.
“No problem,” Sidney murmured, and then asked cautiously, “What exactly is it with you and Rochelle, Sandy? I mean, you’ve been in Hollywood. There are broads just as beautiful as her serving hamburgers on roller skates. I could understand it when you were just a wet-eared kid, but you’re a big boy—good-looking in your way—and there’s all kinds of women who’d be tickled to know you. So what the hell’s so special about this gal?”
Sandy shook his head. “I don’t know, Dad.”
The elder man was silent for a moment, and then asked tactfully, “Isn’t part of it that she never gave you the time of day?”
“Yeah, I guess that’s most of it.”
A week later Sidney telephoned his son in Boston. “Okay, sonny boy,” he announced. “I moved heaven and earth, called in all my markers, made all kinds of promises I shouldn’t have—but your secret love won’t be booted off the lot after all. Starting Monday, she’s an assistant editor in the story department.”
“Oh,” Sandy said. “You’re really terrific, Dad. How did Rochelle take the news?”
“Well, she took the job like a shot. She’s got a lot of spunk, that girl. As we were walking out of the interview, she swore to me that in a year she’d be running the whole department.”
“Gosh,” Sandy rhapsodized. “That’s wonderful. Uh, did she, um, mention me at all?”
“Sure, sure,” Sidney replied as convincingly as he could. “She sends her … love.”
22
ADAM
Anya’s driving instructions had not been precise, and Adam had some difficulty in locating her house after going through Watertown Square. At last he found it, and for once agreed with an opinion of academician Avilov’s: if the peeling paint on the wooden porch was any indication, the place indeed qualified as “a dump.”
