Elixir

by Charles Atkins

  The room erupted, as she bowed her head slightly and returned to her seat.

  Dalton whispered, ‘Flawless.’

  But she heard undertones, and felt the moment slip away. Sharks are circling. Is he one of them? She glanced at J. Robert, who’d made it clear he felt a woman in the role of CEO was unseemly. She knew that all it would take was a single negative quarter, two tops, and she’d be on the chopping block. But look at how old he is. His hands like crepe paper, his jowls loose like he’d swallowed bags of marbles.

  ‘Do whatever it takes to get Frank Garfield,’ she whispered to Dalton; she heard desperation in her voice. ‘Do it soon. Before someone else gets to him.’

  ‘Yes, Mother.’

  As the Chief Financial Officer took his turn at the podium, Leona scrolled through her messages, which included news feeds and synopses from major scientific and medical journals. But it was Frank Garfield’s work that obsessed her. It connected to her own, nearly three decades ago. A progression of how science carves away at the material world, laying bare the essence of creation. What the hell? She stopped. Her attention drawn to an email from her alma mater, MIT. The subject line – Professor Jackson Atlas, unhappy news.

  Dear colleagues:

  It is with a heavy heart that I must inform you of the passing away of Nobel Prize laureate and professor, Dr Jackson Atlas. While the details have not yet been released, Brookline police stated that Dr Atlas died from a single gunshot wound and that a homicide investigation is underway.

  She reread it. Wavy electric lines spasmed in her right visual field. Just what I need. She sought for the term that described the onset of what could turn into a crushing migraine, scintillating scotomata. Her vision blurred. Jackson dead. She swallowed and looked at Dalton. She passed him her cell, so he could read. Murdered. She tried to study her son’s response, though his image was now distorted like a Picasso by rainbow-edged jagged lines.

  He seemed surprised. ‘That’s Garfield’s mentor.’

  Dalton is a good actor. Like mother like son. Why is he looking at me so intently? Like I care … I do care. Jackson is dead. What did you do, Dalton?

  He leaned into her. ‘But, as you’ve taught me, Mother, never let a crisis go to waste. This could help dislodge Garfield.’

  ‘Do it.’ She bit her lip as her vision danced. Do not cry. I will not cry. You made your choice. Look at how far you’ve come. You could never have been happy with him. But you were. And Leona willed away her grief, a technique she’d learned as a young girl. Head in the game. Eye on the prize. And despite the certainty of the headache soon to come, because she’d be damned to show weakness and take a pill while on the stage, she smiled. Here to help; here to heal.

  SIX

  Usually more than half empty, Frank faced a packed auditorium of one-hundred and fifty undergraduates, mostly pre-med and nursing students. They rarely came to Friday class, as most studied from notes they’d take turns writing and then distribute via email. And, if he let his paranoia get the better of him, he suspected there were one or two pharma recruiters who’d become more aggressive after his last article. Was Jackson right?

  Since Tuesday, and finding his mentor dead … shot, he’d struggled to put one foot in front of the next. But routines, like rounds on his young patients and his teaching responsibilities helped. He tapped the smart board and started a film clip. ‘The luminescent bits at the ends of the genes are the telomeres. Observe the differences in stressed rats and … happy rats. And this has been observed in humans,’ he flipped to images from a recent article, ‘protracted stress shortens telomere length, which in turn has implications for morbidity and diminished life expectancy. Longer telomeres equal longer life.’

  He pictured Jackson. It was in this class that Frank first had his mind blown by epigenetics, the field of science that asked basic questions about what causes a cell’s DNA to do one thing or another. And Jackson lit that fuse.

  A hand shot up.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I don’t get the telomerase thing.’

  ‘It’s the enzyme that maintains the telomeres. The less telomerase, shorter telomeres, more disease, and a shorter life. Even before birth, if you stress the mother, her offspring have shorter telomeres.’ He flicked a tab at the bottom of the screen and pulled up a study to illustrate.

  The student persisted. ‘But not in cancer. That’s the part I don’t understand.’

  ‘Yes. In cancer it’s the other way around. The cell’s nucleus decides it wants lots of telomerase. Division goes rampant with tumors comprised of mostly undifferentiated cells.’

  ‘But if telomerase is supposed to be a good thing, why would having a lot of it lead to tumors?’ she asked.

  Frank heard Jackson’s Boston twang in his head. ‘Good and bad are manmade constructs that have nothing to do with nature.’ He dragged electroscopic images onto the screen. ‘Here we have healthy cells with robust telomeres and a normal amount of telomerase. But over here is a tumor with short, almost absent telomeres and a whole lot of telomerase. This is what happens. As the telomeres shorten, the DNA − and get all those tidy pictures of the double helix out of your head − unravels. Think in three dimensions, four if you can. Parts of the DNA that were never meant to be exposed to the cellular environment are now bare and ripe to be copied. That’s how the cancer starts.’

  He glanced at the clock and started. Beneath it stood Detective Brody.

  Frank’s mouth went dry – how long has he been there? Am I about to be arrested? Adrenalin surged. ‘As I’m sure you’re aware, Dr Atlas has passed away. I’ll cover both his and my seminars for the rest of the semester.’ If I’m not in jail.

  Hands popped.

  Here it comes.

  True to form, worried questions about grades and what would – and would not – be on the final exam all came. Jackson snickered in his head, ‘Follow the bouncing dollars.’

  He dismissed the class. Students swarmed the podium. He fielded questions and requests to have grades re-evaluated. Then an attractive young couple in crisp suits, presented business cards.

  ‘Doctor Garfield, hi, I’m Andy Anderson and this is Victoria Claybourn, we’re with—’

  ‘Not interested. Leave, or I’ll call security.’

  ‘But Doctor Garfield, we were hoping …’

  He stared at preppy Andy and blonde and perky Victoria. ‘Leave.’

  ‘But—’

  Frank pulled out his cell.

  Andy held up his hands. ‘Got it’ – he threw cards and a glossy brochure onto the podium – ‘but Galaxon Pharmaceuticals is very interested in your work. Any time you want to call and—’

  Frank, pressed the number for security. ‘Hi, I’ve got a couple unauthorized people in the Briarcliff Auditorium.’ He looked up. ‘Never mind, they took the hint. Thanks.’

  As the two left, Detective Brody approached. ‘That was interesting.’

  Frank picked up the heavy stock cards and prospectus, showed them to Brody, and tossed them. ‘Recruiters.’

  ‘I meant your lecture. Telomeres are the secret to aging? Seriously?’

  ‘Part of it.’ His cell rang. He glanced at the readout and rejected the call.

  ‘Your name was on a bunch of those slides you tossed up. This is your work. And this is what Jackson wanted you to step away from. It seems too important to do that.’

  Frank was at a loss. Why is he here? Those eyes, not quite green. Am I going to jail? And why does he pretend to be interested in my work?

  Brody continued. ‘The stuff you tossed out on Tuesday, about how Professor Atlas made a lot of enemies, and that maybe robbery wasn’t the motive. You said he shot down some cancer drugs. That’s billions of dollars. But it’s also related to this stuff. These telomeres.’

  ‘I don’t know … maybe.’ Frank looked at the detective, and pushed past vivid memories of being handcuffed to a gurney in psychiatric emergency rooms when he was ten, eleven, and twelve. It suddenly was hard to b
reathe. ‘Why are you here?’

  ‘That’s blunt. I need someone to decipher what’s on Professor Atlas’s computer. I figured that could be you.’

  ‘Right.’ Not what I expected … is it a trap? ‘When?’

  ‘Now, if possible.’

  He swallowed. Is this how he does it? Get you to come without a fuss. Phantom bands of padded leather clamped around his wrists and ankles. ‘Not a problem.’ You didn’t kill Jackson. Yeah, and you didn’t kill your father either, but they locked you up anyway.

  SEVEN

  ‘Why Garfield?’ Dalton asked, as he stared out at the passing scenery of the Taconic Parkway. He cracked the window to vent the reek of her perfume.

  ‘You really don’t see it,’ Leona replied.

  Her disdain, like a slap, felt familiar. ‘I’m not an idiot. But you’ve pursued others. Garfield seems somehow different.’ He pulled out his cell and flipped between his Twitter, Instagram, and Facebook accounts. He scrolled through the most-recent comments on his latest YouTube music video. Over ten-thousand hits, the majority of the responses were good. A few, like, ‘dude sounds like someone’s torturing a cat,’ hurt. But one, from a true fan, was what he needed. ‘Voice of an angel. Soul of a poet. And those eyes … I love you, Dalton. Shine on.’

  ‘He is different,’ Leona said.

  He paused in mid ego-surf and looked at her in profile. Well, no longer beautiful. That’s what this is about. ‘Then, tell me.’

  ‘I see you handled Dr Gordon,’ she said, referring to the recently termed head of R&D.

  ‘Yes, papered and out the door. And he didn’t fight.’ And you didn’t answer me. Typical.

  ‘That would be stupid … and—’

  ‘Yes Mother, the office is being remodeled and will be ready for its next occupant, the reluctant Dr Garfield. And now that his roadblock of a mentor is no longer among the living …’ Let’s see if she bites.

  Leona took her eyes from the traffic to look at him. ‘You had nothing to do with that?’

  ‘Of course not.’ He waggled his fingers in the air. ‘A strange twist of fate.’ He liked the way those words rolled in his mouth. A possible lyric, though he wondered if it were too close to some oldie. ‘What I’d not realized, was that you and the good Dr Atlas had history.’

  ‘I told you before I knew him when I was at MIT.’

  ‘You never mentioned he was your thesis supervisor.’ Or that you had an affair with him. And this is how much she thinks of me and my abilities. You didn’t think I’d find out. And now you don’t think I know what you’re after.

  ‘He was.’ She flicked her signal for the Hyde Park exit. ‘Thank you for coming today. I know you don’t like to. I appreciate it.’

  Nice, a change of topic, and a few breadcrumbs of … what to call this … right, what makes Mother squirm. And a compliment to boot. ‘You’re wrong. I haven’t seen Grandma Karen in a while, and we needed to talk through a few things. It’s a twofer.’

  ‘You’re not going to bring up that silly singing thing again.’

  I was, but when you put it that way. He wondered how it was she did this to him. Forty minutes in the car with her and he was reduced to a petulant twelve-year-old. In clearer moments, he saw the truth of their relationship. If he did what she wanted all was well. But the one thing he wanted, which he’d tasted earlier in life, she was dead set against. ‘No need, you couldn’t have been clearer, though I appreciate that you’ve stopped trying to take down my videos.’

  ‘It’s not that they’re terrible,’ she said.

  And here it comes. He braced.

  ‘It’s just they’re not who you are. Who we are, and what we can be. We are not Kardashians or some pop tarts hungering for fifteen minutes and a hundred-million hits on YouTube.’

  ‘Speak for yourself. Father would have understood.’ If he even was my father. He pictured Jackson Atlas, the back of his head as he aimed and fired. Did I kill my real father?

  ‘True, and that was as much a problem with him. More. I never told you this but he wanted to sell our control of UNICO. He had a different vision of where he wanted to take our family. A risky one.’

  ‘He wanted to make movies,’ Dalton stated. ‘I read two of his screenplays. They’re good. Though I think he modeled his leading ladies after you. Tough, beautiful … cruel.’

  ‘Yes, they were … are I suppose. But to sink hundreds of millions of our dollars. He would have run us into bankruptcy in no time.’

  ‘Technically, his family money.’

  ‘There was no pre-nup. Though his mother, may she rot in hell, wanted one. Half of everything he had was mine, the minute I said: “I do.”’

  ‘Which is why you married him,’ Dalton stated.

  ‘It didn’t hurt.’

  ‘Come on Mother, rich, handsome, heir to the controlling interest in one of the world’s largest pharmaceuticals.’

  ‘Lionel had a lot to offer,’ she admitted.

  ‘I remember he was handsome, but the thing I most remember,’ blood and water … ‘you fought all the time. I’d hide in my closet and wait until it was over. You’d scream at him and there’d be broken glass. Then someone would slam a door, and a car would peel away. And this is what it was about. He wanted to be an artist and make movies and you wanted to control UNICO. Seems like you got your way. And he … wound up dead.’ He studied her profile, her once tight jawline now sagged. She used me to blackmail him. ‘You even think of divorce, and you will never see your son.’

  ‘Ancient history. What progress have you made with Dr Garfield? Time is ticking.’

  ‘He’s as ready as he’ll ever be. We lead with our best pitch. It’s not going to be money, or the promise of accolades, or even power.’ Essentially Mother, nothing there for you to relate to.

  ‘You said something about a Christ complex. God help us.’

  ‘Yes, he wants to push his research into human trials. As you’re aware, he works with children with advanced malignancies … they all die. He thinks he can change that.’

  ‘And Jackson … Dr Atlas, didn’t.’ She added, ‘Quite a problem for an up-and-coming academician. Motive for murder?’

  ‘There’s a detective who’s pursued that. Sean Brody, young, clean record. But it was a sad burglary for drugs. Jewelry was taken.’ He kept his answer short, minimal embellishment. Nothing more than what could be found on an internet search.

  ‘What a waste. Jackson was brilliant.’

  ‘When’s the last time you spoke to Dr Atlas?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s been some time.’ She turned down a manicured lane that led into the sprawl of the Roosevelt Acres Retirement Community.

  ‘Months, weeks, years?’

  ‘Months, certainly,’ she said.

  ‘I see. So, it wasn’t just that you happened upon Garfield’s work in some journals.’

  ‘No, though I never trusted what Jackson said, not a hundred percent. He was a crafty old dog.’

  Who slept with his beautiful young student. Something doesn’t add up. ‘What did he tell you about Garfield?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. But enough to pique my curiosity. He was hiding something and when those last couple of articles came out, I knew where Frank Garfield’s work could head, and I knew why Jackson wanted to keep me and pharma away. While it was a waste,’ she glanced at Dalton, ‘Jackson’s death is useful.’ She pulled into a visitor’s lot on a road dotted with gray wood-shingle condominiums with green shutters and trim, like a New England seaside community. She flicked down the visor mirror and dabbed on lipstick. ‘Let’s get this over with.’

  Dalton trailed behind as she headed up the path towards Unit 8C. The two-bedroom, two-bath residence of his Grandma, Karen Krawsinska.

  Leona rang, as Dalton took in the grounds with their bright arrays of German Iris, spidery purple and white bachelor buttons, fresh-planted violets and vivid annuals. A door creaked. He smiled at the first whiskey-cured tones of Grandma Karen.

  ‘W
hy if it isn’t warden Leona.’ And then she spotted him. ‘Dalton, get over here. Give grannie a hug.’

  He turned. From yards away, he smelled the booze and the cigarettes, but those were not what caused his cheeks to ache with happiness. ‘Grandma, how the fuck are you?’

  He took stock of his rail-thin grandmother, her bleached blonde hair tied in a bun. It was middle of the day and she was still in her pink-fleece slippers and a house robe. He pulled her into a hug. ‘How the fuck are you?’

  ‘Fucking great living in this hell-hole.’

  ‘Mother,’ Leona interjected. ‘Do you have any idea what this hell-hole costs?’

  ‘Of course, and it’s always about the money. Isn’t it? Why thank you warden, my jail is lovely. Acres and acres of fucking walking paths, two golf courses. Which, in case you forgot, I don’t play, nor do I plan to. And let’s not forget the bridge clubs and Mah Jong. Woo hoo.’

  As she ranted, Dalton and Leona entered her vaulted living room. Light streamed from second-story windows onto mahogany furniture and tasteful couches and armchairs. It reminded him of a furniture showroom, or one of the glossy brochures for Roosevelt Arms. He looked closer. She hadn’t burned holes in the upholstery and the ashtrays had been changed recently. A beautiful room, and he and Grandma had spent a fun weekend picking out the furnishings and bric-a-brac. And how tickled she’d been when they’d purchased the antique liquor bottles with silver labels that let you know which was whiskey, rye, or bourbon. He suspected these were the most-used items in the home.