Generosity: An Enhancement (46 page)

The note from Dennis Winfield reached Weld two days later. A note, not a visit: trouble. Weld knew what it had to be about. The only mystery was why it took so long in coming. Perhaps the counseling center needed time to make an airtight case.

At least Dennis showed the decency to reprimand her privately before convening the whole tribunal. She could work with Dennis one-on-one. He had a thing about her. She didn’t even need to play him; he played himself, whenever the two of them sat in a room together.

She came to his office at the appointed time, all sails trim and ready to navigate any accusation.

Dennis opened conventionally enough. “You’re in a relationship with this man? Sleeping together?” He sounded more than professionally hurt.

Weld reminded Dennis that she’d consulted him. Both he and Christa Kreuz had green-lighted her dating Russell Stone.

“We did not give you license to violate ethics.”

She fell back in her chair. “Violate . . . ?” Dennis fended off her glance with his chin. She no longer recognized him. She tried to slow her heartbeat and take stock. “I have never violated professional ethics in my life.”

She’d blurred a boundary once or twice. Let clients need her more than was good. But that was early on, before she graduated from her own temperamental weaknesses. “How dare you, Dennis. I’ve done nothing that you and your morals policewoman didn’t sign off on. Just what are you accusing me of?”

“Inappropriate emotional intimacy with a client.”

She jerked forward, indignant. “He’s
not
a client. We’ve been all over this—”

“Not your boyfriend,” Dennis said. “Your boyfriend’s girlfriend.”

Candace slumped back into her chair. Panic plumed through her chest. Someone held her head underwater. Even before Dennis
spelled out the accusation, she saw it, complete. And indisputable. She sobered horribly, like she’d been on a jag with some wild, five-minute party drug and she was just now coming to, witnessing her sluttish behavior from a distance.

“She isn’t a client,” Weld said, pathetic even to herself.

“She’s a student at this college. She was in your office for an appointment last week.”

“That wasn’t an appointment,” Candace bleated. “That was . . .” But all she could think to say was
personal
.

“You’re in a severely impaired position here.” Dennis examined a legal tablet full of evidence.

Candace looked away to the window, into the dappled sunlight of the west. No objection possible. How had she managed to hide the truth from herself for so many months? It had all seemed genuine, legitimate. In truth, she’d backslid massively into her own worst trait, sought the love and approval of someone she should never have been more than professionally considerate to. She’d fancied herself the girl’s big sister, her guide and protector. What had she been, really? Her flatterer.
Impaired.
Years’ worth of self-correcting effort, and Weld had gone nowhere. Her character had her chained, forever complicit.

“Dennis?” she said, finding his eyes. “Yes. You’re right. I need to go back into counseling.”

He kept his gaze on his legal pad. “You need more than that. This is license-threatening stuff. This student is on national television, on the edge of emotional disaster, and she’s sleeping over at your house? She’s your
pal
? And all the while you’re dispensing advice like some kind of fairy godmother, setting her up with private research outfits . . .”

Candace Weld sat and watched as the future stripped her of meaningful work. Everything she’d struggled to become would be held against her. She cast about for
pr
n
y
ma
, but her lungs were crushed. She dropped her head, cupped her hands around her engorged throat, and dissolved in tears.

Dennis studied his notes, pretending composure. “You will go into therapy,” he said. “Christa will get you referred.”

She almost stood up then and walked out of the office. Only the mortgage prevented her.

“And of course you’ll have no contact with Thassadit Amzwar.” He pronounced the name like something from Iowa. “If she approaches
you for advice of any kind, you will refer her to Christa and curtail any further interaction.”

Neither bearable nor possible. She fully granted the wrongness of her action and the validity of every reprimand that Dennis threw at her. But she did not merit punitive action. Not reprimand for what she’d fought so hard to correct.

“And my relationship?”

Dennis looked at her at last, his eyes narrowed in what any student of human psychology could only call disgust. “That’s between you and him. You think he’s willing to give her up for you?”

I always knew I’d lose my nerve in the end. Kurton set free by his data; Thassa turning brittle; Stone an easy mark in the crosshairs of love. Now Candace, on the auction block. A part of me wanted to love this woman since she was no more than the sketchiest invention. I thought she would be my mainstay, and now she’s breaking. I don’t have the heart to learn her choice.

All I want is for my friends to survive the story intact. All the story wants is to wreck anything solid in them. No one would write a word, if he remembered how much fiction eventually comes true.

The genomicist, too, has a rough night. I’ve said so little about him that you may not care. That’s more cowardice on my part. In the absence of detail, you’ve been seeing him as an uncle, an old biology teacher, some more solid scientist you recently came across in another book or film. You might feel anything toward him—curiosity, hatred, attraction. The world’s two camps of readers, split by inborn temperament, need two inimical things, and each has long ago decided to love or loathe this man according to those needs.

But feel this much, anyway:

Thomas arrives back in Logan on the flight from Chicago, mystified as to why Thassa Amzwar would lash out at him on national TV. The audience outcry also baffles him. He’s satisfied enough with his own performance: hopeful but accurate. He’s confident that public controversy can’t hurt science. Nothing, really, can hurt science. All the Luddites in the country turning out with torches and pitchforks would succeed only in sending research abroad. Everything discoverable
will be discovered; he’d bet his lab on that. And every truth that research turns up simply becomes more environment, part of survival’s calculus, no less than air, food, climate, or water.

Yet this backlash takes him on the chin, as bad as the first fray he landed in, back at the Cardinal Hayes High School science fair. He understands the tribal fear and self-protection behind this aggression. But his work aims only to relieve ill health, free people from the body’s caprice, and crack open the prison of inherited fate.

He strolls through the mobbed baggage claim with his single carry-on. The airport loop is a snarl of shuttles, taxis, and cars. The matter transporter will not come a day too soon. Two people on the Blue Line back into the city think they recognize him from
The Oona Show
. But they decide no; the founder of seven biotech companies, adviser to six scientific journals, and discoverer of the major genetic contribution to human well-being can’t possibly be riding the subway.

He gets out at Government Center and walks to his brownstone on Beacon Street; walking reduces the risk of many major disease predispositions. It’s late afternoon, and the streets fill with the change of shifts. Vendors, Bible-waving preachers, one-man bands, and stump speakers cluster at the foot of the hill beneath the State House, as crowds pour down the subway steps at Park Street. He cuts across the lustrous Common, exhilarated by the human pageant. Fifty yards away from his front door, he sees that his first-floor bay window has been smashed. He trots the rest of the way, saving a few seconds by rushing to a crime committed hours earlier.

He finds a paver pulled up from the sidewalk sitting in his living room. He turns it over in his trembling hands, looking for the attached note. There is no attached note. He sits down, light-headed, confused. Why send someone a message, if there’s no message?

He knows the message.
Are we not men? Leave us the hell alone.
He sits for a few minutes, afraid to call the police. He shuts off the light, to hide his silhouette. After a while, he goes down into the cellar and brings up a piece of pressboard large enough to cover the broken window. He tacks it into place, a barrier, at least. Then he leaves a voice mail with his handyman.

He makes himself a blueberry soy shake, which calms him a little. He goes online to see what kind of hate-mongering the show produced. Reaction is all over the map, from morose to ecstatic. But he
sees no violent threats, at first glance. He logs off the browser and occupies himself with the surge of waiting correspondence. But he works at no more than half efficiency. He recoils at every floorboard creek, waiting for the follow-up message. After an hour of twitching, rather than continue to spin out, he decides to drive up to Maine.