“Nancy Schonhauser called,” Cathryn managed to say. “Little Tad died this evening. That poor dear child.”
Charles reached out and drew his wife to him, comforting her. At first he felt a sense of relief as if Michelle had been spared. But then he remembered that the boy lived on the Pawtomack River just as they did, only closer to town.
“I thought I’d go over to see Marge,” continued Cathryn. “But she’s been hospitalized herself. She collapsed when they told her about Tad. Do you think I should go over to their house anyway and see if there is something I can do?”
Charles was no longer listening. Benzene caused aplastic anemia as well as leukemia! He’d forgotten about Tad. Now Michelle was no longer a single, isolated case of bone marrow disease. Charles wondered how many other families living along the course of the Pawtomack River had been struck. All the anger Charles had felt earlier returned in an overwhelming rush, and he broke free from Cathryn.
“Did you hear me?” asked Cathryn, abandoned in the center of the room. She watched Charles go over to the telephone directory, look up a number, and dial. He seemed to have forgotten she was there. “Charles,” called Cathryn. “I asked you a question.”
He looked at her uncomprehendingly until the connection went through. Then he directed his attention to the phone. “Is this Harold Dawson?” demanded Charles.
“It is,” returned the manager.
“My name is Dr. Charles Martel,” said Charles. “I was down at Recycle, Ltd. tonight.”
“I know,” said Harold. “Nat Archer called me a while ago. I’m sorry for any discourtesies you experienced. I wish you had made your visit during regular hours so I could have seen you.”
“Discourtesies don’t bother me,” snapped Charles. “But dumping toxic waste, like benzene, into the river does.”
“We are not dumping anything into the river,” said Harold emphatically. “All our toxic chemical permits have been filed with the EPA and are up to date.”
“Permits,” scoffed Charles. “There is benzene in the river and one of your workers said Recycle’s been dumping it. And benzene is damn toxic. My daughter has just come down with leukemia and a child just upriver from me died today of aplastic anemia. That’s no coincidence. I’m going to shut you people down. I hope to God you have a lot of insurance.”
“These are wild, irresponsible accusations,” said Harold evenly. “I should tell you that Recycle, Ltd. is a marginal operation of Breur Chemical Corporation and they maintain this facility because they feel they are doing the community a service. I can assure you that if they thought otherwise, they would close the factory down themselves.”
“Well, it goddamn well ought to be closed,” shouted Charles.
“One hundred and eighty workers in this town might disagree,” answered Harold, losing patience. “If you cause trouble, mister, I can guarantee you’ll get trouble.”
“I…” began Charles but he realized he was holding a dead phone. Harold Dawson had hung up.
“God!” Charles shouted as he furiously shook the receiver.
Cathryn took the phone away and replaced it in its cradle. She’d only heard Charles’s side of the conversation, but it had upset her. She forced him to sit down at the kitchen table, and she shooed her mother away when she’d appeared at the door. Her face was streaked with tears, but she was no longer crying.
“I think you’d better tell me about the benzene,” said Cathryn.
“It’s a poison,” fumed Charles. “It depresses the bone marrow somehow.”
“And you don’t have to eat it to be poisoned?”
“No. You don’t have to ingest it. All you have to do is inhale it. It goes directly into the bloodstream. Why did I have to make that playhouse out of the old ice shed?”
“And you think it could have caused Michelle’s leukemia?”
“I certainly do. Apparently she’s been inhaling benzene all the time she’s played there. Benzene causes the rare kind of leukemia that she has. It’s too much of a coincidence. Especially with Tad’s aplastic anemia.”
“The benzene could have caused that?”
“Absolutely.”
“And you think Recycle has been putting benzene into the river?”
“I know they have. That’s what I found out tonight. And they’re going to pay. I’ll get the place shut down.”
“And how are you going to do that?”
“I don’t know yet. I’ll talk to some people tomorrow. I’ll get in touch with the EPA. Somebody is going to want to hear about it.”
Cathryn studied Charles’s face, thinking of Dr. Keitzman’s and Dr. Wiley’s questions. “Charles,” began Cathryn, marshaling her courage. “This is all interesting and probably important but it seems to me that it’s a little inappropriate at this time.”
“Inappropriate?” echoed Charles with disbelief.
“Yes,” said Cathryn. “We’ve just learned that Michelle has leukemia. I think that the primary focus should be taking care of her, not trying to get a factory shut down. There will always be time for that, but Michelle needs you now.”
Charles stared at his young wife. She was a survivor, coping in a difficult situation with great effort. How could he hope to make her understand that the core of the problem was that he really didn’t have anything to offer Michelle except love? As a cancer researcher he knew too much about Michelle’s disease; as a physician he couldn’t be lured into false hope by the panoply of modern medicine; as a father he was terrified of what Michelle was going to face because he’d gone through a similar situation with his first wife. Yet Charles was an activist. He had to do something, and Recycle, Ltd. was there to keep from facing the reality of Michelle’s illness and his deteriorating situation at the Weinburger Institute.
Charles recognized that he couldn’t communicate all this to Cathryn because she probably wouldn’t understand it and if she did it would undermine her own hopes. Despite their intense love for each other, Charles accepted that he’d have to bear his burdens alone. The thought was crushing, and he collapsed in Cathryn’s arms.
“It’s been a terrible day,” whispered Cathryn, holding Charles as tightly as she could. “Let’s go to bed and try to sleep.”
Charles nodded, thinking, If I had only worked faster…
By a process so gradual as to be imperceptible, Michelle became aware that her room was lighter. The shade over the window now appeared dark with a light border rather than white with a dark border. Along with the gradual increase in illumination, the coming day was also heralded by the increased activity in the hallway. Michelle’s door was open about six inches and the shaft of yellow incandescent light that came through had been a meager comfort for her during the interminable night.
Michelle wondered when Charles or Cathryn would come. She hoped it would be soon because she wanted, more than anything else, to go home to her own room, her own house. She couldn’t understand why she had had to stay in the hospital because after her dinner, which she had barely eaten, no one had done anything to her other than look in and check that she was OK.
Swinging her legs over the side of the bed, Michelle pushed herself into a sitting position. She closed her eyes and steeled herself against a rush of dizziness. The movement exacerbated her nausea which had troubled her all night. Once she’d even gotten up when her saliva had pooled beneath her tongue, and she was afraid she was going to vomit. Holding on to the sides of the toilet, she’d retched but hadn’t brought up anything. Afterwards, it had taken all her strength to get back into bed.
Michelle was certain she’d not slept at all. Besides the waves of nausea, she also had pains in her joints and abdomen, as well as chills. The fever, which had gone away the previous afternoon, was back.