by C. P. James
The drive from downtown to Mercer Island gave him time to put things in perspective regarding Laura. If she was sick, they would simply deal with it. He had access to the best medical care on Earth, and plenty of true friends who would stay with them through anything. Not that it would come to that.
But he hadn’t heard from her one way or the other, and that was disconcerting. It seemed certain that she would call or send him a message if everything was fine, and she hadn’t. He half expected to find her Range Rover gone when he pulled in, but it was in the garage as always and the hood was cold. The kitchen was dark when he went inside, and smelled of the meal she made hours earlier but had long since moved to the fridge. Chicken, maybe. The only light in the living room was the lamp Laura liked to read by. She wasn’t under it, but her favorite blanket was, open like a seed pod. He headed upstairs.
Soft music wafted from the bathroom—Liszt. He pushed the cracked door open as he rapped gently on it.
“Babe? Can I come in?” he said.
“Mi casa es su casa,” she said, a little slurred, trying to sound Latin but coming off more like Natasha Fatale. “Tu casa, I mean. We are familiar, after all.”
She was in the tub, a pair of scented candles lit on the little table. She was facing away, her hair up, neck and shoulders glistening with moisture; in the flickering half light, she could have been 25. A glass of red was in her right hand. He smiled, thinking this was all a good sign. She’d taken a bath after dinner, overindulged a bit, and was just enjoying herself.
“Where’s mine?” he said.
“I brought you a glass,” she said, nodding toward a wine glass on the sink. “Unfortunately, it was rather good …” She reached down over the side of the tub and swirled around the dregs of her empty bottle of cabernet. “Sorry, Dahling.”
He moved in front of her and sat down on a tile platform under the bay window that overlooked Lake Washington, moonlit and cold.
“So either you’re celebrating or you’re not.”
She guffawed. “I am celebrating. I’m celebrating life. This time is for rumination and reflection.”
“What did they say?” he said after a moment. It felt dumb, knowing the answer as he suddenly did, having just thought it was the opposite. Perhaps he just wanted to hear what she’d say, and how she’d say it.
“What did they say? Well, they said plenty, and I learned a lot. For example, I didn’t truly understand what ‘metastatic’ meant until this afternoon. You feel kind of smart throwing words like that around.”
A knot formed in his throat.
“Where?”
“Same place that has been metabolizing this delicious vintage the past few hours. When it comes to destroying my liver, however, this thing has met its match. It’s a race to the finish. Cheers.”
She drained her glass. This conversation was like so many they had—more implicit than explicit, a verbal shorthand streamlined by time. She liked that he could fill in the blanks she left him, and he liked trying to read her intent. He didn’t like anything about this.
“What’s next?” he said.
“Oh, a whole parade of horrors. Radiation. Chemo. Surgery, maybe. But in the end?” She made a farting sound, then sunk up to her nose in the water.
He rose and slipped off his tie, his shoes, his pants—everything—and eased himself into the water facing her. His girth pushed a few gallons of water over the side, but it didn’t matter. Nothing did then, except for her. Laura was a fighter, but she wasn’t an idealist like the people the foundation worked with. She was the kind of woman who wouldn’t think twice about cutting her foot off if it was hopelessly stuck. Hell, that might even be her first choice.
No, she would try some of the treatments, but unless they started showing results in pretty short order, she would start tidying up her will and give him her blessing to start looking for someone else as soon as she was gone. That was just Laura. He wasn’t much better, which was why he so admired people who were.
She handed him her glass, with its one last swallow of wine, and he downed it, warm and awful.
3
From The Perfect Generation: A Memoir
by Dr. Brent A. Geller
Winter 2019 was extraordinarily cold, even for Madison. My roommate, whom I’ll call Martin because of his birdlike features, worked part time on city road crews, usually flipping a sign that said SLOW on one side and STOP on the other to wrangle traffic through a lane closure. He went to Fleet Farm and bought an actual snowsuit to wear during his shifts, for which I gave him no end of grief. My grants kept me comfortable without an outside job, but it’s important to note that Martin’s father was the used-car czar of Indianapolis. His lifestyle was already subsidized to where he no longer bothered to deposit my rent checks (it was his place). I give him credit for taking those gigs, but how he stood outside for four hours at a stretch in 20-below weather was beyond reckoning.
The cold is significant in my memory of that year for two reasons: First, it kept me inside a lot more than usual. It was much easier to spend extra hours in the lab when the alternative was walking ten blocks home with your nostrils stuck together. And when Martin worked the late shift, he would usually swing by and get me on his way home.
I was a known quantity in the scientific community by then, at least on the academic side. My advisor, Dr. Horst Biermann, had been principal investigator on several studies with me, many of which turned some heads. The journal Science profiled me, and I appeared in a few small documentaries about the future of medicine, genetics, etc. My ego loved the validation, and so there were few opportunities I wouldn’t take or quotes I wouldn’t give.
By that time, most of my postdoc research had coalesced around gene therapy and molecular genetics. I was finishing up a simultaneous MD, as well, to maintain as much control over my future treatments as possible. Few people did this, with good reason, but I found the more macro world of medicine to be much less mysterious than the micro world of genetics. Gene therapy is a process by which defective genes are replaced with good ones, but early attempts weren't successful enough for anyone to take it very seriously. I was determined to change that because of my sister, Jennifer.
Jennifer had Down Syndrome, a.k.a. trisomy 21, a random defect in one of every 1,000 random couplings that adds an extra copy of the 21st chromosome. In addition to several characteristic physical traits, Down Syndrome is marked by mental impairment. I was six when Jen was born, by which time I was doing college-level work in math and chemistry.
The mechanics of her disease weren't a mystery to me, but she was as a person. As our realities diverged, I distanced myself. I loved her, but I had no interest in learning how to deal with her. That was my parents' job. To be honest, her very existence was an embarrassment. Here I was, absorbing my studies with ease, while she literally took the short bus to school. We were far enough apart in years that I couldn't stand up for her when she got picked on, but I wouldn’t have anyway. I was selfish, entitled, and driven, while Jen was funny, empathetic, and determined. I admired her, but only in secret. In reality I wanted her as far away from me as possible.
It remains my greatest shame.
She died three days shy of her 17th birthday, which was the second reason I remember the cold so distinctly that winter. My mother called to tell me that Jen died of heart failure, a call I expected after learning she was in the hospital. I didn’t go home to see her.
Mom called when I was just about to leave the lab and Martin was off that day, so I walked home in the cold. I was just two blocks from the apartment when I noticed someone in a sleeping bag, tight against a property fence that faced an alley. I noticed no fogged breath and thought myself magnanimous for nudging the figure with my foot. Nothing. I did it again, harder. Still nothing.
I reached down and pulled back the bag to reveal the face of a man in his fifties who had frozen to death. His eyelids and lips were blue, and I remember realizing that Jen’s lips would have been blue just the
n, too, from the cyanosis that likely preceded her death. In his face it was easy to imagine hers, and in that moment I realized how completely I had failed her. I also realized, however, for the first time, that she’d inspired me to follow this path. What happened to her was random, but preventable. And I would be the one to prevent it.
A few weeks after Jen died, my phone rang. It was Baz, my former associate, better known as Dr. Basilio Montes. Though older, he'd settled into the role of de facto assistant on our projects for Biermann. Our NIH grant work was overfunded, so we funneled some of it into a little side project that was far more audacious. The going was slow because we still had to spend almost half our lab time on the boring grant work. I offered to supervise the plebes that night because he was going to propose to his girlfriend, Lucia, who was visiting from Spain. Again, I viewed this as selfless until I realized he’d excused himself to the men’s room at L’Etoile, where he’d taken Lucia, in order to call me.
“You need to get online right now,” he said.
He explained that Lyle Merriweather was making whatever secret announcement they’d been hyping for weeks. I’d heard about it but hadn’t given it much thought. All I knew about Merriweather was that he was an industrialist with a hard-on for social justice and Third World causes. That wasn’t the sort of thing that impressed me so I wouldn’t have crossed the street to meet him. Baz didn’t go into much detail, saying he had to get back and pop the question before he lost his nerve, but something in his voice persuaded me. So, I went back in one of the offices to check it out.
What he said that night changed everything.
4
I don’t like him, Basilio,” Lucia said.
Baz sighed. “Take a number.”
Lucia was radiant and exotic—two things he was not. They’d been on a schedule of seeing each other every six months since they met as undergrads, while Baz was studying in Barcelona. It was not enough, but there was something satisfying about how much he burned for her when they were apart. The day would come soon enough when they were together all the time, and he wouldn’t feel it anymore.
L’Etoile was trendy among the university crowd, but not poor doctoral students so much as long-tenured professors and administrators. As Baz studied the menu, sneaking furtive glances at Lucia, it occurred to him he could eat for almost a week for the price of a single entrée. Suddenly, he wondered whether this was all too cliché.
“What are you thinking about?” he asked.
“That you should find another research partner.”
Baz laughed. “No, I mean to eat.”
“Oh,” she said, giggling. “I stand by my answer.”
“Enough about Brent. Tonight isn’t about him. It’s about escargot, and bouillabaisse, and a bunch of other things I can’t pronounce. Which brings us back to your food selection.”
“Well, the wild mushroom risotto sounds amazing.”
It better be for $36, he thought.
“I was looking at that, too,” he said.
“But?”
“But I’m leaning toward the scallops.”
“Where’s that?”
“The coquilles St. Jacques. They’re scallops.”
“Mmm, that sounds good, too.”
They went back and forth like this for a while, eventually both returning to their first selections but opting to start with the lobster bisque at $18 per bowl. Baz was keeping track of the bill in his head so he could fake indifference when it came.
He would later recall that the soup was worth every penny, tasting and feeling in his mouth for all the world like something that could start or end a war. The entrees were both exquisite, but they were harder to enjoy because they drew him nearer to the moment when the waiter would bring them a signature dessert on the house—a little tree made of chocolate ganache that would have a ring perched on top, and while Lucia took it all in, he would drop to one knee …
She excused herself to the bathroom, and rather than fret about what came next, Baz checked his phone. One of his grad assistants had texted him an article about something called the Merriweather Prize. He skimmed it long enough to understand why it was important.
“Oh my God, the bathrooms here are almost too nice to use,” Lucia said from behind him, sliding back into her chair.
Baz’s heart felt like it might explode. He couldn’t have said whether it was because the big moment was drawing closer or because of what he’d just seen. In either case, there was only one thing to do.
“I guess I’ll have to see for myself,” he said, folding his napkin and placing it on the empty table. As he rose, he made eye contact with their server, who subtly twisted his hand back and forth between thumbs up and thumbs down. Baz raised his splayed fingers to indicate he needed five minutes, and the server signaled back OK.
Lucia was right; the bathroom was too nice to use. He did, in fact, have to pee, but it wasn’t clear where that was supposed to happen. Where he might have expected urinals there was just a wall of polished stone tiles beneath a gentle, even flow of water that vanished into a bed of pebbles. It was impossible to tell whether it was a decorative feature or a place to piss, which seemed like an important distinction. Just as he was debating whether to use the toilet instead, an older man entered, strode confidently up to the waterfall and relieved himself into it. The man looked vaguely familiar, perhaps some faculty emeriti he’d met at a banquet. Universities were like that.
“I did the same damn thing first time I came here,” he said, as Baz ventured forward to take a spot a couple feet away. “You’d think they’d put a little sign up or something.”
“Or one of those peeing cherubs you see in Europe,” Baz offered. “To show you the way.”
“Now you’re talking,” the man said, chuckling.
Baz finished first and went to wash his hands. The man joined him a few seconds later.
“Special occasion?” he asked.
“I think I’m getting engaged,” Baz said.
“Married 45 years,” he said, drying his hands. “And happily for at least half of them. You’ll do great.”
“Thanks,” Baz said, taking his sweet time. His mouth was dry.
After the man left, he dialed Geller.
“You need to get online right now,” he said.
“Why? Where?” Geller said, annoyed by the call.
“Anywhere,” Baz said. “We’ll talk later.”
Baz hung up, fixed his tie, and stared at himself in the mirror. He wanted this, or he wouldn’t be here. Lucia wanted this as well, or he wouldn’t be asking. He wasn’t sure if she truly understood the life of a researcher, and if so, what it could mean that his reputation was entwined with Geller’s.
Geller had no living peers. Pauling, Salk, Curie, Pasteur, Jenner—that was the company he would keep if they were around, though they wouldn’t have liked him either. He was a lousy collaborator; Geller loved the notion of one scientist, working alone in some hidden lab for years or decades, emerging with some insight that would turn everything on its ear. But that wasn’t how it worked anymore. He needed funding, and that meant suffering colleagues. Baz was the one who Geller seemed to choose, for whatever reason, and so he either had to reject their partnership on principle or play a part in making bioscientific history.
It was an audacious and ethically dangerous idea Geller had: Don’t fix the disease—systematically eliminate it from the gene pool at scale. It smacked of eugenics, but in a different spirit. While Baz shared Geller’s interest in the actual mechanics of it, he was alone in his concerns about morality. Geller was not about to veer off that track. Baz was on the train or at the station, and he climbed aboard. Geller was one of the worst people he’d ever met, but Baz believed he was coming at the work from a good place, buoyed by a preternatural intellect and instinct. If pressed, he would have admitted that wondering what Geller might do was part of the fun.
When the door opened to another patron, it jolted Baz from his musings and back t
o reality. He dried his hands, opened the door, and with a deep breath, took his first of many steps into the unknown.
5
By the time Geller got online and found the live stream it was snowing again—the powdery, moistureless snow of a Wisconsin deep-freeze. The browser window was on CNN with MERRIWEATHER ANNOUNCES HISTORIC PRIZE in the bottom crawl.
Lyle Merriweather stood alone at a podium dripping with microphones. His name and title—Chairman of the Board of Merriweather Industries—splashed across the lower third. Camera shutters fired like little machine guns. His hands curled around the edges of the podium like part of him wanted to pick it up and throw it at someone. It was clear he hated stuff like this. Even so, he spoke evenly and clearly.
“Thank you all for coming. I’m here to make two related announcements. The first is that my wife of nearly 30 years, Laura, is dying of cancer. The details of her sickness are no one’s business but my family’s so I won’t entertain questions about her condition or prognosis, now or in the future. The only reason I’m sharing this news with the public is because it’s closely related to my second announcement.”
He cleared his throat, swallowing some obvious emotion.
“The mission of the Merriweather Foundation is to help enable people with extraordinary ideas and abilities bring them to bear on the world for the good of humankind. Some of those ideas and people have changed the world for the better, and their achievements are a continued source of pride, for the foundation and, hopefully, the nation. However, we mustn’t forget the countless millions whose own ideas were cut short by disease. The human cost of that loss, and the losses to come, is immeasurable.
“But the real tragedy is that so many of the best and brightest among us are engaged in empty pursuits. Somewhere, a brilliant chemist is reformulating hair gel. An engineer is designing the world’s scariest rollercoaster. In other words, they’re following the money. I want them to keep following it.
