A Fierce Radiance (13 page)

“No, I didn’t know that.”

“I learned about it at the zoo. When they build their nests on tall buildings and bridges, they think they’re building them on cliffs and mountainsides. I’m trying to think the way a hawk would think, that the skyscrapers are mountains, and we’re living in a mountain range.”

How she loved him.

“Time to go inside and warm up, if you ask me,” Rutherford said.

“No,” Charlie insisted, “the hawks aren’t done for today. We can’t go in yet.”

Claire was about to correct him for his tone, but her father said smoothly, “Okay, boy, leave the crate where it is and go to the other side of the terrace, and stay away from the railing. We’ll keep an eye on you from the sofa. Your mother and I will be nice and warm inside, and you can be out here freezing.”

Without protest, Charlie did as his grandfather asked. Once he was safely situated, Claire and Rutherford went inside. Rutherford threw his jacket and hat on a chair. He sat down on the white sofa facing the French doors, sinking into the cushions. He wore a blue button-down oxford shirt with a paisley silk ascot at his neck. His baggy corduroy trousers looked, on him, like the height of casual elegance. His steel gray hair was brushed back from his forehead. Rather than sit beside him on the sofa, Claire chose a hard-backed chair and adjusted its position so she had a full view of her son.

When they were settled, Claire could no longer restrain herself. “Why did you give Charlie his present before Christmas?” She didn’t want her visit to start out this way. She wanted to maintain a veneer of appreciation and respect, but she couldn’t, her pain using the Christmas present as a way to slip through her defenses.

“But, sweetheart, the hawks are here today. They may not be here
on Christmas. You’ve got to take things as they come, words to live by.” He gave her a mischievous grin. “Let me tell you, this morning we go up to the zoo, he wants to spend the whole time in the birdhouse. What am I supposed to do in a birdhouse? I want to look at the lions, the tigers. All he wants to do is look at a bunch of birds.”

How charming her father was.

“But okay, he’s the star of the show, I pretend I like birds. The magenta bunting, maybe it was the scarlet bunting, if he likes it, I like it. On the way home, we make a little detour to Hammacher Schlemmer and I get him the binoculars. He’s busy for the rest of the afternoon, and I get a little rest, which by then I needed, I can tell you.”

He made her laugh, in spite of herself.

“In conclusion, Charlie had a good day. So what’s going on with my best girl?”

“Nothing much.” This was her standard answer to him. She tried to keep the conversation centered on Charlie so she wouldn’t be tempted to ask him questions that she might regret. She didn’t come here to argue with him or confront him, and she certainly wouldn’t provoke an argument in Charlie’s presence. “The usual.”

“How’s your work?”

“Okay.”

“What are you working on?” he pressed.

“I’ve got a story coming out this week about a group of army wives on Governor’s Island. Very brave and inspiring. At least that’s how they come across in the layout. In person they’re pretty much tired and worn down, struggling to keep up their spirits and pretend to their children that everything’s fine. Most of their husbands are on Wake Island. Army Signal Corps.”

“That’s hard going.”

“Yes.” She didn’t want to tell him about the cover, didn’t want to have to accept his compliments or his enthusiasm.

“Sounds like a good story for you.”

“Yes.”

“Well.” He hesitated. “I’ve been wanting to talk to you about something.” Again the hesitation, unusual for him. “I’ve been hearing about the newspaper and magazine fellas, and the women, too, getting ready to go overseas, to cover the war. You think the magazine’ll make you do something like that? Send you overseas with the others?”

She didn’t want to admit her own concern until she knew his intentions. “Hard to know.”

“Well, what I wanted to say was, there’s plenty of room here. More space than I need. Why don’t you rent out the house downtown, or even sell it, and you and Charlie move in with me? It’d be the best thing for the boy. We can put him in school up here, a good prep school, not like the public school he goes to now. Set him up for life. MaryLee and I would take good care of him, you wouldn’t have to worry when you’re traveling. Your housekeeper can come, too. MaryLee’s getting old and could use the help.”

No
,
never
. That was Claire’s first thought. The house downtown was her home, even if maintaining it was costly. This apartment was impressive, but how well did she really know the man who owned it? Not very well. She wouldn’t sacrifice her independence and security so easily.

Then she saw something in her father’s face, in the instant when her anger flared. The mask of charm was gone, the sparkle in his eyes at his own cleverness, the elegance and élan, gone. Loneliness and need took their place. He was a man in his midsixties, alone with his housekeeper, filled with love for his newfound daughter and his grandson. He was begging her to give him a family. Begging her to allow him to redeem the years that they’d lost. For the first time she noticed the wrinkled pallor of his skin, the flatness of his expression, the bags under his eyes. He was turning into an old man, and it was the old man she answered, as best as she could.

“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.

W
ill 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 with 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.