A Fierce Radiance

by Lauren Belfer

  “I’ll think about it.”

  He nodded his head gravely, as if she’d granted him a concession larger than he’d anticipated. “Thank you. I appreciate it.” He sounded choked up. Claire realized that she was the one who should be thanking him for his generous offer. Yet she said nothing. She couldn’t bring herself to offer her gratitude, or her trust. He glanced around the room. He seemed to be searching for something to talk about, a topic that she, not he, would enjoy. When he found it, his usual mask of charm still wasn’t in place. “Whatever happened with that medical story you mentioned? That sounded interesting.”

  “Yes, it was.” And because she’d seen, or thought she’d seen, the depth of feeling within him, she said, “I got a call today that the editors killed it.”

  “What? Why?” Outrage filled his voice. He was her father, defending her.

  “Said it was too bleak.”

  “Idiots.”

  “It was the best work I’ve ever done.”

  “Tell me more about it.”

  After she shared the details, Rutherford leaned forward speculatively.

  “So this penicillin stuff really worked? You saw it work?”

  “I saw it work. Not only that, the scientists are investigating similar substances that might be easier to produce. Other molds, even bacteria that fight other bacteria. They’re looking at hundreds of possibilities.”

  “If Charlie ever got sick…” He let the sentence go. Father and daughter exchanged glances, and Rutherford looked away before Claire did, thoughts of Emily flitting between them. Finally Rutherford took refuge in the arena that made him most comfortable: business. “The point is, Claire, the person who figures out how to mass-produce this stuff is going to make a fortune.”

  “That doesn’t seem likely. Right now, they’re making penicillin in bedpans and milk bottles. The other medications are still waiting to be discovered in soil samples they’re storing in jam jars.”

  “Remarkable.” He laughed, shaking his head in disbelief. He seemed more sure of himself now. “However, never underestimate American ingenuity, I always say. Maybe I should make some selective investments in milk bottles.”

  “That’s probably where the biggest profit lies,” Claire agreed, enjoying their repartee. “Or in a medical supply company that manufactures bedpans.”

  He gave a mock grimace. “I’ll stick with milk bottles.”

  “Don’t forget the jam jars.”

  “You’re right. Extraordinary. Can’t you fight for this story, Claire? The story runs, it gives my milk-bottle and jam-jar investments a tremendous boost.”

  All at once she felt worn out from the effort of maintaining her professional front of self-assurance and high spirits. She wanted to confide in someone. She wanted to confide in her father. She told him about her argument with Mack.

  Rutherford thought through the options. “Well, Claire, I see Harry Luce here and there around town, over lunch at the Cloud Club, that sort of thing. Want me to say something to him, put in a good word for my girl?”

  “No, of course not!” After a moment’s pause, they both burst into laughter at the absurdity of his suggestion. “That’s not the kind of help I need.”

  “I suppose not.” He shrugged, the playful glint back in this eyes.

  “Outraged fathers don’t have the influence they used to have. Especially in relation to their very professional and successful daughters. Why don’t you make an appointment to see Luce yourself to talk about it?”

  She’d never heard of anyone in her position making an appointment to see Mr. Luce.

  “He’s a tough customer,” her father continued, “but when you work for someone, you have the right to see him. That’s how I run my business, at least.”

  “I don’t think that’s how he runs his business.”

  “No, more like a dictator, from what I’ve heard.”

  She didn’t respond. She felt loyalty to the company, and she wouldn’t be drawn into gossip about Mr. Luce.

  “The point is, Claire, you’ve got to keep on top of this. Maybe next week they’ll come up with a patient who lives—now there’s a twist—and you’re in a whole new ball game. Money pouring in from all over to manufacture this medicine, families frantic to buy it. Magazines all over town, all over the world, begging you for pictures of penicillin, or some similar stuff made from dirt in jam jars, everybody hailing a miracle, and old Harry Luce giving you a bonus to keep you on his side. At the very least you should claim this as your territory. He should know that you’ve got the inside track on it for him, if anything happens down the road. My girl doesn’t give up.”

  Yes, Claire thought, this is what a father is for, to make you believe in yourself. She’d been right to confide in him. She felt a stirring that she now had someone to back her up. She was no longer alone. “You’re right. I’ll make an appointment to see him.”

  “Good.”

  MaryLee came upstairs. From the dumbwaiter in the hall, she brought an embossed silver tray with the fudge cake and a pot of hot chocolate, cups, plates, and silver. She placed the tray on the coffee table and then opened the French doors, hugging her arms around herself in the cold. The breeze blew her calico-print dress against her thin legs. “Come on in, Charlie, your cocoa and cake are ready.”

  Charlie bounded in to join them, his hair ruffled, the binoculars swaying around his neck, his left hand clutching the steno pad and pencil. He brought with him the pure, sharp scent of a winter’s afternoon.

  “Get over here, boy.” Rutherford spread his arms wide for him. Charlie threw himself at his grandfather and in a wave of giggles pushed him over.

  For Claire, the entire visit was worth that moment.

  Will you have to move to Washington?” asked Tia. Her tone was so surprised and forlorn that Stanton couldn’t help but laugh. He’d just told her about his conversation with Vannevar Bush.

  They sat at dinner in the hospital’s dining room, a formal place with high ceilings and long windows overlooking the river. Atypical for a Saturday night, the dining room was bustling. A few weeks after Pearl Harbor, Stanton’s colleagues seemed to be working nonstop to complete projects before the war pulled them elsewhere. His friend Nick Catalano sat with the vaccine group. He’d never known Nick not to have a date on a Saturday night; probably Nick was heading out later. Sergei Oretsky had joined a table of young nurses-in-training. From his wild gesticulations, he appeared to be entertaining them with extravagant stories. At the beverage table, Jake Lind filled multiple cups of coffee on a tray. Even Dr. Rivers was here, holding a meeting with administrators. David Hoskins was absent: he’d slipped away to his monthly dinner with British friends residing in New York.

  “I don’t know. Nothing is certain yet.”

  “Well, it’s very exciting,” Tia said, clearly believing the opposite, but steeling herself to a positive attitude. “It’s a great honor. I’m proud of you.”

  He read her so well. He knew she relied on him. After their parents died in the influenza epidemic in 1918, they’d become closer than many siblings. In most respects she was an independent, successful woman; but still, deep within, she was a four-year-old orphan gripping his hand.

  “Don’t worry,” he said. “My guess is that nothing will change for a while. Now tell me if I can do anything to help you and David produce more medicine for my three patients upstairs.”

  With that, she was on solid ground again. Lind joined them with his cups of coffee, and they had a familiar discussion about the quirks of penicillin production.

  Stanton wasn’t on call this evening, so after dinner he walked Tia to the lab and spent some time reviewing her notes. Afterward, he went to his residence rooms, which passed for home. He had some correspondence to catch up on, a letter of recommendation for a young colleague, a note to his college roommate to congratulate him and his wife on the birth of their third child. After an hour or so, he began thinking about Claire Shipley. He felt a compulsion to share his news wi
th her. He wanted to talk about his new job frankly, with someone on the outside, to gain some perspective. With Tia, he was so accustomed to playing the role of older brother that he couldn’t reveal his doubts or his worries.

  He dialed Claire’s number. No answer. He organized his mail, paid some bills. He called Claire again. He was about to hang up when, on the fourth ring, she answered.

  “Hello?”

  She sounded tired. Half asleep. Damn. Probably his persistence had taken him too far into the evening. He checked his watch. For him, it was still early. Just after 10:00 PM. But for her, who knew? Was he being foolish? Even though he’d worked with her for days and asked her to dinner, suddenly he was afraid that she might not remember him, especially if she was half asleep.

  “Mrs. Shipley, it’s James Stanton. At the Rockefeller Institute.” He felt a peculiar self-consciousness with Claire, and it threw him off his stride. He was accustomed to being in charge, both of himself and others. But with her…at least he hadn’t added the “doctor” title to his name.

  “Oh. Dr. Stanton.”

  Well, she hadn’t forgotten him. “Please, call me Jamie.”

  “Yes. Jamie. And do please call me Claire.” She tried to push the sleep from her mind, to wake herself up for him—the very man she’d been thinking about in empty moments.

  “Thank you for calling.” What made her say that, she chastised herself. There was no reason to thank him for calling. She was reacting to him in unfamiliar ways.

  “I hope I didn’t wake you.”

  “Not exactly.” She and Charlie had returned home from her father’s around nine. She’d made a fire in the living room, and they’d sat in the upholstered chairs on either side of her small fireplace, with its plain mantelpiece, to begin their evening ritual of reading aloud, alternating chapters. They were making their way through Arthur Ransome’s Swallows and Amazons. After three pages, Charlie had fallen asleep, a testament to his mother’s reading-aloud skills. He was curled in his chair, a blanket over his legs. Claire had drifted into semisleep herself, even as she contemplated taking Lucas for a final walk and getting Charlie upstairs to bed. “I just put my son, and nearly myself, to sleep by reading aloud.”

  He appreciated her self-deprecating humor.

  Then she remembered: she had to tell him about the cancellation of the story. Best to get it over with, before she started worrying about the proper way to tell him. “I’m glad you called. I got word this afternoon that my penicillin story was canceled. I’m sorry. Sometimes this happens, and no explanations make it okay.”

  So, he thought, the war had caught up with them both. He paused to find the proper reply for news that must have upset her. “I’m not surprised.”

  “You’re not? Why?”

  “The government must have intervened. The director of the Office of Scientific Research and Development must have contacted the editor of your magazine and stopped publication.”

  To Claire, this seemed a little too high level, a little too cloak-and-dagger, to be true. “Why would he do that?”

  “The government’s created a project for the mass production of penicillin for the military.”

  “For the military? Bedpans and milk bottles?”

  “I know it sounds crazy, but, well, it’s all we’ve got.” He heard himself echoing Vannevar Bush. “In any war, more troops die or are incapacitated from infection than from actual wounds on the battlefield. Hundreds of thousands of troops jammed together on ships and at makeshift military camps, syphilis and gonorrhea rampant, men living in muck as they fight their way across foreign soil. Wounds gaping on the battlefield, hemorrhaging flesh pressed against dirt and shredded clothing, gangrene and staph and all the rest seeping in despite the best efforts of battlefield medics.”

  He realized he was lecturing her. He didn’t want to, but he couldn’t stop himself. These were the facts he was mulling over in his mind and sharing them with her, hearing them said aloud, brought him a sense of perspective.

  “At Pearl Harbor, the burn victims numbered in the thousands. Infection is the greatest threat to their survival. With penicillin we’ll be able to save lives and get those men back onto the battlefield while the enemy’s hospitals are overflowing.”

  She knew next to nothing about these issues, and she was grateful for the lecture. “How come you know so much?” she asked, as a way to urge him to keep talking.

  “I’m being called to Washington to interview for a job with them—which apparently I’ll get. Unless I turn out to be a Communist.”

  “Will you turn out to be a Communist?” Was he saying that he’d be leaving town before they had a chance to get to know each other?

  “I’d be surprised if I did.”

  “Well, that’s a relief, I suppose.” Following the code, she kept her tone light, not revealing her disappointment. “What’s the job?”

  “I’ve been named the national scientific coordinator.”

  She caught an edge in his voice that revealed his doubts. “Sounds important. Congratulations. Are you happy about it?”

  “Yes, of course…” With his sister, he was always the strong one. With his peers, he always maintained a professional objectivity, wry, ironic, cynical, the guilty-until-proven-innocent tone that he and his colleagues cultivated among themselves to survive the constant presence of death in their lives. But here was a secret: he wished someone who loved him would say, don’t worry, you can do this. You’ll face this problem and wrench success from it. How long was it since he’d experienced, or needed, such reassurance? How long since he’d allowed himself to be vulnerable around another person, to feel the combination of friendship, attraction, and mutual support that he defined as love? For reasons he didn’t understand, he felt vulnerable around Claire Shipley. This feeling was simply an instinct. In fact, they barely knew each other. He recognized that he shouldn’t let his emotions jump ahead too quickly. “The job’s a great honor, I’ll put it that way.”

  Claire sensed his insecurity. “I feel positive, well, almost positive, that whoever made this decision didn’t put all the possible names in a hat and just happen by chance to come up with you as the best person for the job.” She stopped, waiting for him to reply. When he didn’t, she added, “I’m pretty sure it wasn’t a lottery.”

  How did she do it? he wondered. How did she reach exactly the right tone to reassure him without patronizing him? He had no choice but to take the job, yet discussing it with her made him feel more settled inside himself. More in control. “Thank you for your vote of confidence.”

  “When the story was canceled, I was afraid I’d let you and your sister down. And Patsy Reese and her children. I thought the story would redeem his death. That sounds self-serving now that I say it, but even so.”

  “We’ve all been let down. But officially the test was a success. The medication worked. There were no side effects. We simply didn’t have enough of it to save the patient’s life. Anyway, there’s no redemption for that kind of death, except for the work we do to prevent the next death and the one after that.” He paused. “I’m sure you still miss your daughter.” He wanted to know this. In fact, he wanted to know everything there was to know about Claire.

  “Yes.” Although Claire was often shocked by memories of Emily, she rarely talked about her. She’d learned to stop talking about Emily because of the looks of pity she’d begun to receive from her friends. Not pity for Emily, but rather pity for her, Claire, because seven years had passed and still she hadn’t been able to separate herself from Emily’s memory. “She’d be almost eleven now.”

  “What was she like?”

  So Claire talked about Emily. About simple scenes captured like snapshots: Emily on the sofa, paging through a book; at the beach, building sandcastles. Claire spoke also of her own guilt, of what she could have done, might have done, to stop Emily from tripping on the sidewalk, to better wash her injuries, to save her life…if only, if only, alternatives pressing into her thoughts ov
er and over, too late.

  “I think the same, too, sometimes. For the patients I’ve lost.”

  “But you shouldn’t,” she said. “This is your work.”

  “I mention this only to say that the guilt is both natural and unnecessary.”

  She was grateful for that. Grateful for once to be understood, rather than be told she was being obsessive, those friends who didn’t have children shaking their heads as if to say, why can’t you just move on?

  They were both of them too familiar with death, Stanton thought.

  “So,” Claire said resolutely, to bring them back to the present, “our dinner next week will be a celebration of your new job. Or at least a chance to take note of it.”

  An idea came to him. “No need to wait. I happen to be free right now.” Nothing wrong with asking, he figured. He felt awash with desire for her. “I can be there in, say, half an hour.”

  She knew what he was proposing. She also knew how easy it would be: get Charlie situated in his bedroom upstairs, and when Jamie arrived, take his hand and lead him to the guest room downstairs. She’d make sure he was gone by morning. Charlie, who usually slept late on Sundays, would never know. She glanced at her son, curled up and asleep in the living room. Yes, she’d be very happy for Jamie to come over. She longed to be close to him, to caress her fingertips across his back.

  But no, she wasn’t going to invite him tonight. Step by step, that’s how she wanted to play this. She wanted to give them a chance, at least, to build more than a series of meaningless trysts.

  “That’s a terrific idea,” she said. “You keep on with ideas like that, and you’ll go far. I’m sure of it. But tonight’s not good. Feel free to ask me again, however.”