Zeichner watched him levelly. “Another of your other postdocs came to me this morning. Apparently he was in the lab meeting last fall, when the girl presented the blot from the stem cells. And when he saw a copy of the paper, the tail blot looked familiar. He’d seen it before. She recycled the stem-cell blot; only this time she said it came from the tail.” He paused. “She lied, Frank.”
“But then—” Frank’s mind raced. If Cristina hadn’t gotten the knockout—if XIAP had been functioning—her deception wouldn’t have ended there. The transgenic mice who appeared resistant to tumors—what accounted for their good health?
“She faked the animal data?” he said softly.
Zeichner shrugged. “Frank, you know as well as I do: there are a million ways she could have massaged those numbers.”
Frank stared at the floor. It was true, of course. Any animal data was vulnerable to statistical manipulation; only a scientist’s integrity stood in the way. And if Cristina were devious enough—desperate enough—to lie about the knockout, why stop there? Three cohorts of transgenic mice, three cohorts of control mice: six sets of numbers, the tumors counted and measured with tiny calipers. By leaving out the sickest mice, and underreporting tumor size in the others—a few millimeters here or there—she could have exaggerated the differences between the two groups. It would have been shockingly easy to do.
“Who says so?” Frank demanded. “One of mine?”
“Martin Keohane.”
Frank blinked. Martin had worked in his lab for nearly four years, the organizer of the famous birthday roast. Frank had attended Martin’s wedding and the baptism of his son.
“Martin? You’re joking.” This isn’t happening, he thought. “This makes no sense. For God’s sake, why wouldn’t he come to me first?”
“I wondered that myself.” Zeichner leaned forward in his chair. “Frank, I have to ask: is there some reason why your postdoc would think you couldn’t address this problem fairly?”
“What are you getting at?”
“Look, I don’t know anything about your relationship with this girl, and I’m not asking. I really, really don’t want to know. You’re both adults, and the institute has no policy on extracurricular relationships between colleagues. Although in this case—” He paused. “Look, Frank. There’s a hierarchy here. If your relationship with her, whatever it might be, clouds your judgment, if you can’t oversee her research as rigorously as you would any other postdoc’s, if things start slipping through the cracks—” His voice trailed off. “Then we have a problem.”
Frank opened and closed his fists. He realized he’d lost feeling in his hands.
“Steve, I’m only going to say this once. My relationship with this girl has been perfectly proper. Perfectly,” he added for emphasis. “Has anybody talked with her, for God’s sake? Heard her side of it?”
“Not yet.” Zeichner glanced at his watch. “That’s up to you. But by five o’clock I want her work off the bench. Get her reagents out of the freezer. I’d see to it personally, if I were you. It’s all evidence, Frank. We’ll need it for the internal review.”
FRANK HURRIED down the stairs, taking them two at a time. Pull the paper, he thought frantically. We’ve got to pull the paper. He loomed over Betsy Baird’s desk. “Have you seen Cristina?” he demanded, more harshly than he’d intended.
“Noooo.” She looked at him quizzically. “Is something wrong?”
“If you see her, tell her I want to talk to her,” he barked.
In his office he stared into space a moment, collecting himself. There was only one person he could imagine calling in such a crisis. A scientist whose ethics had never been questioned, who played the game better than anyone he knew. The past was irrelevant now; the present crisis was all that mattered.
He picked up the phone and dialed Neil Windsor.
He’d been on the phone half an hour when he heard the click of high heels in the corridor. Through the glass pane of his office door, he saw Cristina walking down the hall.
“I’ve got to go,” he told Neil. “That’s her now.”
“Don’t lose your temper,” Neil cautioned. “Just get a look at her notebook. That’s all you need to do.”
“Thanks, buddy. I’ll let you know how it goes.”
He hung up the phone and hurried down the hall. Cristina had gone into the lab, a Styrofoam takeout tray in her hand. She turned, startled.
“Frank, you scared me!” Her eyes scanned his face. “Is something wrong?”
“You could say that.” Firmly he closed the door. “Have a seat.”
She pulled out a lab stool and sat, staring up at him. She didn’t look guilty. She looked utterly mystified.
“I talked with Steve Zeichner this morning,” he said. “It seems we have a problem.”
She cocked her head quizzically.
“He’s been looking at your data. Our data. The tail blots.”
She frowned.
“Cristina, is there anything you want to tell me?”
A shadow passed across her face, or maybe he imagined it. “What do you mean?”
He nodded. “All right, then. I need to see your notebook.”
Cristina did not move.
“Well?” he barked.
She looked up at him, her eyes wide. Six months ago the look would have melted him. Now he felt only rage.
“Cristina,” he said through his teeth. “SHOW ME THOSE GELS.”
She bowed her head. For the first time he noticed a glint of silver in her hair.
“I’m sorry,” she said softly.
“You did this?” He stared at her, horrified. “For Christ’s sake, you falsified data?” If she hadn’t succeeded in knocking out the gene, the mice would have been riddled with tumors. Her paper—their paper—had lied outright.
“Do you understand the magnitude of this? Your career, your reputation. My career, for God’s sake! The future of this lab. Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”
He waited, his cheeks flaming.
“Say something! Just tell me why.”
She raised her head. “I was certain I’d gotten the knockout. I don’t know what went wrong.” She hesitated. “If I could just try again—”
He stared at her, his cheeks flaming.
“But there was no time! Frank, you wanted to submit immediately, and I didn’t want to disappoint you. I was afraid you’d change your mind.”
“You’re not suggesting I encouraged this.” He stopped, breathed, chose his words carefully. “I admit, I was eager to submit the paper. But a fraudulent paper? Are you out of your mind?”
“But you said it was ready! No reason to drag our feet, you said. You didn’t want to get mired in the details.”
“Nonsense,” he snapped. “When did I say that?”
“Christmas Eve! You left a message on my answering machine. You said the paper was ready to go. You wanted to get it out the door.”
He remembered then: Christmas Eve in Cambridge, a lonely old drunk in bedroom slippers, holding forth.
“That’s exactly what you said,” Cristina insisted. “I can prove it. I have the tape.”
Cornered, he got angry. Loudly, unapologetically angry. “Oh, come off it! You knew full well those comments were off-the-cuff. It was Christmas Eve, for God’s sake! That hardly qualifies as a final review.”
She met his eyes. “I’ve made a terrible mistake; I know that. I’m not making excuses. But you did ask me why, so I’ll tell you.” Her voice faltered. “I felt for a long time that things had gone bad between us. You were so supportive of my work at first, so encouraging. But then something changed.”
Frank watched her soberly. Shame burned his cheeks.
“You were different with Guei and Martin; I could see that. I felt that I had disappointed you somehow. And I wanted to make you proud of me.”
Billy and Gwen sat in the grass near the reservoir, eating greasy takeout from a Chinese place on Eighty-sixth Street. It was a
Sunday afternoon in April, unseasonably warm, the air spongy and odorous, the first teasing hint of summer. Women wore sandals and flowered dresses. A steady parade of wheeled people—cyclists, skaters, infants in strollers—rolled in and out of the park.
As they ate, Billy caught himself watching her. His sister a constant in his life, comforting, reliable. Unchanged since childhood, or so it seemed: wearing the same clothes, listening to the same music—Supertramp, the Allman Brothers—on vinyl, of course. Now Gwen, at long last, had changed. Her hair had grown nearly to her shoulders. Her ears pierced twice, seven of her fingers decorated with silver rings. He noticed that she had pretty hands.
“So Scott just showed up there? You must have been floored.” Billy popped half a wonton into his mouth, already feeling queasy with guilt. He rarely ate fried food, and certainly not a week before a race; but the dumplings were Gwen’s favorite. She’d shown up at his apartment the night before, her eyes red from crying. Billy hadn’t seen her cry since she was a little girl. In this condition, he couldn’t refuse her anything.
“Maybe I shouldn’t be telling you this,” he said, “but Mom called me about a month ago in a panic. She wanted me to fly down there and bring you back.”
“You’re kidding me.”
“You’re surprised?”
“No, I guess not. Mind if I finish this?” Gwen held up the carton of fried rice. “It makes sense that she asked you first. I mean, why would she have picked Scott?”
Billy chuckled. “Last resort, I guess.”
“He was stoned out of his mind when he showed up.”
“That figures,” Billy said. “Then what? He tried to talk you into leaving?”
“For about a minute. Then he sort of forgot about it.” Gwen shrugged. “We sat on deck and watched the sunset. Then I drove him back to his hotel.”
“But it worked,” Billy said, puzzled. “I mean, here you are.”
“It had nothing to do with Scott.” Gwen’s eyes began to well. “I just came to my senses, is all. New subject, please.”
And as always when they were together, they spoke of childhood. Lying in the grass, rubbing his bloated stomach, Billy told Gwen about the time Paulette took him into Cambridge to spy on his father.
It was a morning in September, his first week in the eighth grade. Paulette had kept him home from school, a thing she’d never done before; they dropped Scotty and Gwen at Pilgrims, then drove into town. To this day he wasn’t sure why she’d taken him along, what possessed her to include him in their jazzy adult gaming. Maybe she’d merely needed a witness, someone to share in her triumph when she caught Frank in a lie.
Billy hadn’t understood, at first, where they were going. Then they made the turn into Cambridge and he recognized the square buildings of MIT where, that summer, his father had taken him to spend a day in the lab. That other day had begun brightly, with orange juice and muffins in a university cafeteria. Then his father had walked him through the lab, pointing out the different equipment, letting him look through the microscopes. Finally he left Billy in a corner with some scientific journals—to browse through, it seemed, as though he were waiting for the dentist—and started banging away at a typewriter, the bell ringing periodically as he came to the end of a line. At first Billy waited patiently, staring at the old Seth Thomas clock—the humming sweep of the seconds, the caffeinated jump of the minutes. Later he waited impatiently, fidgeting in his chair. It didn’t matter which he did. His father never looked up from his report.
Finally his father’s secretary, a blond girl named Betsy, walked past the open door and saw him sitting there. She took him into a cramped room filled with filing cabinets. The radio was playing, which surprised him. At home he listened whenever possible, but he’d always thought adults didn’t like music. This seemed to be true of all the adults he knew.
Stacks of manila folders were piled on the desk, the cabinets, the floor. The papers had been moved from some other office and Betsy was supposed to file them. She asked if Billy would help.
Sure, he said, happy to do something besides stare at the clock, yet nervous, because Betsy had very long hair and wore fruity perfume and smiled at him when she spoke.
She showed him the code written on each file, a long string of letters and numbers, corresponding to labels on the cabinet drawers. They worked back-to-back, their bodies nearly touching, Betsy’s perfume filling the tiny room.
They worked that way minutes or hours, who could tell, until a particular song came on the radio. Billy recognized the opening bars immediately. The song was “Billy Don’t Be a Hero.”
He knew all the words, of course—if you were a kid in those days and your name was Billy and you listened to the radio ten hours a day, you couldn’t not know the words. It was a silly song he secretly liked, a girl pleading with some Billy who was going to enlist and get his head blown off unless he came to his senses and married her. Listening, he marveled at how stupid this other Billy was. Of course it was the girl he identified with, the girl who had the passion and the good sense, who was clearly in the right.
It’s your song! Betsy squealed. She upped the volume and, with a goofy expression on her face, stared into his eyes and sang the song to him, her pretty girl voice stronger on the high notes. It was a moment he would always remember, Betsy in her short skirt and dangling earrings, holding an imaginary microphone to her pink glossy lips. Betsy’s shoulders bobbing to the music, a spoofy anguish in her voice that filled him with delight.
And so there he was a few months later in his mother’s station wagon, circling the building where his father worked. Billy spotted Frank’s new car, a dark green convertible, parked on the street. His mother parked illegally, blocking a fire hydrant, and left the engine idling. Billy looked at the gas gauge. Like everybody, he was obsessed with gas then, the intrigue of filling the tank on even or odd days, depending on the license number.
We’re wasting gas, he almost told his mother, but didn’t. He sensed that something important was about to happen.
They sat there a long time, until Frank came out of the building with Betsy. A breeze played with her long hair. She laughed as his father spoke. Billy watched his mother. Her lips were white; she had chewed away her lipstick. Round red splotches were on both her cheeks, like a clown’s makeup.
There’s a cafeteria in that building, he said. Dad took me there once. They’re going to eat lunch. That’s not bad, he wanted to add, but didn’t. They’re just eating lunch. He was old enough to grasp the basics, the reason for his mother’s pain.
“Did Dad see you?” Gwen asked.
“Nope. We drove back to Concord and I remember Mom was very quiet. I wanted to turn on the radio and she said no, if she didn’t concentrate she was going to crash the car. Then we got home and she made me a sandwich.” Billy paused. “But here’s the weird part. The very next morning she did crash the car. Not the station wagon. Dad’s convertible. The Saab 97. Remember this?”
“Sure,” said Gwen. “It was the day before my birthday. She went to the bakery to get me a cake.”
“Yeah. I don’t know why she took his car, though. It was a stick shift, which she hated. I remember how mad she was when he bought it, this car she could barely drive. Remember?”
“I remember when she wrecked the car,” Gwen said slowly. “Dad was bullshit. But the other thing? The spying?” She frowned. “I thought they were happy then. Before—” She stopped.
Before the doctors, before the Turner’s. Before I ruined everything. Billy thought for a second that she might say it. But she was Gwen, and did not.
“They always had problems,” he said. It wasn’t you, he wanted to add, but didn’t. It wasn’t your fault.
That evening, waving at the back of Gwen’s taxi, which had been joined by so many others that he might have been waving at the wrong one, Billy wondered why he’d told the story at all. He hadn’t thought of that day in years. It was true: his parents’ marriage had been rocky all along.
Yet when anyone asked what had caused the divorce—Sri, Matthew Stone, the few friends close enough to ask personal questions—he found himself telling a very different story. My dad couldn’t handle Gwen’s condition. After she was diagnosed, he was out of there like a shot. That was his mother’s version of events, and Billy realized—on some level, had realized all along—that it wasn’t entirely true. For one thing, Frank had hung on for nearly a year after Gwen’s diagnosis, the marital bloodshed escalating until Billy, for one, had been relieved to see him go.
Why are you so tough on Dad? Gwen often asked him. It was Frank, after all, who’d gotten her properly diagnosed, who’d pursued what were then cutting-edge treatments for Turner’s. No father could have been more concerned, more involved. Yet in Billy’s eyes, Frank’s few virtues didn’t cancel out his many failings. The damage he had done.
Better than anyone else, Billy knew how Paulette had suffered. All through the divorce he’d been her confidant. Your father is leaving us. Abandoning your poor sister. Honestly, it’s more than I can bear. Her tears had frightened him, the sheer force of her rage. Each time he waited silently for the storm to pass, ashamed of his helplessness, his inability to comfort her. He felt obligated to blame his father. It was a sign of loyalty, one his mother seemed to require. At fourteen, fifteen, he had dreaded school vacations: the ongoing drama of shuttling Gwen to doctors, the bitter parental arguments that preceded and followed. How gratefully he’d returned to Pearse, finally free of both his parents. Free, even, of Gwen. Back then it had seemed safer and wiser to keep them all at a distance. In this way, the System had begun.
He crossed the avenue and climbed the stairs to his apartment, feeling suddenly exhausted. Not by the easy eight he’d run yesterday—his training was in the tapering phase—or by his sister’s company, but by his own. All weekend he’d worried—grimly, relentlessly—whether he was saying the right things, whether he’d done enough to help. Sri, if he’d been there, would have seen him fretting, his thoughts spinning like laundry in the washer. You’re doing fine, Sri would have told him, and Billy would have believed him. Sri was no expert on Gwen—since Billy’s accident they’d had no contact beyond pleasantries on the phone—but he was an expert on Billy. You’ve got to stop improving, Sri had once told him. You’re so busy trying to do everything better that you’re missing your whole life. Stop. Stop.
The Condition Page 32
