“They’ll be contaminated. I need to get to them before that!”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Weems, but it’s in progress, I’m afraid. In any case, we can organize DNA testing for you. It is becoming the norm in cases like these, where there is a claim of parentage.”
“It’s Doctor, and thanks, but no.” Karen clapped her phone shut, then flipped it open again and tapped a quick-dial number. “Feel like a little road trip, Jimmy?”
~* * *~
James took his father’s death calmly enough. It wasn’t as if he’d ever had any real connection with his father. Dr. Richardson had been sixty-five when he died, he reasoned, and seemed to have lived a full life and died doing what he loved. There were worse ways to go.
Normally, James avoided highways like—germs—but he needed to make time, so it was the New Jersey Turnpike. Soon, he was moving through the combination of factory outlets and urban decay that is Jersey City. Rich had not been a secretive man, and Karen had found his address easily. The apartment was in an old yellow-brick block of eight in one of the better areas of town. James locked his bike and, helmet under his arm, entered the foyer and slid his finger down the row of doorbells, searching for 12B. The entry flapped open, and two men carrying large cardboard boxes shuffled through.
“Excuse me, can you tell me where I’d find 12B?” James asked.
“Too late, man, the guy’s kaput. We’re clearing that place now.”
“Oh, great! I mean great that I caught you. Listen, I need to get a couple of things from the apartment.”
“He-heh. We already got the contract for the clearance, man. Too late.”
They began to move off. James walked along, sideways, and asked politely, “I don’t want anything valuable, just something like an old hairbrush or toothbrush. Something like that.”
The men stopped. The smaller one said, “Yeah? What was he, famous or something, this guy?”
“No…well, yeah, kind of, but not rock-star famous or anything.”
The man squeezed one eye tight. “Famous-guy stuff goes for big money, you know,” he said.
“Yeah, okay, I can pay for it. But he was my father, and it’s mostly for sentimental reasons.”
“A comb, sentimental? He-heh. Yeah, right. Okay, tell you what: show me some ID saying you’re this Richardson guy’s kid, and I’ll let you go up and take some stuff like that.”
“Well, I don’t have the same last name.”
“Yeah, right. Thought so.”
“Listen, I’ll give you fifty bucks for them.”
“Fifty, eh? Make it a hunnerd and it’s a deal. Per item!”
“A hundred per item? You’re kidding!”
“Nope, I ain’t. It’s either that or you can take your chances fishin’ it out of the bay.”
“What?”
“eBay, man, eBay. You live in a cave?”
James could see he was cornered. “Okay, deal,” he sighed.
“All right! It’s up the stairs, first on the right.”
James found the open door and entered slowly, respectfully. It was a small, simple place. There were light patches on the wallpaper where pictures had kept away light. Most of Richardson’s possessions were already packed in boxes.
The two guys returned for another trip. “So, see anything you like?”
“Just looking around. Did you clear out the bathroom yet?”
“Nah, go on, have a look. It’s down there,” the guy said, pointing. “Shop around some.”
James poked through the tiny cabinets in the tiny bathroom. His mother had told him to get anything Rich was likely to have used intimately. The toothbrush was there, just one, and James figured the glass might also be worth taking. In the medicine cabinet, he found the everyday items one would find in any medicine cabinet: aspirin, mouthwash, bandages. My father’s stuff, he realized.
In the adjoining bedroom James found a well-used comb, but there was no clothing, clean or otherwise, anywhere. The comb had a hair or two on it, so he took out the sandwich bags he’d brought along and put the three items in separate bags. The feeling that he was in the presence of his father weighed on him as he moved from one room to another. He imagined Rich lying in the large wooden bed, maybe just watching TV or reading. His breath quieted, and he felt weak and tense enough to start an ache.
Back in the living room, he plunked the finds on a stack of cardboard boxes. “Okay, success, guys. Found a few things.”
The bigger guy came over, picked each of the bags up, and slit his eyes as he inspected the contents. “This everything?”
“Yeah.” James smoothed his hands over his pockets. These were not the kind of guys you’d want to cheat.
“Three, huh? Okay, anything else you want?”
“Um, I dunno. Do you still have the pictures that were hanging?”
“Oh, those were mostly certificates. Doctor stuff. You wanna see ’em? They’re over here.” He picked up a box and pulled the top open. “See? Degree from this place and that place. Couple of pics here, though.”
They were all of people James did not know, of course. One was of a white man standing amongst about a dozen black people, all of them dressed in white, outside of a tin-roofed hut in a tropical setting. He turned it over, and on the back was written: Nursing staff, Teme Clinic, Port Harcourt, Oct 1980.
One of the guys took it from his hand and hefted it. He looked at it, then at James. “This your father here?”
“Actually, I’m not sure. I never met him.”
“You’re kiddin’. Really?” The guy looked at the picture again, then at James. “On the house, kid. But the deal stands for the other stuff.”
James paid up, and as he passed a table by the door, spotted an envelope from an address in Manhattan. It was from an R. Richardson. He sneaked it into his pocket and left.
Outside, leaning against his bike, he reported to his mother, “Job done: toothbrush, comb, and glass.”
“Excellent. Okay, get back here with them when you can, unless you’re planning a trip over the river,” Karen said in a sweet singsong.
“Well, as a matter of fact, I was. But now I think I have another reason to go into the city. I found a letter from someone also named Richardson, and it’s not far from the Village.”
“Really? A blood relative, you think?”
“I don’t know. I just got ‘R. Richardson’ off the envelope. What do you think?”
“If ‘R’ is a blood relative, excellent! I didn’t know he had any siblings. Maybe it’s another child. I’ll see if I can find a number for them. Would you be willing to go over if I can get in touch?”
“Sure, why not?”
“Are you okay? You sound a little out of it.” Karen knew this was difficult for him.
“Yeah, I am. It was just a bit weird being in his apartment.”
“I’ll bet.”
“I’m fine. Really. Call this person and get back to me.”
An hour later, James was filtering through traffic, exercising more care than he would have a few months before, into the Holland Tunnel and Manhattan. The person he was going to see was his aunt, Renee. She lived only a few blocks from James’ old apartment in New York.
Renee Richardson had been wary when Karen called—at least at first. But as Karen filled her in on her history with Richard, the conversation had warmed. Before long, the women were like old friends. Renee was thrilled to learn she had a nephew. She’d never married, had no children, and apart from James’ father, no siblings. James was her only living blood relative. Renee referred to her brother as Alan, not Rich, and they talked about him at length. Rich Richardson’s life had been a life well lived, as Karen had always known it would be.
Karen had organized with a friend of hers in the New York Downtown Hospital to supply James with a DNA collection kit, and it was waiting at the front desk for him. As he rode onwards to the Village, he wondered about Rich: if he’d sired any other children on his travels, what might have been if he’
d stayed with his mother. He wondered why he had never been that interested in finding out before.
James nervously knocked at the door of an old red brick mews house near Washington Square. It opened a crack, then the door swung open fully. There stood a striking woman of about seventy years. Her eyes widened, and she gasped delicately. “My!” she said, and her wrinkles blossomed as she smiled. “You must be James.”
James nodded bashfully. The woman presented her hand in such a way that he didn’t know whether to shake it or kiss it. He chose the former.
“How wonderful to meet you. Come in, come in, please.”
Renee had that New York artsy kind of way about her, but she wore the mantle comfortably and without affectation, as if she were the prototype the others all aped. She led him to her sitting room. “Can I get you some tea? Coffee?”
“Um, yes, whatever you have is fine.”
Renee’s eyes snapped brightly, and her smile sweetened. “Anything you like, dear.”
“Tea, please.”
As if by magic, a maid flitted across the adjacent corridor.
“My, you really do look like Alan. It’s remarkable.”
“Really? You think so?”
“Oh, yes, your mother had said on the telephone, but I wasn’t prepared for how right she was. You’re shorter than Alan, he was a big man, but you have the same shape.”
“What was he like? If you don’t mind me asking. I mean, he has only just passed on and all.”
“Oh, not at all. Alan had no regrets, so how could I? He knew from the start that Nigeria is a dangerous place. It never seemed to bother him.” Renee paused, and then continued in a slightly trembling, choked tone, “He loved what he did, and he loved that he made a difference in the world. He was a very lucky man.”
James hesitantly asked, “Do you know how he died?”
“All I know is what Médecins Sans Frontiers told me. He contracted some disease, I have no idea what, some nasty thing from down there, and died very quickly. A matter of a day or less, but they told me he didn’t suffer.” She gulped so as to hide it and said, “It’s old news now. They told me his staff there was devastated. He was honored by the people in the area before the body was sent back. That’s a good thing for both of us to know.” She patted James’ hand.
The maid arrived with an art deco tea set, all wild in yellows and greens. James recognized it as the work of Clarice Cliff. Renee poured and told him, “He would have loved to have known you, and you would have loved him. Everyone did.”
James heard a little more about Alan, and his life and adventures. Then Renee talked a little about herself.
“Now, you tell me a little about you, James.”
He gave her the potted version of his life, steering clear of his peculiar talents.
“My, haven’t you been fortunate? You are so passionate!”
“I don’t know if I’d call myself passionate.”
Renee took James’ hand. “And to think we were neighbors for all those years! You must come and visit again. Maybe take me to one of your exhibitions?”
“Sure. I’d love to. Can I ask you a question, though?”
“Certainly.”
“I’ve just come from his apartment in Jersey. There were personal belongings there that nobody but you would be interested in. Why didn’t you take any of them?” James showed Renee the picture.
Renee examined it, a small smile on her lips, then shook her head. “I have quite a few photos of Alan, including that one. He had many, many photographs! You may have some of mine if you like.”
“Yes, I would like that. Very much.”
While Renee searched for the photos, James admired her art collection. It was tasteful, diverse, and sizable, but it was no investment collection. This was a person who understood art. One piece led seamlessly to the next until he came to an African mask, crudely hewn out of a dark wood and black, like char. Chubby-cheeked, the mouth formed a wide “O”, with bared, chalky-white teeth; the lips were crimson, the ears dish-shaped and the nostrils flared madly. Every orifice, and especially the wide, whitened eyes, were rimmed in blood-red paint.
“Your father brought that back from Nigeria about twenty-five years ago. Quite something, isn’t it? He’s called Ezembe. He’s a demon, dear!”
For a few moments, James was aware only of the mask. Everything else—the other paintings, his aunt, her house—all spun around it until they blurred into a taut tube with the mask at one end and himself at the other. The tube snapped shut and James stepped back, wobbling drunkenly, as if he’d taken a smack to the head.
“Are you all right, dear?” Renee asked.
James caught his breath and forced a smile. “Uh, yes, I’m fine.”
“So you need a little piece of me, do you?” she asked.
“Pardon?”
“My DNA: your mother said you would like a sample?”
“Oh, yes. If you don’t mind.”
“It’s no problem, James. It will be a pleasure. Your mother said you needed it for some sort of screening? I can’t imagine why. Alan was as healthy as a horse his entire life, and so am I. There is no history of problems in our family at all.”
“It’s a kind of project. And Mother worries about me, that’s all.” James produced the kit and handed it, wrapped, to Renee, instructing her. “You’ll have to do it yourself, or I could contaminate it. Okay, pull the swab out of the tube and rub it on the inside of your cheek.”
“Like this?”
“I think so. Now put it back in the tube and clip it shut.”
“I can do that! Now, young nephew of mine, here.” Renee beamed as she handed it back to him.
James timidly test-drove the new name, saying, “Thanks, Aunt Renee,” and that tickled her pink.
“Now, I must go, James. I have an appointment this evening. You will come back for another visit?”
“I’d positively love to, Aunt Renee.”
“Make it soon.”
She showed James the door, kissing his cheek before he popped his helmet on and rode away.
Doctor Alan Richardson had, until this day, been merely an abstraction—a moldy relic sitting in the back of some forgotten drawer. But now he was very real, and their lives intersected in a way that meant something. James wasn’t sure how to feel about that.
Peggy stood waiting for him by the curb. The hot, soft tarmac stuck to his wheels as he pulled up to her.
“Hey, doll. How are you?” James kissed her as he dismounted.
“Fine. How was your day?”
“Tough.”
“Come and tell me about it.” Peggy led James up to her loft like a mother leads an injured child. He told her about his father’s apartment, the photograph, and Renee. In the end he just blubbered, and half-ashamed, half-relieved she was there to see it, he put his head on her lap and cried.
Twenty-one
Pat ran his finger down the columns and up again. He did it several times, and his brow furrowed more deeply with each pass. “Now this does seem to be a first,” he said. “Both of these people are definitely immediate relatives of James, and—no question—Rich is the father, but look here at the mitochondrial DNA. It is similar, all right. Closer to James’ than yours is, but there are still more differences than one would expect between parent and offspring.” He slapped the paper with the back of his hand. “This is feckin’ nuts. There’s no other word for it.”
Karen took the printouts and perused them, wide-eyed. “Well, something happened somewhere, but I swear it wasn’t me. There’s absolutely nothing I did during pregnancy that could have done this,” she declared.
“Any other factors? Did you ever work in radiology, for instance?” This was grasping at straws, and Pat knew it.
“No, no more exposure than any other doctor. Pharmacologically, the same: nothing strange. I dropped some acid when I was in college, but—”
“Ah, that wouldn’t cause as much chromosome damage as the aspirin you took the ne
xt day.” Pat pored over the sheets and clucked his tongue. “Viral, it’s gotta be.”
“Actually, the night James was conceived, there was a bug going through the hospital. Nasty thing. I’m pretty sure I had it, too, but it passed quickly. A good night’s sleep, and I was fine.”
“As well as a bit of nookie.” Pat winked.
Karen blushed. “Um, well, that didn’t hurt.”
Pat laughed. “I bet it didn’t! Anyhows, viral fits, but a dose of the sniffles shouldn’t do this, either. I could have the noggins over in the DNA lab help me with this, but I’m guessing what we’d find after about fifty years of intensive research by the world’s finest minds is that some virus cranked its way into the mitochondrial DNA. Give ’em another fifty years, and they might just tell us which virus. How Jimmy could have lucked out with this mutation is simply mind-blowing. Genetics simply don’t work like this.”
“So what are we saying here? He’s from outer space?”
“Karen, I don’t know what I’m saying.” Pat swiveled his chair around recklessly, and dumped his feet up on the desk. Two superhero figurines shot off the edge.
“Here’s what we know,” he said, flipping his fingers up one by one, “One, this has come to him from the father, somehow. It just has to have. Two, his cells are super-human. Three, his immune system is insanely robust. Four, for argument’s sake, we’ll take it as fact James can actually sense the presence of bacteria, viruses, and other miscellaneous tinies, eavesdrop on them, attend their square dances, and all that. It’s not beyond the realms of possibility there is a connection between all of these.”
“Well, what now?”
“I don’t know. I simply don’t know. The obvious solution would be to sell him to the CIA for a few bucks and let them see if they can make a decent weapon out of him.”
“Not funny, Pat.”
“Sure it is, but ‘the time has come, the Walrus said, to talk of many things’.”
“For instance?” On the surface, her tone was dispassionate, professional. Underneath, it quivered.
Ezembe Page 13
