Prizes (36 page)

“Please, Daddy, don’t leave me,” she begged. “I’ll be good, I swear. I won’t make any trouble for anybody.”

Adam felt as though he had been kicked in the stomach. For a moment he even thought of capitulating and remaining. Anything that would not hurt his daughter more. But then he thought of Anya and the words exchanged with Toni, which could never be taken back.

After a final moment, he closed his eyes and hugged her. He could feel her heart pounding.

Half an hour later he came down the stairs with new resolve. Toni was in the living room, reading. She looked up as he entered.

“Well?” she said calmly. It was clear she had regained some mastery over her emotions.

“I’ll see you in court,” he answered.

Toni was true to her word. In the negotiations with her lawyers—no doubt quarterbacked by the Boss—Adam was almost skinned alive.

Naively, he had chosen an old friend, Peter Chandler, to represent him, unaware that compassion and sentiment are not positive traits in divorce lawyers. Adam had testified as expert witness for Peter in two malpractice suits. This very fact should have warned him that the attorney’s specialty was fighting on behalf of patients who had been maimed, crippled, and killed—the victims.

Adam’s only instruction to him was to ensure his visitation rights. For many reasons, he wanted Toni to have everything.

“Let her keep the house, the cars—I don’t give a damn. I’m pretty sure the court won’t give her alimony since she earns more than I do. But I’ll pay Heather’s tuition and some child support—as long as it doesn’t break my back.”

“Hold it, Adam,” Chandler intervened. “I don’t want to make you into a monster, but I have to negotiate with her people. If you walk in and surrender everything
right off the bat, they’ll take that as a starting point and we’ll get hit for even more.”

“I don’t believe it, Pete. I mean, Toni’s a reasonable person. She’ll see that I’m being decent.”

“Decent? Since when did the law have anything to do with decency? You’re just laying yourself wide open to be raped and pillaged.”

“Listen,” Adam answered emphatically, “I’m completely in the wrong. If you must know the truth, I’d feel relieved if Toni did take me to the cleaners.”

“Maybe,” Peter commented. “But Boston winters can be awfully cold if you haven’t got a shirt on.”

His attorney proved to have a keen insight into the implacable anger of the injured. For not only did Toni petition the court for complete custody of their daughter, ownership of the house, and massive child support, she even sued for loss of earnings.

Two senior partners from the law firm in Washington that represented the Boss testified that had she stayed in the nation’s capital, her income would have been more than twice what it was in Boston.

Peter objected. He protested. He argued himself dizzy. But the court upheld the relevance of the testimony, and ultimately, its validity.

But the most egregious injustice was when the magistrate openly asked Heather which parent she would prefer to live with, and after she explicitly responded, “Dad and Anya,” granted full custody to Toni, on the grounds, however antiquated, that an adolescent girl was far better off with her mother.

Battered and bruised, Adam was granted merely one weekend a month with Heather and only four weeks during the summer vacation. No Christmas. No Thanksgiving. No Easter.

Hearing the verdict, Adam gasped audibly. “Jesus, I bet an axe murderer would have done better.”

“We could appeal,” Peter offered tentatively.

Adam grimaced. “No. All I’ve got left is my balls, and I’d probably lose those in a rematch.”

Heather was devastated. “I don’t understand it, Dad,” she sobbed. “You’re a much better parent.”

“Yeah,” Adam replied, smoldering. “But your mother’s a much better lawyer.”

Adam’s suffering was far from over.

The night their divorce decree was granted, he received a savage telephone call. It was from Thomas Hartnell.

Adam had long dreaded this moment. In fact, he sensed that it was part of his former father-in-law’s strategy to wait until the last possible moment to add his boot to the others that had already kicked him.

The Boss spoke with an icy calm. “Dr. Coopersmith, you have lived up to my worst expectations. You have caused irreparable harm to the two things I love best in the world—my daughter and granddaughter. I intend to make absolutely sure that you regret your actions. Now, I have not as yet decided how, but I assure you that from this time forward, I will be concentrating my life on finding a suitable vengeance. Do you read me?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Remember this, you heartless bastard. Even if you don’t hear from me for a long while, never draw breath and imagine I’ve forgotten that we have unfinished business. Now you go back to that Russian gal, and I hope she gives you all you deserve.”

37
 

Science has known many multifaceted geniuses. Leonardo da Vinci made his mark in art, anatomy, and aerodynamics. Isaac Newton excelled in optics, astronomy, physics, and mathematics; Albert Einstein in physics, cosmology, and music.

By the late twentieth century, Harvard’s Walter Gilbert—a molecular biologist who, in a spectacular display of versatility, won the Nobel Prize for chemistry after having trained as a physicist—was more the norm than the exception.

Gilbert even followed Sir Isaac Newton in another domain. Whereas the good Sir Isaac ended his polymorphous career in the lucrative position of Master of the Royal Mint, the Harvard professor also made a mint as Chief Executive Officer and a major stockholder in Biogen Incorporated.

Yet throughout history, the combination found least often in a scientific thinker was that of devotion to his family as much as to his work.

Most “civilians” balk at working more than forty hours a week, and their union leaders militate for reductions. Yet serious scientific investigators of their own free will think nothing of working night and day, including weekends. This is wonderful for the progress of mankind, but not salubrious for marriage and raising children.

Even Sandy Raven, who had exchanged vows of
matrimony with the deepest of passion and the loftiest of intentions, became increasingly involved in the race against time, and against other laboratories, to find a cure for hepatic carcinoma.

Admittedly, Sandy had no role models for parenthood. And he was so dedicated to his work that he had no time to read up on the phenomenon. Still, being a scientist’s daughter, Judy fell easily into the pattern of being a scientist’s wife.

She knew from her own childhood that if she wanted her daughter Olivia to see anything of Sandy, she would have to bring her to the lab. Which she did. At all hours of the day and night—even breast-feeding the baby in her father’s office.

Greg was especially delighted to see his grandchild, and proposed setting up a playpen in the coffee area. This gave Judy a further idea.

A few weeks later when Sandy returned home for dinner, he found their living room completely redecorated.

“My God,” he exclaimed, “it looks like a great big kindergarten.”

“That’s exactly what it is, pal,” Judy chirped. “A couple of the lab widows and I have decided to set up a play group. I’ll be the music teacher, of course.”

“What a great idea,” Sandy marveled. “It kills two birds with one stone.”

“What birds were you thinking of?”

“You and Olivia,” he said, hugging them both. “I mean, you know life has got to be this way till we finish the job. But at least I won’t feel so guilty about leaving you guys for so long at a stretch.”

Every Sunday night, the family came up for air. They chose some ethnic eatery, most often Joyce Chen on Fresh Pond Parkway, and tried to talk about something other than science.

One weekend they were joined by Sidney Raven,
who had come East for the major city premieres of his latest blockbuster, a seasonal offering called
Godzilla Meets Santa.
After all, as he declared, why mess with a winner?

If she could have talked, Olivia would have told her other relatives that Grandpa Sidney was the only one who knew how to communicate with children. He dandled her on his knee and told her story after story.

“This is a cutie,” he pronounced. “This is a real superstar.”

By sheer coincidence, Sandy caught a glimpse of Judy’s face out of the corner of his eye. For some un-fathomable reason it registered disapproval.

“What’s the news from Hollywood, Dad?” Sandy inquired, anxious to give his beloved father the floor.

“I think you can cover that by asking what’s new with Kim Tower,” Judy said, revealing to Sidney that she knew of her husband’s obsession.

“Well,” Sidney obliged, “the news on the Rochelle front is that Elliot Victor is on his way out of Paragon. And rightly too, I might add. His brief reign produced so many dogs that the boys in the trade refer to him as ‘One Hundred and One Dalmatians.’ ”

“Gosh, that’s too bad,” Sandy offered.

“Yeah, there’s a twisteroo in this plot, sonny boy. It’s a last-reel shaker. Guess who’s succeeding him?”

Sandy looked at his father wide-eyed, “No, Dad. You don’t mean it? Rochelle is going to be the head of the studio?”

“Yep. And she deserves it. The three pictures she produced personally made more money than the ninety-nine losers that Victor supervised.”

“That’s fan-tas-tic! But won’t it be a bit of a strain on their marriage?”

“Not at all,” Sidney replied. “It goes without saying they’ll get a divorce. I mean, it’s a hell of a lot easier to get a husband than a studio.”

Early the next evening, Sandy was alone in the lab. Taking an unprecedented liberty, he barricaded himself in Greg Morgenstern’s office and breathlessly dialed Paragon Studios.

After talking his way past three assistants in ascending order of importance, he was granted the honor of being put on hold and, while waiting his turn, being entertained by several of Paragon Records’ latest chart busters.

Finally, the senior assistant came on again and said, “Are you still there, Mr. Raven?”

I’m really
Professor
Raven, he thought, but what the hell. The important thing is, Rochelle will speak to me. “Yes,” he said. “I’m here.”

A few seconds later her voice—ever mellifluous, now more turbocharged—uttered a colorful salutation.

“Raven, you old fart. I thought you’d croaked with the dinosaurs. To what do I owe the honor of this call?”

Sandy was thrown completely.

“Rochelle,” he managed to reply. “It’s me, Sandy.”

She burst into gales of laughter and remarked, “My God, Sandy, it’s
you.
My scatterbrained assistants must have thought it was your dad. How the hell are you?”

In the fleeting instant before he replied, Sandy wondered if Rochelle had been joking. Would she have genuinely addressed a man of his father’s age and reputation in so condescending—not to say cruel—a manner?

“I’m fine,” Sandy replied, suddenly tongue-tied. “I’m a professor at MIT, actually.”

“That’s great,” she remarked. “God, if I only had your brain, I’d be …”

Her voice trailed off. In fact she was so quick to invoke hyperbole that she had no idea how Sandy’s, or anyone’s, brain could make her any better than she already was.

He tried to concentrate on the remarks he had prepared. “Rochelle, I’ve just heard about your promotion.
I was so happy for you, I just had to call and say congratulations.”

“Sandy,” she said with fervor, “you’re a truly beautiful person. Would you believe me if I told you that I miss you more than ever? I mean, there’s nobody like you out here.”

Even when distilled from the exaggerated idiom of Hollywood, he thought, the essence of her message remained an expression of, at the very least, amicable feelings toward him.

“How does it feel to be on the top of the mountain?”

“Ineffably inexpressible, Sandy. I actually wonder why I ever dreamed of being a movie star when making movies includes holding the fate of practically every actor in the business in the palm of my hand.” Then, a sudden shift. “Are you married, Sandy?” she asked.