by Gary Braver
William hemmed and hawed then after Greg and MaryAnn’s prodding he said, “I don’t know, something like … the simultaneous measurement of two variables like momentum and position …” He closed his eyes as it all came back to him the way it did the other day, as if receiving instructions beamed to him from afar. “Energy and time for a moving particle entails a limitation on the precision of each measurement. The more precise the measurement of position, the more imprecise the measurement of momentum, and vice versa.” Then he closed his eyes tight and thought. “Delta p times delta q is greater or equal to Planck’s constant over four pi. And delta E times delta t is greater or equal to Planck’s constant over four pi.”
And MaryAnn and Greg cheered, “Yeaaaaaa!”
“God, just a few months ago he couldn’t put a simple sentences together, now he’s doing quantum mechanics again.”
And William felt a warm glow of pride in his chest. He had taught physics at the University of Hartford for thirty-seven years before being forced to retire. He could have taught well into his seventies, but he had begun to fade.
“Speaking of pie, you’re going to love dessert. And nothing uncertain about that.”
They pulled into the parking lot beside the old watering hole, the playground off to the right through the trees. The original lot had been dirt, but it had been asphalted over and security lights now sat atop some poles. The area had not been expanded as had other town playgrounds—none of those fancy new wooden climbing complexes that looked like little fortresses with castellated towers, bridges, handlebars, and tubular slides, et cetera. The swings were the same, although they had been repainted a hundred times, and the monkey bars had been replaced, as had the sandy play area. The two slides, Big Shot and Little Shot, as the kids had called them, looked the same. And they sat maybe thirty feet apart.
“God, I don’t think I’ve been back here since the fifties,” said MaryAnn, who had packed a picnic lunch for the three of them. While William walked around the playground structures, she and her husband spread a tablecloth across one of the wooden tables and laid out the food and plates.
Meanwhile, William shuffled over to the swing, his feet kicking through the familiar fine yellow sand. He didn’t think it was the same old chain that held up the seats, but it was long and rusty as he remembered it. He could still feel the cold metal in his hands as he gripped it and sat in the seat. He could still smell the funny rusty iron odor that the chain left in a moist grip. He lowered himself onto one of the swings.
“Want a push?” MaryAnn hollered from the table. She laughed and waved.
William waved back. “I can handle it.”
He gripped the chain and it all came back to him in a rush—his feet pushing himself back against the seat until he was standing, then he raised his feet and felt himself swing forward, pushing his body forward and back until he established momentum and was swinging with the steady period of a clock pendulum.
Amazing, as if it were just a membrane away. He closed his eyes. It must have been sixty-five years since he had last done this. But it seemed like …
“Hey, Billy.”
Billy opened his eyes, and a hot flame flared in his chest. It was Bobby Tilden on the Big Slide near by. Bobby the Bully. And behind him were three other kids, including Annette, the girl up the street Billy was crazy about.
“Come on, or you gonna chicken out again?”
“Hey, William, you’re looking good, kiddo.”
“But watch your neck,” MaryAnn shouted. Then to her husband she said, “He’s got that slick jogging suit on, he could slide right off the seat.”
“He’s fine,” Greg said. “Hold on tight,” he shouted to his brother.
William nodded and looked toward the slide.
He was scared. Heart-banging, dry-spit scared, pants-wetting scared.
“Hey, Peepee Boy!” shouted Bobby Tilden, grinning with his broken-tooth smile and sly fox eyes and the baseball cap in a rebel slant. “Come on up. Or you ‘fraid of wetting your pants again?”
Other kids on the slide and at the bottom joined in the taunt to give it a try—the Big Slide, what the older kids did—kids ten and up. Billy had tried it before, but it was very high and fast, and he did chicken out and had to climb back down the ladder, which caused everybody to make fun of him, and Bobby called him Peepee Boy and knocked him down and gave him a knuckle haircut that made him cry while everybody hooted with glee.
Billy got off the swing and shuffled toward the Big Slide with the clutch of kids at the bottom—Philly, Michael Riccardi, Larry Ahearn, and Francine with the big yellow buck teeth and Snookie B. in the dirty sailor cap—waving him over and jeering, hoping he’d humiliate himself and chicken out again, wet his pants. At the top, Bobby Tilden snorted deeply and spit a clam that landed near Billy’s feet. Then he let out a whooping cry and slid down the slide with his hands and sneakers in the air. He landed on his feet, and the others let out a cheer.
Mikey Riccardi was next. He came flying down lying straight out. At the last minute he lifted his feet and came down on his backside flat. Two more kids came down, all pushing each other from the top of the ladder. Then Bobby raced back up, taunting Billy to join them. This time Bobby came down on his belly, letting out a yowl all the way. He smacked the yellow earth and got up spitting and covered with yellow sand on his front. And the other kids went wild.
“You’re next,” they said to Billy.
“William, lunch time.”
Billy’s heart pounded as he made his way to the ladder. The others formed a wall around him so he couldn’t run off at the last minute. Philly pushed him in the back to climb up. There was no backing off now, and he thought that if there was ever a time he wanted to die, this was it. One by one he climbed the rungs toward Bobby, who grinned down at him from the top, green-jelly snot bubbling in his nostrils, his chipped tooth flashing at him, his dirty face in a demon grin as he watched Billy climb.
“William, what are you doing up there? You’re going to break your neck.”
“Come on, Peepee Boy.” And Bobby slid down to give him room.
At the top, Billy looked down the long shiny metal slide that seemed to go on forever, the knot of kids below arms waving and shouting for him to do it, don’t be a chicken.
“Will-iam?”
“BIL-LY BIL-LY BIL-LY …”
Billy’s heart thudded painfully as he held his breath and said a silent prayer. Then eyes closed, he shot down the slide. At the last moment he caught himself and landed on his feet. And the kids cheered. For a protracted moment he could not believe how easy it was, and how great it felt.
“Way to go, bro,” somebody shouted. “Now, come on and have your lunch.”
To the hooting of the other kids he climbed back up and came down again. Easy as pie, as his mom always said.
“How about on your back if you’re so cool?” Bobby sneered at him.
Billy wanted to go home, but he had to take the challenge. So he climbed back up the slide. At the top, while the other kids watched, he took a deep breath and stretched himself out, and when Bobby cried “Go” he shot down and at the last minute he caught himself and landed on his feet, nearly losing his balance.
“William, that’s enough of that,” the woman said.
“Now headfirst,” Bobby said, his face in a slick grin like J. Worthington Foulfellow.
“William.” A man was approaching Billy from the picnic table under the trees. He looked distantly familiar.
“Come on, Peepee Boy, or you gonna go running home to your mommy?”
“Yeah, scaredy-pants,” Philly C. shouted. He was Bobby’s best friend and did everything Bobby said.
“I’m not scared,” Billy heard himself say. But he was. So scared he felt himself begin to wet his underpants. But he couldn’t cop out now or they’d jeer him to tears then give him noogies and a pink belly in front of everybody, including Annette. He was as certain of that as he was of his own name—because that�
�s what had happened way back and every time he kept going back there in his head. But this time he had to show them. He had to. He had to.
“So, do it, Peepee Boy. Eyes closed, headfirst on your back, if you’re so cool. Or your ass is grass.”
Your ass is grass. It was Bobby’s favorite threat, although Billy didn’t know exactly what it meant.
Billy saw the man approach, so he climbed back up the ladder.
“What the hell are you doing, brother?”
But Billy paid him no attention—as if he were invisible or a ghost of another time.
At the top Billy sat down, his sneakers on the top rung. Below, the kids made a noisy clutch of arms and hats and dungarees and T-shirts that said Naylor Elementary. In the distance, at the picnic tables, were his parents and other parents drinking coffee out of big red Thermos jugs and watching all the kids playing. Billy’s mother cried out, “Careful, Billy.”
And Billy inched himself backward onto the slanting metal slide, his hands gripping the sides, then he lowered his back onto the warm polished metal, his head straight down. He could feel the heat rising, the sun in his face, his short little legs curled over the top, holding him in place, as he watched a white seabird slice across the blue.
“William, no!” cried his mother.
“Billy, go!” cried the kids.
And William Zett raised his legs and slid down the sun-slick trough, his face fist-tight, the hard blue sky running him along, the white bird freezing in flight.
His head jammed into the earth and he heard something in his neck snap like a Popsicle stick. And everything—the sky, the trees, the white bird, the man looking down on him—
“Oh, God, no!” went black.
20
EVEN AN HOUR AFTER SHE’D LEFT the hospital and was on 1-93 north to one of her rest homes in Concord, N.H., René could still hear Jack’s voice—and the image of his eyes cue-balled in his face as he stared at her transfixed with terror. Terror.
That was the only word for it. She didn’t have a clue what he was seeing as he gaped at her. But what kept playing in her head was that voice—that weird baby-talk voice.
“Mama.”
“Except Jack didn’t have a mother.”
The jangle of her cell phone snapped her back to the moment. It was the secretary at Broadview saying that it was urgent: Carter Lutz wanted to meet with her as soon as possible. René had no idea what the problem was, but she had a prowling sense it wasn’t good.
Half an hour later she reached the home, and as soon as she entered she felt the tension. “He’s waiting for you in his office,” the receptionist said.
René walked down the hall and tapped his door.
Carter Lutz opened it. He did not smile. “I appreciate your coming by.” He closed the door and indicated a seat opposite his desk. He settled in his chair. “I’ll get right to the point. The family of Edward Zuchowsky is taking legal action against this home, and you’ve been named in the lawsuit along with CommCare.”
“What? On what grounds?”
“Gross negligence in his death at the hands of Clara Devine.”
She could barely catch her breath. “That’s ridiculous. I never laid eyes on Edward Zuchowsky or Clara Devine.”
“That’s irrelevant. Within the next few days, Zuchowsky family lawyers will call on you for a deposition. How you respond is critical to the outcome and determination of damages.”
René looked at him in blank disbelief.
“But there’s something that can be done to avoid a horror show for all of us.” Lutz’s face appeared to sharpen. “First, let me ask you a question. Your work in this home is dedicated to raising the quality of life for elderly people, am I correct?”
She nodded numbly. “Yes, of course.”
“Then you wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize the well-being of our patients, correct?”
Another obvious question. René nodded.
“Or of the home?”
Nod.
“Good, because the welfare of Broadview is commensurate with that of our residents. Our moral mission is to our residents. Is that not so?”
Nod. And a worm slithered across René’s chest.
“What happened with Clara Devine was a terrible thing, and nobody knows what caused her to do what she did. But everybody associated with this home is responsible for keeping track of our patients and not letting them wander away.
“You’re new, but you can imagine that liability is something we worry about here. I don’t need to paint a picture, but lawsuits are horrible and the results can be destructive. But if you’re a team player, we can all help each other. If not, you’ll be alone in the dark.”
Team player.
“For your deposition, it is of the utmost importance that you keep in mind our highest priorities and exercise prudence and consistency.”
Silence filled the room as if the place were holding its breath. Finally René spoke. “What exactly are you asking me to do, Dr. Lutz?”
“I’m asking that you restrict all you know about the incident to the fact that there was an unfortunate failure in the security system, namely, that the locking mechanism had somehow failed and the security camera malfunctioned.”
“You mean you’re telling me to pretend that I never saw the video of Clara Devine letting herself out.”
“In so many words.” Lutz’s eyes were intense with conviction.
“And that I make no mention of Clara’s being enrolled in the Memorine trials?”
“Only because that’s totally irrelevant.”
“Dr. Lutz, you’re asking me to lie and, frankly, I’m not comfortable with that.”
Lutz’s eyes shrank to ball bearings. “You’d be a lot less comfortable with a ten-million-dollar lawsuit with your name on it.”
“But I never even laid eyes on Clara Devine or Edward Zuchowsky.”
“That may be so, but you’re employed to oversee residents’ medications. And lawyers can make ugly mountains out of molehills. It’s for your protection that we’re having this conversation.” He narrowed his eyes to say that she should be grateful.
“Forgive me, but violating the law and ethical standards is hardly protection.”
“Ms. Ballard, we are not talking about ethical standards, but a higher morality—which you agreed was for the welfare of our patients.”
“Clara Devine let herself out by tapping the security code. We all saw the video and I’m told she did that because of Memorine. So, why are we denying that?”
“Because if it becomes known that she was a subject in the clinical trials of a drug which may have made possible her escape, massive lawsuits would fly, and everybody associated with this home and GEM Tech would find themselves tied up in a legal free-for-all for years to come—the results of which could be suspension, heavy fines, exorbitant legal fees, and acrimony. It would almost certainly mean the termination of the development of a cure for Alzheimer’s disease. And that simply cannot happen.”
“But what you’re asking me to do is wrong.”
“Some abstract notion of right or wrong is not the point. It’s to do what’s right by our residents.”
“What about the others—nurses, doctors, administrators?”
“They’re in concurrence with our higher mission here.”
So, this was getting the new girl in line. “What about Clara Devine’s medical records? Surely the Zuchowsky lawyers will want to see if anything there can explain her attack.”
“Her records won’t be a problem.”
She looked at him in disbelief. “Altering medical records could cost us our licenses to practice.”
Lutz took a deep breath. “Ms. Ballard, what is proper and improper are relative matters since the circumstances are unique. Greater issues are at stake, namely, the beneficial outcome of this drug research. Secondly, there is absolutely no evidence connecting the compound with Mr. Zuchowsky’s death. Something in her just snapped.”
“Bu
t once the drug’s approved, won’t the Zuchowsky family wonder if Clara had been enrolled and attempt to raise a connection?”
“Not unless you say something about it, because I can assure you that the rest of the staff here will not.”
Jesus! He was putting the whole thing on her. “Do your lawyers know about the clinical trials?”
His face filled with blood. “No. And let me remind you that Clara Devine was suffering dementia and was known to have delusions even before the trials. Any speculation to the contrary could compromise the trials and the marketing of the compound.”
He was telling her to lie and everybody else would swear to it. Because we’re team players.
“You are, of course, free to hire your own attorney,” Lutz continued. “But I’m sure CommCare will provide you with one.”
She nodded, feeling confused and resenting how she was being manipulated. She wished she had never seen the videos, had never noticed the irregularities.
“As you may know, the locking system has been replaced, as has the camera.”
“What about the security video of Clara Devine?”
“I really don’t think that’s something that concerns you.”
“But I thought we were all team players.”
Carter Lutz’s eye twitched reflexively. “Let’s just say it’s no longer a liability.”
Translated: Destroyed.
Lutz closed his hands over the papers and stared at her. “So, are you with us?”
“I need some time to think this over. You’re asking me to compromise some basic professional ethics. You’re also asking me to withhold information from my employer—that because of Memorine, Clare Devine was able to elope from this home and kill someone.”
“There is absolutely no evidence that she did what she did because of the drug. And if you even breathe a hint that there’s a connection, the promise of a cure may be destroyed.”
Then his manner softened. “Look, Ms. Ballard, I’m asking you to put aside your self-concern and think of the residents in this home and the Alzheimer’s patients throughout this country—and throughout the world. Think of your residents. Think of anyone you’ve been close to who may have suffered or died from Alzheimer’s disease.”
