A Tangled Web

by Judith Michael

  “Mommy!”

  “That’s the deadline, Penny, and you know it. When you’re twelve you can add half an hour.”

  “Barbara has till midnight.”

  “I don’t believe it.”

  “Well . . . when she’s home and they’re having a party . . .”

  “But when she goes out?”

  “Ten-thirty,” Penny said reluctantly, then impulsively threw her arms around Sabrina. “It’s okay, I don’t mind. Can I wear my new dress?”

  “Yes, but it needs hemming. Ask Mrs. Thirkell.”

  Penny ran to Mrs. Thirkell and Garth and Sabrina turned to each other. “You’re wonderful with her,” Garth said. “She wants restraints—they all do, really, especially and mostly the indulged ones—and somehow you’ve always known that.”

  Always. Since September. At first it was easy to be strict because it’s always easier with another woman’s children, but then it was because they were mine and I worried about them and feared for them and, mostly, loved them.

  “I love her. I love Cliff. I love you.” She put her arms around him and kissed him.

  “What did Alexandra want?”

  “An evening of talk. She’s coming to dinner—at eight o’clock, which shows that she has no children. I can’t imagine her in this house, but it seems she wants to reminisce. You don’t have to stay and listen.”

  “I thought I’d go to my office. It would be a quiet time to go over Lu’s paper. Would you mind?”

  “Of course not. Can you pick up Penny at ten-thirty, or be home so I can?”

  “I’ll pick her up.”

  They kissed again and stood in each other’s arms as the sun streamed into the breakfast room and the bright voices of their children danced around Mrs. Thirkell’s directions and words of advice. My home, my place, my love, Sabrina thought. The thought was sharper because she had slipped into her London self as soon as she heard Alexandra’s voice, and for a moment it had seemed as if she held both lives in her hands and then, without hesitation or regret, had opened the London hand and let that life slip away.

  * * *

  “No, I won’t live there ever,” she said to Alexandra that night. They were alone in the library, a pot of coffee and the last of Mrs. Thirkell’s apple pie on the table before them. “That was Sabrina Longworth’s life, and my life is here.”

  Alexandra contemplated her. “You look gorgeous; night and day from the way you looked in London last time I saw you. Of course that was a ghastly time, that funeral, and then everybody gorging themselves at her house as if they were afraid they might never eat again . . .”

  “Or be alive,” Sabrina said quietly. “People eat after funerals to convince themselves they’re still alive and healthy, everything functioning, death unthinkable.”

  “God, you sound just like her; that’s something she’d say, in just that voice.” Alexandra tilted her head and studied her. “You look like her and you don’t. After the funeral, when the hordes were descending on the food, I kept watching you, and I thought I was crazy because I was sure you were Sabrina. I would have laid bets on it. But now I wouldn’t be so sure. You’re . . . oh, I don’t know . . . softer than Sabrina was. No, that’s not it. Quieter, not as much on edge.”

  “Happier, maybe.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Sabrina had some worries—didn’t we all—but she was pretty happy, you know; we had a good time.”

  “I know.” Sabrina smiled at her, glad to be with her. She was tall and willowy, with light blue eyes that turned up at the corners and pale blond hair falling sleekly down her back. She wore cream-colored silk pants and a matching short-sleeved blouse, and emeralds and diamonds at her neck and ears and wrists. Sabrina pictured herself in her French cotton sundress, with a Katherine Hayward amber necklace and earrings, and ballet slippers on her bare feet, and knew she was as perfectly dressed as Alexandra, but she also knew that she had lost the sleekness that radiated from Alexandra: a final polish that had been part of her London life when she was always on display. And I don’t miss it, she thought, smiling at Alexandra. “You look perfect. Are you as happy as you look?”

  “Honey, I find this hard to believe, but I am. I like building towns in Brazil; it’s the first time in my life I’ve really felt useful. And I’ve fallen in love with Antonio, which is a good thing to do with your husband. I have Sabrina to thank for that; he learned a lot from her before she sent him packing.”

  “Antonio learned . . . ?” Sabrina was amazed; he had seemed impervious to any influences when she knew him. But it was Stephanie who broke with him, and she must have done it with a kind of innocent finality that Sabrina never had been able to muster. “What did he learn?”

  “That other people, even women, have their own ideas and their own agendas that are as legitimate as his. I don’t mean it’s a heartfelt belief all the time, only sporadically, so I need to remind him, but he’s doing better, and I’ve never had as much fun as I’m having now. I wish Sabrina could have known.”

  “She would have been glad for both of you.”

  “So what are you going to do about London? I thought you’d merged your shops, there and here.”

  “I did, but it isn’t what I really want. It’s incredible how much energy a house and a family take—”

  “You’re just finding that out? How old are your kids?”

  “Eleven and twelve. No, of course I knew it, but everything doubled or tripled when I tried to juggle all of it with London. And when I thought about it, I realized I didn’t want to be a juggler.”

  “No, I see that. Sabrina would have tried it; she probably could have made it work. But you’re more focused here; you’re really wrapped up in all this. I’m sorry Garth couldn’t stay tonight; I like his looks. Smart and sexy, and, my God, the way he looks at you . . . every woman’s dream. And I thought we’d have your kids, too; are your nights always this quiet?”

  Sabrina laughed. “Hardly. Penny’s at a party; Cliff is upstairs with a friend, playing computer games.”

  “And Garth’s at work.”

  “He thought we’d like some time alone.”

  “He was right, actually; I like this.” There was a pause. “I have a question.”

  “I thought so.”

  “You thought so?”

  “I thought there was a reason you came to Chicago. Straight from London.”

  “You know, you’re really unbelievable. Sabrina used to do that: just about read my mind. It’s disconcerting, honey; it was then and it is now.”

  “But you still have a question.”

  “I do. Is Ambassadors for sale?”

  “The only one who could have told you that is Sidney Jones, and I asked him not to tell anyone yet.”

  “Well, some lawyers have generous hearts. I called him because I knew he was your solicitor and I told him it has been my lifelong dream to own Ambassadors and I would be crushed if you sold it—”

  “Your lifelong dream?”

  “A small exaggeration. I’ve been dreaming about it for the past couple of months. Honey, I could run it—I’m back and forth from Brazil all the time—and I want to do it. I want something of my own, apart from Antonio, and also . . . it would be like keeping Sabrina with me. I’ll need some experts to help me until I learn a lot more than I know now, but London is crawling with experts. And wouldn’t you rather sell to me than to a stranger?”

  “Yes. I’d be very happy if you owned Ambassadors. The price is one million pounds.”

  Alexandra burst into laughter. “You don’t waste time, do you? You even converted the money into pounds. That’s without the inventory?”

  “With the inventory.”

  “Then you’re cheating yourself.”

  “I don’t know the market in London these days. If you think I’ve cheated myself when you sell the pieces in the shop, send me half the purchase price. Then you’re on your own.”

  “Honey, am I missing something? You’ve got it all thought out. Di
d you know I was going to do this? How could you?”

  “I didn’t know, but I think it’s wonderful. You’re right: I didn’t want to sell to a stranger. I feel the same way about my house, but that probably—”

  “Yes, Sidney told me about the house. I don’t need it; I have my own and you made it so wonderful I wouldn’t give it up. But I have some friends who are looking for a place; would you mind if I told them about it?”

  Sabrina felt a moment of panic. It was all being taken from her. She had thought it would be a slow process, interviewing people, checking references, cataloguing inventory, all giving her time to let go slowly, to say farewell to what she had been. Now it was being snatched away from her and instinctively she put out a hand to hold it back.

  But I don’t want to. And as soon as she thought it, her panic was gone; her reluctance vanished. “That would be fine,” she said. Her hand was still out and she put it on Alexandra’s arm, and then they were holding each other, and both of them were thinking about Sabrina Longworth. “Thank you,” she said at last. “I thought it would be so hard to do all that, cut the ties and turn my back on it . . . but this way it’s almost like keeping it in the family. Do you think we could do all the paperwork by September? I’d like to have it done by my birthday.”

  “The nineteenth, right? Well, why not? Even lawyers ought to get through the paperwork in six weeks.” She stood up and went to the small bar in the corner of the room and, as casually as if she were, in fact, a member of the family, she poured two glasses of port. “I’d like to drink to that.”

  “Yes. And to more visits. Would you come to Chicago again?”

  “Honey, Antonio believes there are two places in the world: Brazil and Europe. Why don’t you come to see me? I’m in Paris a lot; I’ll be in London more than ever now; and we just bought a house in Provence, between Cavaillon and Gordes. You’d be welcome; you and your family. Oh, what a great idea! The kids would love it. Say you’ll come. Not now; it’s too hot. But in the fall . . .”

  “I’ll talk to Garth. He has to be at the Hague in October and we’re going to be in Paris for a week after that, just the two of us. We might come to Provence for a couple of days; we’ll talk about it.”

  The telephone rang and Sabrina looked at her watch in surprise. “Ten o’clock; maybe Penny wants to come home early. Excuse me.”

  When she answered it, Garth’s voice was hurried, abstracted. “I have to stay later than I’d expected. Can you get Penny?”

  “I don’t like to leave Cliff alone.”

  “I thought Alexandra would still be there.”

  “Garth, what is it? What’s wrong?”

  “I’m not sure yet. I’ll tell you about it when I get home.”

  “Is it Lu’s paper?”

  “It may be. Is Alexandra still there? Can she stay while you get Penny?”

  “I’m sure she will. I’ll take care of it, Garth. And I’ll wait for you.”

  “I’ll be home as soon as I can. I love you.” Garth hung up and turned back to his desk, where the neatly printed pages of Lu’s paper, with perfectly spaced paragraphs, formulas, and footnotes, were spread out before him.

  Lu had been working for two years to find a way to produce mice with rheumatoid arthritis identical to that in humans so that scientists could rapidly test new treatments to alleviate and cure arthritis. To do this he had begun with a person who had rheumatoid arthritis, and isolated and removed genes that controlled the formation of joint tissue. Once the genes were isolated, he cloned them, collected fertilized mouse eggs and injected the cloned genes into the eggs, and then transferred the eggs to the oviduct of a foster mother mouse.

  He went through the same procedure with the same person to isolate and remove genes that produced lymphocytes that attacked the joint tissue, causing arthritis. When he had two strains of mice with the two kinds of genes, he mated them. His theory was that their progeny would have rheumatoid arthritis identical to that of humans.

  Garth had worked with Lu on his program of isolating and cloning the genes, and of producing two strains of mice that could be mated. They had celebrated together when Lu succeeded in producing a mouse with the gene that controlled the formation of human joint tissue. But after that Lu had withdrawn into the harder part of the project: producing a mouse with the gene with instructions for producing lymphocytes that would attack joint tissue.

  And I was busy with the institute, Garth thought, hunched over the papers on his desk. And with my wife. And for a year I haven’t paid enough attention.

  He had thought from the beginning, two years earlier, that Lu would find it was not a single gene that controlled the development of lymphocytes, but two, perhaps more, which would complicate the project even further. But Lu had created his transgenic mice—mice with foreign genes—with a single gene controlling the development of joint tissue and a single gene controlling the development of lymphocytes. That was the reason Garth thought Lu had taken such a giant step forward.

  But something nagged at him as he read the paper. He remembered other experiments with lymphocytes that had been ambiguous as to the number of genes involved; he recalled conversations with other researchers who said there had to be several genes, and papers that concluded there was much still to be learned.

  But Lu’s paper, elegantly constructed, said the issue was resolved.

  Well, hallelujah, Garth had thought since Lu had told him. But beneath the celebrating, questions remained, and they became insistent in the silence of his office in the empty Molecular Biology Building at nine o’clock on a Friday night. And so, after reading the paper a third time, he reached for the telephone to call his friend Bill Farver. Seven o’clock in San Francisco, he thought; probably still at work. He called Farver’s office at Farver Labs and found him there. “I thought you’d like to be the first to know that Lu Zhen says he’s done it. I’m going over his paper now.”

  Farver’s voice rumbled over the telephone, sounding as if he were in the next office. “Transgenic progeny with human rheumatoid arthritis? Garth, that’s fantastic. Hats off; a hundred hats off. Of course I’m crushed; I don’t like coming in second.”

  “How close are you?”

  “Well, we’re having trouble with the second gene for the lymphocytes; I don’t know how long it’ll be. I’d like to see Lu’s paper; see how he did it.”

  Garth stared into the dark corners of his office. He and Farver had not talked about details; in a real sense they were competitors and only now, when he thought this part of the race was won, had Farver been so specific. “What have you tried?” he asked casually.

  They compared notes on experimental techniques, Lu’s and Farver’s and others in Farver’s lab, and then Farver said, “I just don’t see how he did it, Garth. Two of my researchers swear there has to be a second gene, that there’s no way you could end up with rheumatoid arthritis in a mouse with only one gene; you’ve got to have both. ‘Course that’s not the word of God from Jerusalem, but they’ve done a hell of a lot of work on this and I’m inclined to think they’re right. Have you checked out Lu’s work?”

  Garth started to snap that of course he had; that that was his job as Lu’s advisor and the director of his postdoctoral research project . . . but he got no further than opening his mouth. He hadn’t checked out Lu’s research as it progressed. He’d been busy, he’d trusted Lu, and he’d wanted him to succeed. “I’ll look at it again,” he said.

  “Your name is on Lu’s paper, right? Have you sent it anywhere?”

  “No. I wasn’t ready.”

  “Good thing. I always knew caution deserved more credit than we usually give it. Listen, let me know what you find, will you? If he’s right, if we’ve missed something here, you could help get us back on track.”

  “You’ll hear from me. And, Bill, thanks. I appreciate your sharing all this.”

  He gathered the pages of Lu’s paper together and absently squared the corners. If Farver was right, the progeny of L
u’s transgenic mice would be perfectly healthy: no sign of rheumatoid arthritis. Their parents would have had the gene for producing joint tissue, but they wouldn’t have had two genes for lymphocytes. And therefore . . .

  He left the light on in his office and walked through the building to Lu’s laboratory. The mice slept or scampered or sat meditatively as he moved past them, reading the labels on their cages. When he found the ones he wanted, he drew blood from the tails of five of them and took the samples one floor down, to the testing lab. He glanced at his watch as he placed the test tubes in an agitator. Almost ten. He wouldn’t be finished in time to get Penny. He called home from the telephone on the wall, gazing at the test tubes as he listened to Sabrina’s voice and pictured the two women in the library, curled up on the couch, comparing lives, reminiscing.

  “I’ll take care of it, Garth. And I’ll wait for you.”

  “I’ll be home as soon as I can,” he said. “I love you.” His thoughts were on the test tubes, shining at him, light from the ceiling fixtures flashing off the glass and the bright red fluid as the agitator tilted the tubes up and down, like a playground seesaw.

  He put the blood into the analyzer, then stood at the computer printer, waiting. A watched printer never prints, he thought, and strolled around the lab, stretching his neck, clenching and opening his fists. He did not come here often, though in his student days and the early days of his teaching at Columbia he had spent as much time analyzing blood as had all the other researchers. I’m getting away from the real work, he thought, and there isn’t anything I can do about it. Not if I want to run an institute and advise students. And pay more attention to them than I’ve paid to Lu in the past year.

  He heard the printer start up and he crossed the room to watch the paper roll from the machine. The columns of numbers printed out, one slow line at a time. And even before the printer stopped, even before he tore the page at its perforations to take it back to his office, Garth knew that the blood samples showed no sign of arthritis, or of any disease. The mice were healthy . . . and Lu’s paper was a fraud.