Clara licked her lips, which were cracked and sore, sat up, and grabbed the jar of Carmex lip salve. "Not with as many as I'd hoped."
"Mmm. Fleming. Yes. And we need him to effectively cover the South Pacific." There was a pause. "Talk to your father, Clara. We need his support."
She sighed, smearing menthol-tasting salve on her lips. "He won't listen."
"We have no other way to reach him. You must try."
After a silence she said, "All right."
"And keep me updated on your progress at the lab."
"I always do."
♥ ♦ ♣ ♠
Clara van Rensaaeler, Journal Entry, 4 Apr 94
Had to trash another batch of prototype viruses today.
Uncle Pan says my talk on Friday went over well.
Some thoughts on the virus. I need to engineer an incubation period of at least two or three weeks, if possible, and make it transmissible via saliva and mucous membranes. It must be able to spread rapidly and easily. A deadly flu.
I called Papa this morning, and brought up the subject of my research. It was awkward; I just can't bring myself to pressure him, and I know he disapproves of what I'm doing. He asked how it was going and I told him the truth - it's not going well.
He said perhaps I was too close to my work and needed to step back from it for a bit. I needed a change of venue. That's not the problem. I know exactly what information I need. I simply don't know how to get it.
But perhaps in a sense I have been too close to my problem. I recently read an article in the Times about the Blythe van Renssaeler Memorial Clinic. The Jokertown Clinic. And it occurred to me a few minutes ago, the family still has connections with them; Grandmaman Blythe's trust fund has been donating money to the Clinic for years. Papa could get me a position on the staff, if I can persuade him to intervene on my behalf. If he won't do it, I'll get Uncle Henry to. And once there, I could certainly find a way to get access to Tachyon's lab notes.
I've got an urgent call into him. I'm pretty certain what I have in mind isn't quite what he meant by a change of venue. Oh, well.
There's the phone now. I'll bet that's him.
♥ ♦ ♣ ♠
The unctuous voice was still rolling out its sonorous, lying periods even alter Finn hung up the telephone.
"Such a difficult choice ... The Board agonized for several days ... Understood and appreciated your unique talents ... Two thousand dollar a year raise ..."
The real message could be gleaned - "You're joker shit, boy, and you ain't gettin' this job."
Finn turned away from the desk, and leaned the length of his body against the wall. Closed his eyes, and felt the tears prick. He wanted to call his dad, but even dad couldn't fix this hurt. Also, he couldn't bear to tell his father, or Cody, or Troll, or any of the other nurses, doctors and staff at the Clinic that he had lost, failed. The humiliation lay like a sick, oily taste on the back of his tongue.
Stop thinking about yourself, your wounded pride. Figure out what this means for the Clinic, and her patients - the people who really matter.
Dr. Clara van Renssaeler. Who the fuck was Clara van Renssaeler? Aside from (presumably) some relative of the tragic and doomed woman for whom the Clinic had been named? Finn hurried to the AMA directory for the state of New York. There she was; MD Harvard, PhD bio-chem Rutgers, published papers - there was an impressive list, and Finn again felt inferior. He was a GP with some minor cutting skills.
There was the connection to Blythe - granddaughter. It was an irony really that the Clinic carried the name of van Renssaeler. The van Renssaelers had never done a damn thing for the Clinic. It was Blythe's family who had founded and supported the hospital even in the face of growing wild card bigotry. By all accounts Henry van Renssaeler, Blythe's husband, had been a wild card hater of monumental proportions. Enough bile to put him on this list of "Sharks" that Hartmann had been exposing before his death. So, it probably wasn't blatant nepotism. Maybe the Board of Governors thought the name would ease the pain when they appointed a nat to head the Jokertown Clinic.
For Dr. Clara van Renssaeller was undoubtedly a nat. Because if some kin to the namesake of the Clinic had been bitten by the wild card bug, and turned into a hideous joker, the Jokertown rags would have been full of the news.
A nat.
It was the unkindest blow of all.
♥ ♦ ♣ ♠
He didn't know why, but it sort of helped that she wasn't very pretty. Looks, money, brains, and his job would have been just too much to take. Finn surreptitiously eyed the long (he sent up a mental apology) horsey face, the big boned, almost awkward body. She did have nice green eyes. Well, the color and size of them was nice. The expression was that hard, flat stare of the professional woman sizing up the playing field, and deciding it would probably be a potholed bitch. Cody, who was a woman who had long ago fought all those battles of sexism and personal insecurity, stared back at Dr. van Renssaeler with her usual warm, calm air.
Finn had ducked behind the cafeteria counter for a cup of coffee before Clara van Renssaeler had made her entrance. It left him feeling at a decided disadvantage as she nodded to the assembled staff. She said his name in a questioning tone.
"I'm Finn."
Their eyes met, and that connection, which only a young, straight, and horny man can make when he knows a woman has just found him attractive, occurred. It was a rare enough occurrence that Finn felt his heart lift. Then he stepped out from behind the counter, and watched the shutters slam down in her eyes.
Finn made the initial introductions, and he knew his tone was icy; he couldn't help it. That teasing eye play, followed by rejection, had deepened his fury. He watched as van Renssaeler's eyes took desperate refuge in the nice, normal features of Cody Havero and Bob Mengele. Finn was a joker. He knew joker loathing when he saw it, and Dr. Clara van Renssaeler embodied it.
Dr. Robert could always be counted on to play the glad hand Charlie, and he didn't fail them now. He stepped forward to chat up the new boss, and Finn pulled Cody aside with a look, a grimace, and a jerk of the chin.
In an undertone he said, "You take care of the tour."
"No."
The calm refusal took him aback. "Look, Cody, I can't deal with this bi - "
"You better learn, or look for a new job. Like it or not, she's here. She's in charge, and you're the person who has run this clinic for the past three years. She needs to be briefed by you, not by the Chief of Surgery. Quit bowling with your balls, and get on with your job."
♥ ♦ ♣ ♠
They went from the top down. Moving silently from floor to floor. As a tour guide Finn left much to be desired explaining each area with a terse single word; lab, nursery, ICU, surgery, morgue. Finn was at peace with his wild card, but as they viewed the suffering encompassed on each floor of the clinic, the presence of this horrified interloper suddenly reduced his tolerance for his own kind. We really are disgusting, he thought, and depression crashed over him like a wave.
The first spark of animation out of the silent Dr. van Renssaeler occurred when they reached the basement, and stood before the heavy vault-like door which barred access to Tachyon's private lab.
"Do you have a key?" she asked.
Her eagerness sent a shiver of unease down his spine. "Yeah. But there was an attempted break-in earlier in the year, and I'm even less inclined to let people in now. We spent ten thousand dollars upgrading the security on the lab. There's live wild card in there. Muy dangerous."