On the whole William was glad that the office of the American Tobacco Alliance was so far away, and that his victims, however deserving they might be of their fate, were not known to him personally. Whatever their sufferings, they had only themselves to blame. The warning was there on every pack of cigarettes they’d bought: SMOKING CAUSES LUNG CANCER, HEART DISEASE, EMPHYSEMA, AND MAY COMPLICATE PREGNANCY. They had not only defied that warning, but (those who worked at ATA) had denied it, as well. William had only accelerated the process of justice. He felt no guilt, but neither did he feel any curiosity, except for the effect all this might behaving on Turnage himself. Had he become aware yet of the shadows gathering round him? How long could he maintain his bluff facade before the TV cameras, staring down the truth and spitting tobacco juice at his accusers?
The question was answered on the same evening that William had come upon Judith performing The Rite of Spring. Ben called from his office, saying that he would be home late and urging them all to watch, and to make a tape of, a TV program called “The Good News Hour,” which was broadcast on a cable channel at seven-thirty. He wouldn’t say why, only that they were certain to be astonished.
“The Good News Hour” was sponsored by the Son of Man Foundation of Wilmington, Delaware, and was devoted, in the words of its hostess (and the copresident of the foundation), Bess McKinley, to “all the news you’ll never see on NBC.” For the first fifteen minutes of the program this news consisted of strange portents prefiguring the soon-approaching end of the world (a tornado—or very nearly a tornado—in Delaware’s Kent County, where no tornado had ever been reported before; and strange red stains that had appeared overnight on the screen of a drive-in movie theater outside of Macon, Georgia, that showed X-rated movies) and of the wonderful cures effected by faith in Jesus through the healing ministry of his servant, and Bess’s husband, Hal McKinley. There was also an inspirational story about a Girl Scout troop in Wilmington that had tied over a thousand yellow ribbons to their neighborhood trees by way of demonstrating the nation’s concern for the hostages in Iran, and this was followed by a personal, off-the-cuff declaration by Bess concerning her own lack of confidence in the leadership of President Carter. “Are you sure,” Judith asked Sondra, “that this is the program that Father wanted us to tape?”
“This is it, I wrote it down.” Sondra seemed just as puzzled. “There must be a reason. Be patient.”
After a brief but earnest appeal for contributions to the Son of Man Foundation, Bess McKinley patted the blond beehive of her hair and smiled intently at the camera. “Tonight’s special guest on ‘The Good News Hour’ is a man who needs no introduction to any sports fans who are watching. He is none other than Dan Turnage, longtime second baseman for the Minnesota Twins. Welcome to ‘The Good News Hour,’ Dan.”
The camera shifted to the right to show Dan Turnage, who said something that his lapel mike did not pick up. Bess leaned forward carefully to help him adjust the mike. Turnage seemed much less self-assured and brassy with Bess McKinley than he’d been during his infamous appearance on “60 Minutes,” a clip from which was shown by way of illustrating the work he’d undertaken since leaving the baseball diamond acting as a spokesman for ATA. When the clip was over, Bess smiled at Turnage and asked: “Well, Dan, do you still feel the same about smoking now?”
The camera moved in until Turnage’s face filled the whole screen. “May God forgive me, Bess. May God forgive me for all my lies.”
“Do you mean to say, Dan, that there really is a link between smoking and cancer? And that you knew it at the time of your appearance on ‘60 Minutes?”
“Is there anyone who doesn’t know it in his heart of hearts, Bess? I only denied it because I was paid a large salary to do so by the tobacco industry. I figured every smoker knows what he’s doing and so the fact that I was saying, ‘Hey, kids, smoking is okay.’ didn’t really fool anyone. Well, maybe it didn’t fool them exactly, but it did something just as bad. It showed them how to harden their hearts, how to defy the judgment of the Lord. I can see that now, because I’ve been born again, but I couldn’t see that then. Sin made me blind.”
“Praise the Lord. That’s quite a turnaround for you, Dan.”
“It certainly is, Bess, and I’ll tell you how I came to it. It wasn’t the Surgeon General’s Report, and it wasn’t any so-called scientific experiments on mice and rats. It was the living hand of God. He plucked my friends from me, one by one, the men I worked with, and played golf with, and dined with at expensive restaurants. All of a sudden, Bess, they started to come down with lung cancer, one after another, like ducks in a shooting gallery.”
“Could you tell us who some of those men were, Dan?”
“I can tell you three that’ve died in just the past two months. The first was Sid Kearns, who was one of three top men at ATA. Sid used to smoke like a chimney. Then there was my secretary, Rita Baker, who was also a heavy smoker and the mother of three kids. Finally, just the Monday before last, the president of ATA himself, Maurice Myers, died. His obituaries just said ‘due to natural causes.’ ATA doesn’t want any of this getting into the newspapers, and the names I’ve mentioned are only the tip of the iceberg. They’re doing all they can to hush it up, and so far they’ve succeeded. I happen to know the whole story because I personally know the persons involved.”
Bess nodded and turned to the camera. “I guess I should have explained right at the start of our talk that Dan is no longer working for the tobacco industry. He left the American Tobacco Alliance three weeks ago, and from now on I’m happy to say he’ll be putting his talent to work for the Son of Man Foundation. And that’s one reason why ‘The Good News Hour’ has been able to bring you this important news story before any of the national networks.”
“And the other reason,” Dan put in, with some of his former feistiness, “is that none of the networks dares to touch it. And why do you think that is? It’s because they are smokers, and they refuse to see the sign the Lord is showing us. They are the same as I was before the scales were lifted from my eyes. ‘Oh, it’s a coincidence,’ they’ll say. Or they’ll say, ‘Well, they were all old men, they had to die of something.’ Or they’ll say, ‘So you know three people who’ve died from lung cancer, so what? There’s thousands more dying from the effects of smoking every day. Only at ATA would that be considered news.’ And they laughed at me, Bess! Behind my back, they were laughing at me. As though I were still just a PR man, trying to drum up publicity for a client. I’ll tell you, Bess, I know now what it must have been like for Jonah when the Lord came to him and said, ‘Jonah, you’ve got to go right now to those sinners in Sodom and Gomorrah, and tell them to stop their wickedness and fornications.’ Jonah knew if he did what the Lord told him, they’d just laugh at him, but he had to do it anyway. That’s my situation exactly.”
“Actually, Dan,” Bess said in a tone of gentle reproof, “it was to Nineveh that the Lord sent Jonah: ‘Arise, go to Nineveh, that great city, and cry against it; for their wickedness is come up before me.’ Jonah, chapter I, verse 2.”
“Sorry, Bess, it’s been a while since I’ve read the Good Book. But you get my idea.”
“I understand that you were a smoker yourself, Dan.”
“I was, but not anymore, Bess. And never again. It wasn’t easy to stop, even with the Lord’s help. I still wake up in the morning and reach for that pack of cigarettes, but then I remember Sid and Rita and Maurice, and other good friends who are sick right now, some already in the hospital, and I know I’d be there, too, if it weren’t for the grace of the Lord.”
“Yes,” Bess agreed, “the Lord is our refuge and our strength, and he will spare the sinner who comes to him with a contrite and repentant heart. There is more joy in heaven over one sinner that repents than for the ninety-nine just persons who need no repentance. That is the good news we’re here to tell you today on ‘The Good News Hour.’ Thank you, Dan, for being with us, and I hope you will be back soon to tell us more abou
t these remarkable developments. And thank you, good people, for your prayers and contributions.”
A hymn tune swelled up from the background, and Bess’s face faded from the screen to show a slowly spinning globe banded at the equator with the name of the show, and below that the address to which contributions could be sent to support the continuing work of the Son of Man Foundation.
The next program—“Ever Since Noah,” an educational series on Creation Science—was well under way before Sondra thought to lean forward and turn off the recorder. The movement made her grimace with effort. Her pregnancy was well advanced, and even in her billowing maternity gowns she seemed immense and ungainly.
There was a long silence. They all went on looking at the blank screen of the TV so as not to be looking at each other. Finally Judith said aloud what they had all been thinking: “He may be born again, but I can’t tell any difference.”
Sondra lifted her eyebrows in ironic agreement, but felt obliged to say, “We mustn’t judge.”
“It is a weird coincidence though, wouldn’t you say?” Judith ventured.
William and Sondra had to agree.
48
On October 21 the Philadelphia Phillies won the World Series as Steve Carlton and Tug McGraw pitched them to a 4–1 victory over the Kansas City Royals. Within minutes of that victory, as William, in his own room, was computing energy changes in various reactions for the next day’s chemistry class, he got a long distance phone call from Dan Turnage in Philadelphia, reminding him that he now owed Turnage two hundred fifty dollars. William had long ago spent the money Ben had given him on his birthday and he didn’t have ten dollars to his name, let alone two hundred and fifty. It seemed mean of Turnage, and even slightly threatening, to be so quick to demand a settling of the score. In fact, ever since the Series had started and there seemed to be an even chance that Turnage’s long-shot prediction might come true, William had been hoping their bet would quietly be forgotten, out of deference to the fact that any official, business connection between Turnage and Ben had been severed by his departure to the greener pastures of the Son of Man Foundation. Instead, Turnage, who was calling from Veterans Stadium, positively gloated over his having won what had seemed, back in April, a sucker bet. William got more and more resentful as Turnage did his own précis of the major plays of the day’s game, but he did promise to mail Turnage a check as soon as he could, for which purpose Turnage dictated his new address at the office of the Son of Man Foundation in Wilmington, Delaware.
“We saw you on TV last week,” William remarked before Turnage could hang up.
“Uh-huh.”
“You certainly have changed your mind about cigarette smoking.”
“Yes I have.”
Turnage didn’t seem disposed to discuss his new views, but William persisted. “How many other people at ATA have actually come down with lung cancer, besides the three you named?”
“A few.”
“Is it classified information? Is there some reason you can’t tell me?”
There was a long pause, and when Turnage answered it was in a different tone of voice, “Okay, I don’t know why I’m telling you this—I don’t owe you any favors, or your dad either, but the situation in Baltimore is pretty desperate. ATA is going belly-up. They’re rushing through the paperwork so they can officially cease to exist a day or two after the election, when they figure there’ll be the least attention from the media. I don’t suppose there’s much your dad can do about it with that little advance notice, but for what it’s worth, now he knows. Any more smart questions?”
“You didn’t really answer the question I asked.”
“I answered it, you just weren’t listening. Get that check off to me pronto, you understand? And next time think twice before you bet against a pro.” Turnage hung up.
Ben was not home yet, and William didn’t look forward to being the messenger of Turnage’s news. ATA funded most of MIMA’s research; if ATA sank, it didn’t seem too likely that MIMA could escape being dragged down with it. In hindsight the logic of this seemed so inevitable that William wondered how he had failed to foresee the results of the curse he’d placed on Turnage’s lighter. There were not that many dominoes involved.
He decided he would tell his mother the bad news and let her pass it on to Ben. He also decided that at the same time he would take the caduceus from its hiding place and use it for one final benevolent action—and then, never again. He would extend to his unborn brother the birthday present of a lifetime of unfailing health, and trust that the havoc being wreaked in the corporate ranks of ATA would suffice to cover the cost of such a generous gift. He’d long ago worked out a rhyme that seemed in its thoroughness and categorical simplicity to be secure from being construed to mean something it wasn’t intended to mean, and now, as he grasped the caduceus tightly he pronounced the words of that rhyme:
To the child within my mother,
Whether my sister or my brother,
This hand imparts a long and healthy life
Unthreatened by disease or surgeon’s knife.
The idea of using simply his own hand to channel the power of the caduceus had come to him as he had watched “The Good News Hour” and seen a montage of healings performed by Hal McKinley. In each shot the camera had been focused tightly on McKinley’s right hand as it rested on the forehead or arthritic hands or crippled legs of the person to be cured. It seemed an efficient technique.
William found his mother in her own room, sitting up in bed and eating dry-roasted peanuts directly from the jar. A paperback romance, open to where she’d stopped reading, rested precariously on the basketball of her belly. William told her about Turnage calling to collect on his bet and what he’d revealed about ATA.
Sondra sighed. “That is bad news, but I doubt Ben will be surprised. Surely, it was only a matter of time. ATA couldn’t have kept going on with business as usual much longer. They were lucky that Turnage’s story didn’t receive any more notice than—oh!” She drew a sharp breath, and the paperback on her belly fell to the bedspread.
“Aah!” She let out the breath in a long sigh.
William looked alarmed. “It’s not starting now, is it?”
“No, this is just practice. Braxton Hicks contractions is what the book calls it. Oh! Oh, feel how hard it is now.” She took his hand and placed it on her abdomen, then closed her eyes and bent her head back. William closed his eyes too, and under his breath he recited again the words of his fraternal blessing. Slowly the flesh beneath his fingers grew less rigid, as though it were a leaking balloon. Sondra sighed a deeper sigh.
It was done.
“Isn’t that strange?” Sondra said. “And now I can feel its little feet kicking at my rib cage. It doesn’t like it when I’m on my back, because then it’s resting on my spine.”
William felt overcome by a strange shyness, almost a sense of shame. “I’d better go finish my homework,” he said.
“Here, take these peanuts.” She handed him the jar. “I’ve eaten too many already.”
When William was back in his own room, he dialed the old St. Paul phone number. He let the phone ring more than twenty times, hoping if Madge was at work that Grandma O. would eventually stir herself to answer it, but she never did. He was hoping to be able to get the money to pay Turnage from the trust fund that Madge set up for him from the insurance proceeds. Then, when he visited the house, he meant to return the caduceus to the place where he’d found it, buried in the loose insulation in the attic. He couldn’t bring himself to deal with it in any more irrevocable way, but at least in the Obstschmecker attic it would not be tempting him to take some spur-of-the-moment revenge. He wanted the caduceus out of sight and out of mind, as it had been until his thirteenth birthday.
Why did he want that? That was a question he managed pretty well to evade. If he had had to give a reason, he would have claimed it was the working of his conscience. In fact, he was beginning to be afraid.
49
There is another darkness than the darkness of the night, an inner darkness that corresponds to what is called the inner light, and this darkness (the light, as well) is visible only to spirits who have passed beyond this life and, sometimes, briefly, to those with whom such spirits are able to communicate. Henry could see such visible darkness now, curling like the surf of some immense black ocean over the rooftops of Willowville, engulfing and blotting out the incandescent lights of the houses, the street lamps, and the moving cars. Mountain climbers can witness a similar sight, looking down into a valley as it fills with turbulent vapors. It was beautiful, but only as the coilings of a very large and deadly snake might be beautiful viewed in a documentary movie or through the thick glass of a vivarium.
Henry enjoyed no such safe vantage with regard to the darkness that flowed across the lawns and seeped into the houses arrayed below him. Within those mists, invisible to living eyes, he would be blinded; their fumes, undetectable by mortal senses, could suffocate and infect a spirit’s incorruptible flesh. Even from this distance he was filled with abhorrence, and yet he must, for Billy’s sake, enter that miasma and try to prevent what the roiling darkness declared, by its very presence, to be a predestined and unavoidable fate.
From within that darkness flesh tugged at him. The long chain of chromosomal causality that links the living, the dead, and the yet unborn invited his descent, spiderlike, along its trembling filaments. That attenuated thread was all that still linked him to the brutalities, hungers, and horrors of physical life, and he did not wish to trust himself to it. There was a defect in the thread that only his own early death had prevented him from experiencing within his lifetime. But the thread still might snap, unable to support his passage down into the black surf of mortal life, and he would fall into the darkness and be dissolved into a flux of immaterial energy. Or, worse, the thread would come untethered at its farther end, and the tainted chromosomal heritage would unspool through another life still more ill-fated than Billy’s or his own or any of the other spinners of the thread. Should that come to pass, should the bloodlines be perpetuated, the consequences would be felt, as an infection and convulsing pains, all along the length of the thread: for in eternity the ancestor suffers for the evils of his progeny—unto, in the prophetic words of Exodus, the third and fourth generation. And so it was not only solicitude for his son that moved Henry to attempt to avert what now could clearly be foreseen; it was, much more, a fear for what he would suffer himself if the thread were spun out to a longer length.
THE M.D. A Horror Story Page 29
