A Fierce Radiance

by Lauren Belfer

  The Rockefeller grandson was three when he died. Emily was—Claire felt drained. Weak. She found a bench and sat down. Her shoulders ached from the equipment bags; normally she didn’t notice. She remembered Emily running with joy across the playground. Remembered her sliding down the slide six, twelve, two dozen times on one visit. She remembered—

  Enough. Claire stood, determined to move on, to get her work done, to resist the incessant tug of her memories. Okay, the Institute was on a bluff overlooking the East River, but so far she’d glimpsed the river only from a hospital window. She needed to do more with this story, do better. Challenge herself. Finding her way among the laboratory buildings, she reached the corner of Founder’s Hall and walked around it.

  Abruptly she was at the edge of the cliff. The river spread before her. A narrow dirt path followed the bluff. The wind was fierce, whipping around her, stabbing her face with bits of ice. Gulls soared. The wind carried the scent of the sea and a hint of its ferocity. She licked her lips and tasted salt. The view opened for miles up and down the river.

  All at once she had a sense of Manhattan hundreds of years before, when it was a forested wilderness. She visualized the original Indian settlers on hunting expeditions, walking this path single file, using the bluff as a lookout and concealing themselves in the thick, ancient forest. During the Revolutionary War, scouts would have peered through the trees, searching for enemy ships. Just to the south, the Queensboro Bridge loomed with monstrous glory.

  Shielding her eyes from the sun, Claire looked down. The height was dizzying. The new East River Drive, completed only in sections, was virtually empty of cars. Construction had begun about six or seven years ago. The new highway had put an end to much of the East Side river trade and to the docks and swimming holes that had once lined the waterfront. A few hardy souls walked along the river on the pedestrian footpath on the far side of the highway. At the base of the cliff, drifts of leaves mingled with garbage and newspapers.

  Claire realized that if she went to the bottom of the cliff and photographed the Institute rising above her, she could capture a powerful image that would evoke the drama of the research being done here.

  But how to get there? She spotted an entrance to the highway a few blocks to the south; that would have to do. Hurrying back the way she’d come, past the fountains and bowers and imposing buildings, she finally reached the Institute’s York Avenue gate. With a wave to the guard, she reentered the bustle of the city streets. After the silence of the Institute grounds, she felt buffeted by the common city sounds that usually she didn’t even hear: the honking of car horns, the shouts of kids on their way home from school, the rumbling of buses and trucks. She turned left onto York and walked several blocks south. Diagonally across the street, a gigantic gas tank glinted in the sun. It filled the entire block. If New York City were bombed and the gas tank were hit…she shook off a vision of horror.

  At Sixty-third Street, Claire turned left, toward the river. Here the cliff dissipated, creating the effect of a mountain pass. The East Sixty-third Street entrance to the highway curved beside her. Instead of taking the pedestrian footbridge that crossed the highway and led to the promenade along the water, Claire climbed over a low fence and walked along the base of the cliff. The highway was about thirty feet from her. The stark cliff was punctured by wide doorways cut through the stone, most likely used to receive shipping from the river before the highway was built. Now the doorways were closed up, grass and weeds growing against them, creating an eerie, disturbing image: abandoned doorways cut into a cliff at the edge of a river. The Institute’s buildings, spread across the top of the bluff, appeared monumental and strange, like a series of castles along the cliffs of the Rhine.

  She stopped beneath Founder’s Hall. From her camera bag, she removed the towel she used to cushion the cameras and spread it upon the garbage and newspapers at the bottom of the cliff. She knew the shot she needed, and she didn’t examine the garbage too closely. A quick glance revealed chicken bones and apple cores.

  About a hundred yards upriver, four drifters had built a fire in a barrel. They passed around a bottle in a brown paper bag. So far, they hadn’t noticed her. This would be a secluded landing spot for boats carrying contraband, or a safe refuge for ne’er-do-wells hiding from the police. A gang probably controlled the area and required payment from anyone seeking shelter. In places like this, the Depression lingered, hopelessness endured. Her equipment was valuable, a lure for any thief. She owned it, not the magazine. On the other hand, Mack would replace it without question. If someone really wants it, he’d told her more than once, hand it over. Never fight for it.

  Even so, best to get on with things before the men spotted her. To accentuate the drifting clouds, she put the K-2, the yellow filter, on the Leica. She stretched out on her back. Through the camera, the Institute looked ancient and isolated, an appropriate place for medical experiments with green mold. As she lost herself in her work, a joy flowed through her. She’d solved the problem, and the results would be precisely what she wanted.

  “Are you quite all right? Do you need help?”

  Startled, she gripped the Leica to her chest. A man stood beside her. He’d spoken with a British accent. He wore a dark overcoat and a gray muffler. Thin and long-faced, he’d taken off his hat in the gusting wind. His hair was white. She read his appearance and manner as unthreatening. Next to the cliff, however, they were in shadow. With the sky brilliant behind him, his face was unreadable.

  Even while preparing to defend herself, she thought, best to behave as if everything was normal. “I’m fine, thank you.”

  “Good.” He didn’t move. “May I be so bold as to ask why you’re lying down on garbage?”

  “The view upward is very dramatic.” Then she recognized him: David, the man who’d come to the lab with Tia the evening before.

  “Is it?” He looked up. “Yes, I see what you mean. Castles.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Forgive me for prying,” he said. “We haven’t been introduced. David Hoskins, mycologist.” He bowed slightly. “Gainfully, or not so gainfully, depending on one’s perspective, employed up above. Partner in research to Dr. Lucretia Stanton. And I know who you are, the famous photographer in our midst. The talk of the town. Of course not much happens in our little town, so being the talk of it is easier than elsewhere.”

  “I photographed you last night.”

  “I suspected as much, but I tried not to pay attention.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Well then, since you have no need of my assistance, I’ll be moving along. I don’t want to interfere with your work.”

  She’d taken two dozen shots at various exposures, so her job was more than done, and in fact she’d been indulging herself. “I’m finished at this location.” She sat up. She wanted to get to know David Hoskins.

  Taking off his glove, he extended his hand. “May I help you?”

  Claire wore gloves with the fingers cut off halfway so she could operate the cameras in the cold. The gloves were a nuisance to get on and off, so she didn’t bother, but she appreciated his graciousness in taking off his own gloves. She allowed herself to be pulled up to standing. She stepped into the light and saw him more plainly now, the thick white hair, the dark blue eyes, the wrinkled, pasty-looking skin that made him look as if he hadn’t eaten a healthy meal in months.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked.

  He looked around at the water. “I like to walk up and down the river. Watch the boats and the gulls. The path goes to Eighty-first Street. There’s a sense of freedom here by the water, cut off from the city. How did you find this spot?”

  “I saw it from the path above, along the precipice.”

  “Yes, I’ve walked there, too. I don’t get out much. Constantly looking for diversions.”

  Claire appreciated his tone and his British gift for using language. For her story’s sake, she wanted to gain his trust. Sometimes the most obvio
us question did the trick: “You enjoy your work?” she asked.

  “Apart from the patients, who display the most appalling tendency to die, yes, I do enjoy my work.”

  “Edward Reese seems to be doing well.”

  Instead of responding, Hoskins gazed across the river, following the progress of a tugboat. Claire thought perhaps he hadn’t heard her. Finally he said, “And you? Do you enjoy your work? Lying here amidst frozen garbage in the middle of December?”

  His question surprised her. She wasn’t accustomed to being questioned in the same manner that she questioned others. She considered for a moment before replying. She remembered the joy she’d felt a few minutes ago as she fulfilled her vision of the Institute. She thought of Charlie, too. “I have an eight-year-old son. My job supports us. That said, yes, absolutely, I’m doing exactly what I want to do. Lying on garbage is just one of those pleasant variations in my usual daily routine. I take it you’re from England originally?”

  “Excellent induction.”

  “Thank you. When did you come to America?”

  “I came over in June with a group from Oxford. Brought our penicillin samples to the safety of the New World to avoid the mass destruction of the Old.”

  “And you decided to stay?”

  “America, land of opportunity and all that.”

  A movement over his shoulder caught her eye.

  “What’s that man doing?” On the far side of the highway, about twenty yards downstream, a man wearing an unbuttoned coat over a suit and tie was leaning over the balustrade toward the water. Claire shielded her eyes from the sun to watch him more easily. He was pudgy, but from this angle, Claire mostly saw his balding head. After leaning over to examine several sites, he lowered a bucket on a rope into the river.

  “Ah. My colleague Sergei Oretsky. There’s a sewage outlet there, into the river.”

  “A sewage outlet?”

  “Indeed. He’s collecting the outflow.”

  “You two work together?”

  “Oh, no. I work with the Stantons. Oretsky’s in a different department. His own department. But I assure you, he’s a charming man.”

  “Don’t tell me, he’s trying to find new medicines in the sewage?”

  “Precisely. He’s searching for bacteriophages. Viruses that kill infectious bacteria.”

  “Is he having any success?”

  “Some, I believe. He’s from Russia originally. His family managed to escape to Paris after the Revolution. In ’39, he came here on a fellowship for a year’s work. Then the Germans conquered France and he ended up staying for the duration.” The duration meant however long the war went on. “His family is in Tours at the moment, he believes. A wife, two daughters, an elderly mother. He hasn’t heard from them directly since the Occupation.”

  Claire watched Sergei Oretsky shift the rope back and forth to adjust the now-invisible bucket.

  “The point is, bacteriophage research has a history in Russia, as you may not know. Troops on the battlefield use phages to fight dysentery. But Americans and Brits don’t do much phage research. Too sensitive to the fact that most bacteriophages come from raw sewage.”

  “You believe Americans and Brits will be less sensitive about a medicine produced by green mold?”

  “Absolutely.” His amusement held a trace of shyness. “No doubt about it.”

  Oretsky’s bucket of sewage was safe now on the promenade. Spotting them, Oretsky waved. “Hoskins,” he called. “Come, have a look.”

  “Shall we?” Hoskins asked.

  “Why not.” Claire gathered her equipment, leaving the towel for passing vagrants. After waiting for a lone car to pass, they crossed the highway.

  “Look, Hoskins, you see—the color, brilliant,” Oretsky said when they reached him. The water in the bucket was a sludgy brown, with a few soft brown pieces floating on the top. It smelled like what it was, sewage. “Ha, ha, wonderful.” He smacked his lips. “Perfect.”

  “Mmm,” Hoskins agreed. “I see what you mean.”

  “You wait and you’ll really see what I mean—when I discover a cure for meningitis and you’re still growing mold in milk bottles and bedpans. Who is this lovely lady?” Oretsky half-bowed to Claire. He reached to take her hand, even to kiss her hand, but with his own hands wet with sludge, Claire made a quick move to rearrange the cameras.

  “This is Claire Shipley.”

  “Ah—the famous photographer! Very pleased to meet you.”

  “And you.” Alas, Claire wasn’t as invisible at the Institute as she’d hoped.

  “You would like to photograph me and my bucket?”

  How could she refuse? And the picture might prove valuable somewhere down the road. “Of course.”

  “I knew it.” He lifted the bucket and posed like a fisherman on a pier with a giant catch.

  “A beautiful shot,” Claire said.

  “You send me?”

  “Certainly.”

  “This is the future, this bucket.” He shook it, and brown water splashed onto his shabby shoes. He didn’t notice. On his right shoe, the cracked leather had separated from the sole. Water seeped in. “You tell your children someday, you saw the future. In this bucket.”

  “I will,” Claire said.

  “Yes, yes, you never know what you find or where you find it. No stone unturned, no bucket untested. I collect effluence from everywhere, Madame Shipley. My friends bring me jars of sewage from across the world. Or at least they did, until our current situation. Alors!” He shook off the Russian Revolution, the Nazis, the torment of his family. “Excuse me, excuse me, I must conduct my tests while the little creatures are fresh and frolicky. I hope to meet you again, Madame Shipley.”

  Off he went, humming a tune that sounded like Gershwin, crossing the highway and heading toward a small door that was open now in the cliff. His body swayed from the weight of the bucket.

  “Well,” Claire said, astonished.

  “My thoughts exactly,” Hoskins replied.

  “But if it works, it works.” Mold, sewage, who was she to doubt any of it, as Emily’s laughter sounded within her? “I’m photographing the laboratory this afternoon. Shall we go back?”

  “No, no—I came out here expressly to escape. Children in a laboratory. What was Stanton thinking?” The muscles tightened around his mouth, as if he were working hard to make his words sound mellifluous and amusing. “I don’t care for children, I must confess.”

  “That issue is irrelevant.” Claire tried to match his tone. “I’m giving you the opportunity to be featured in Life magazine. Can’t let a few children keep you away from a chance like that.” In Claire’s experience most people begged to have their stories told in Life. Those who refused often had the most interesting stories to tell. “Don’t you want to show off the history-changing work you’re doing?”

  “Very kind of you to express it that way, but alas I must send my regrets.” He looked away from her. A slight squinting came and went across his eyes, as if grit had blown into them.

  “At least you should come to the party in Mr. Reese’s room. Chocolate éclairs are promised.”

  “Absolutely not. I dislike patients intensely. Even more than children. Always dying, as I noted earlier. No matter what you do for them. Terribly ungrateful.”

  “You were in Mr. Reese’s room last night.”

  “An aberration. I had to attend the impromptu conference.” Again Claire saw the expressiveness around his mouth. She had an impression of him as an actor struggling to make the best of imperfect lines.

  “I do appreciate your asking, however. Very kind, indeed.”

  They said good-bye, and he continued his walk, heading south, a silhouette in the sunlight.

  Yuck!” Nine-year-old Ned Reese grimaced as he examined a milk bottle filled with fluffy green mold. Then he removed the cotton wool stopper and tried to maneuver his fingers inside.

  “Don’t touch!” Tia knew she spoke too angrily, but there was no taking i
t back and she didn’t regret it anyway. “The mold doesn’t like touching,” she added with what she hoped sounded like equanimity. Children in the lab: one of her brother’s worst ideas. She had to play along because Claire Shipley was photographing them. Patsy Reese had brought the kids down and simply left them here, presumably so she could enjoy the time alone with her husband. Tia didn’t appreciate being treated like a babysitter. David Hoskins had known better: he’d made himself scarce after Jamie arranged the visit.

  Ned’s brown eyes were large and wide, like his father’s. His nose was covered with freckles. In his school uniform of blazer, tie, and knee-length gray trousers, Ned looked very proper, at least from the front. From the rear, his shirttail was hanging out and not as clean as it might have been. Ned’s dark hair was cut short on the sides, but wayward locks fell across his forehead and into his eyes, a sophisticated haircut gone astray. In short, he was a mess.

  “It’s disgusting!” Ned said. Clearly this realization made him want to touch the mold more, not less.

  Tia took a deep breath and steeled herself to patience. “You’re right. There’s a very high ‘yuck’ level in my kind of work.” In theory Tia liked children. She wanted to have children of her own. At least she’d always thought she did. Faced now with two actual children, she wasn’t so sure. Before their arrival, she’d had a vision of herself presenting her scientific investigations to two receptive and respectful youngsters and thereby changing their lives forever. Instead she’d become a police officer standing guard so they didn’t destroy anything.

  Claire worked around them, staying out of their way. Tia tried to imagine what the lab must look like to an outsider like Claire: a high table in the middle of the room held a typical array of scientific equipment, including microscopes, beakers, and a Bunsen burner. Everything else was atypical. In the extreme. In racks from floor to ceiling, hundreds of milk bottles were stacked on their sides. Each bottle, stoppered with cotton wool, contained a thick layer of green mold growing on the bottom. Yellow droplets dotted the surface of the mold and pooled underneath. The droplets were the fluid that became the medicine called penicillin. Covered bedpans were piled upon the floor in stacks four feet high; Penicillium mold grew in these, too. The mold grew best on flat, covered surfaces. Bedpans and milk bottles were the most practical containers Tia and David could find. In the corner was the big counter-current machine, rows of turning, glimmering tubes that purified the fluid before it could be used.