But Charles didn’t move. Instead he began mechanically to chew his fettucini, embarrassed at his own thoughts. Chuck was immature. At least Jean Paul reacted appropriately. He’d cried and then asked when Michelle would be home and if he could go and see her. He was a good kid.
Charles looked at Cathryn, who kept her head down, pushing her food around her plate, pretending for her mother’s sake to be eating. He was thankful that he had her. He didn’t think he could handle Michelle’s illness by himself. At the same time he realized how difficult it was for Cathryn. For that reason he had not said anything about the troubles at the institute, nor did he plan to. She had enough to worry about.
“Have some more pork chops, Charles,” said Gina, reaching over and unceremoniously plopping a chop on his full plate.
He had tried to say no but the chop had already entered its ballistic arc. He looked away, trying to stay calm. Charles found Gina trying even under the best of circumstances, especially since the woman had never concealed her disapproval of her only daughter marrying a man thirteen years her senior with three kids. Charles heard another telltale plop and opened his eyes to see his mound of fettucini had grown.
“There,” said Gina. “You need some more meat on your bones.”
Charles restrained himself from grabbing a handful of fettucini and throwing it back into the bowl.
“How do they know Michelle has leukemia?” asked Jean Paul guilelessly.
Everyone turned to Charles, having been afraid to ask the question.
“They looked at her blood, then examined her bone marrow.”
“Bone marrow?” questioned Chuck with disgust. “How do they get bone marrow to look at?”
Charles eyed his son, amazed at how easily Chuck could irritate him. To anyone else, Chuck’s question might seem innocent, but Charles was sure the boy was motivated by morbid interest and not concern for his sister. “They get bone marrow by ramming a largebore needle into the breast bone or the hipbone, then sucking the marrow out,” said Charles, hoping to shock Chuck into sympathy for Michelle.
“Ugh,” said Chuck. “Does it hurt?”
“Terribly,” said Charles.
Cathryn stiffened with a flash of imaginary pain, remembering that she’d been the one to consent to the test.
“God!” said Chuck. “Nobody is ever going to do a bone marrow on me!”
“I’m not so sure,” said Charles without thinking. “Michelle’s doctor wants both of you boys to go in to be tissue-typed. There’s a chance one of you may match Michelle and can be a donor for platelets, granulocytes, or even a marrow transplant.”
“Not me!” said Chuck, putting down his fork. “Nobody is going to stick no needle into my bones. No way!”
Slowly Charles placed his elbows on the table and leaned toward Chuck. “I’m not asking if you’re interested, Charles Jr. I’m telling you that you’re going into Pediatric Hospital to be tissue-typed. Do you understand me?”
“This is hardly a discussion for the dinner table,” interrupted Cathryn.
“Will they really stick a needle into my bone?” asked Jean Paul.
“Charles, please!” shouted Cathryn. “This is no way to talk to Chuck about this kind of thing!”
“No? Well, I’m sick and tired of his selfishness,” cried Charles. “He hasn’t voiced one word of concern for Michelle.”
“Why me?” yelled Chuck. “Why do I have to be a donor? You’re the father. Why can’t you be the donor, or are big-shit doctors not allowed to donate marrow?”
Charles leaped to his feet in blind fury, pointing a quivering finger at Chuck. “Your selfishness is only rivaled by your ignorance. You’re supposed to have had biology. The father only donates half of the chromosomes to a child. There is no way I could match Michelle. If I could I’d change places with her.”
“Sure! Sure!” taunted Chuck. “Talk’s cheap.”
Charles started around the table, but Cathryn leaped up and caught him. “Charles, please,” she said bursting into tears. “Calm down!”
Chuck was frozen in his chair, gripping the sides with white knuckles. He knew that only Cathryn stood between him and disaster.
“In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Ghost,” said Gina, crossing herself. “Charles! Beg the Lord for forgiveness. Don’t abet the devil’s work.”
“Oh, Christ!” shouted Charles. “Now we get a sermon!”
“Don’t tempt the Lord,” said Gina with conviction.
“To hell with God,” shouted Charles, breaking free of Cathryn’s grip. “What kind of God gives a defenseless twelve-year-old leukemia?”
“You cannot question the Lord’s way,” said Gina solemnly.
“Mother!” cried Cathryn. “That’s enough!”
Charles’s face flushed crimson. His mouth voiced some inaudible words before he abruptly spun on his heels, wrenched open the back door, and stormed out into the night. The door slammed with a jolting finality that shook the bric-a-brac in the living room.
Cathryn quickly pulled herself together for the children’s sake, busying herself with clearing the table and keeping her face averted.
“Such blasphemy!” said Gina with disbelief. Her hand was pressed against her bosom. “I’m afraid Charles has opened himself to the devil.”
“How about a cannoli?” asked Jean Paul, carrying his plate to the sink.
With his father gone, Chuck felt a sense of exhilaration. He knew now that he could stand up against his father and win. Watching Cathryn clear the table, he tried to catch her eye. She had to have noticed how he stood his ground, and Chuck certainly noticed how Cathryn had backed him up. Pushing back his chair, he carried his plate to the sink and dutifully ran water over it.
Charles fled from the house with no goal other than to escape the infuriating atmosphere. Crunching through the crusted snow, he ran down toward the pond. The New England weather, true to form, had completely changed. The northeastern storm had blown out to sea and was replaced by an arctic front that froze everything in its tracks. Despite the fact he had been running, he could feel a raw chill, especially since he’d not taken the time to get his coat. Without a conscious decision, he veered left toward Michelle’s playhouse, noting that the change in the wind had effectively eliminated the smell from the chemical factory. Thank God!
After stamping his feet on the porch to remove any snow. Charles bent over and entered the miniature house. The interior was only ten feet long and a central archway divided it roughly in two: one-half was the living room with a built-in banquette; the other the kitchen, with a small table and sink. The playhouse had running water (in the summer) and one electrical outlet. From about age six to nine Michelle had made tea here for Charles on Sunday summer afternoons. The small hotplate she used was still working and Charles switched it on for a little heat.
Sitting down on the banquette, he stretched his legs out and crossed them, conserving as much body heat as possible. Still he soon began to shiver. The doll’s house was only a refuge from the icy wind, not from the cold.
As the solitude had the desired effect, Charles quickly calmed down, admitting that he had handled Chuck badly. Charles knew he had yet to come to terms with the disastrous day. He marveled how he had allowed himself to be lulled into a false sense of security over the last few years. He thought back to the morning… making love with Cathryn. In just twelve hours all the threads of his carefully organized world had unraveled.
Leaning forward so he could look up through the front window, Charles gazed at the canopy of sky. It had become a clear, star-studded night, and he could see forever, out into distant galaxies. The sight was beautiful but lifeless and all at once Charles felt an overwhelming sense of futility and loneliness. His eyes filled with tears, and he leaned back so that he couldn’t see the terrible beauty of the winter sky. Instead he looked out over the snow-covered landscape of the frozen pond. Immediately in front of him was the area of open water Jean Paul had asked about that morning.