Taji's Syndrome (13 page)

By the time he reached Sweet Home it was almost three o’clock, and he was tense from the long drive in the heavy rain. Max debated stopping for a late lunch, but could not bring himself to delay his meeting with Elihu. As he drove through Sweet Home, he was surprised to see how few buildings had changed in the last twenty years. On the west side of town there was one stand of small townhouses, and what had been a six-acre field when Max was a teenager now held a seven-shop mini-mall. Two of the main street stores were a bit larger and had modernized their front, but for the most part, nothing was different. Max turned on his lights and took the right turn that would bring him to the Dover house.

Elihu Dover was waiting for him. “I canceled two afternoon appointments,” he said when perfunctory greetings had been exchanged. “One’s Ned Cherny—owns the hardware store, you remember?— for his ulcers; it’s not urgent. The other is old Missus FitzSimmons. The worst thing wrong with her is loneliness, and there isn’t much I can do about that. Poor woman. She really hasn’t anyone since Jerry was killed in Morocco.” As he spoke he led the way into the living room and indicated the chair nearest the fireplace. “Sit down and get warm. If you’ll let me have your coat I’ll hang it up to dry. Is there anything I can get you to drink?”

“Elihu,” said Max quietly, stopping the evasions of his host, “I’m sorry. We still haven’t isolated the toxin. We’re doing everything we can: you can bet on that.”

“I know,” said Elihu, standing near the living room entrance with Max’s coat still in his hands. “I know.”

“When I told you I needed your help, I meant it. With Eunice, you know I’ll do everything I can to . . .” He sat down and stared into the fire, noticing that it had just been started and that the two split logs were not yet burning.

“I’ll do anything I can.” Elihu stopped, unable to speak until he brought his emotions under more control. “Out here, who would have thought that there would be something like—”

“That’s part of the trouble,” Max said, pleased that there was a bit of explanation he could offer to Elihu. “Twenty years ago, thirty years, there were companies that looked for places like Sweet Home because of their isolation as a dumping site for all kinds of wastes. The laws weren’t as strict and enforcing them was much more difficult.”

“I remember,” said Elihu. “That case in ’88.”

“For example,” said Max. “The State lost its case.”

Elihu shook his head, bewildered and angry. “And now this?”

“Possibly,” said Max carefully. “It might be some other toxin we have yet to identify.” He looked back into the fire. “I want to check out anyone in town that’s known to be sick. Including those people in the religious community. I want to get a better idea of how widespread this thing is.”

“I’ll call Barenssen. His kids are staying out there, and since Kirsten died of the stuff, he might be able to persuade them to see you. I can’t be sure—they’re pretty stiff-necked.”

“I don’t need guarantees, but a good try might save lives. Tell them that, will you?”

“All right,” said Elihu dubiously, and went to hang up Max’s coat before he made his phone call. As he lifted the receiver, he said, “What about Eunice?”

“I don’t know yet, Elihu,” Max said.

“I mean, if we can find the toxin and isolate it,” he enlarged. “What do you think her chances are?”

“It depends,” said Max as he listened to Elihu use his old-fashioned dial phone. “Principally on time, but to some degree on the toxin itself. What kind of poison has got into her, and what has it done. Until we can answer those questions, there’s nothing we can do but try to alleviate the worst of her symptoms.” He was aware that this was not news to Elihu, that his old friend only wanted to hear something that would give him hope. “There are times when we’ve seen dramatic recoveries if we reach the source in time.” It was a concession, but sincerely felt.

“Suppose you can’t isolate the toxin? Suppose it’s not natural or—” He might have gone on, but he interrupted his words to Max to speak into the phone. “Hello, Sven? This is Doctor Dover calling.” There was a little silence. “I have a colleague visiting from Portland, the man who’s treating Eunice, in fact, and we were wondering if it might be possible to visit you and the boys. And Reverend Colney as well.” Once again there was silence. “I see; un-huh.” More silence. “My friend has only the afternoon, and it’s important that—” Pause. “I understand the difficulty.” An impatient silence. “It’s not just your sister or my wife who could be involved, Sven, it’s your children and the people of this community. I realize that there’s some . . . opposition to medical treatment, but in this case, since the possible cause is man-made, wouldn’t it seem that it was man’s responsibility to take care of it?”

Max could tell that Elihu was on the verge of anger, and so he rose and moved toward the entry hall where the phone was. “Tell him for me that others could be affected. Innocent men, women and children.”

“I’ll let you tell him yourself,” said Elihu testily as he handed the receiver to Max.

Thrust into this awkward situation with no preparation, Max found himself at a loss. “Mister Barenssen?” he said, cutting into the long argument Sven Barenssen was offering, “This is Doctor Klausen, from Portland. I specialize in environmental disease and I was the one who looked after your sister. I’m very sorry that there was nothing we could do to save her.”

“God had other plans,” said Sven Barenssen with nervous conviction, reciting the words like a frightened child.

“Possibly,” Max said, going carefully. “What worries me is that in this case, it may have had more to do with human error than the will of God.”

“Human error
is
the will of God,” said Sven.

“But surely we’re allowed, even expected, to improve?” Max asked, hoping it was the right question, hoping that he would not lose contact with this terrified man.

“That is why we are subjected to trials,” declared Sven.

Max mentally crossed his fingers and plunged ahead. “And this is apt to be one of them. I know you’re aware of it. I know that you’ve been through a lot these last years, and I hope that there may be ways we can lessen your burdens.”

“God will lessen them in His time,” Sven said.

“Yes, and possibly with a little human help, we can all avert a very real disaster,” Max said, pleased that Sven had not yet hung up on him. “I have reason to believe that your sister and Doctor Dover’s wife were damaged by the same . . . the same factors. We haven’t isolated the cause of death yet, but every indication is that the cause is environmental, possibly even worse than that, such as leakage from a toxic material storage dump, or—”

“Were they radioactive?” Sven cut in.

“Not exactly,” said Max, tempted to lie and say yes. “But the problem of toxic contamination is not unlike being hurt by radioactivity.” He sensed paranoia in Sven Barenssen, and decided to use it if he could. “It has many of the same results.”

“Really?” Sven asked, for the first time not sounding like he was speaking imperfectly learned lines.

“Yes. I know how hard this is, and how much courage it takes to speak out, but in this case, you could save lives, lives that might otherwise be lost to this poison that has touched the lives of your family already.” Max decided that he sounded like a bad political campaigner and was trying to find a way to modify his bombastic statements when Sven spoke to him.

“I don’t know what Preacher Colney will say, but I’ll talk to him right away. He’s a good Christian and he knows his duty to succor those in need. If he gives his permission, we’ll arrange for you to speak to the congregation before prayer meeting tonight. All I ask is that you don’t frighten my boys too much—they’ve been through so many trials already . . .”

“You have my word that I will not distress your boys if I can help it,” said Max with the beginning of relief. “I appreciate this, Mister Barenssen.”

“Thank the Lord, not me. And if Preacher Colney says no, that’s the end to it.”

“Fine, fine,” said Max, preparing to hang up.

“We’ll pray for you, and for the souls of those afflicted, whatever else we do,” promised Sven. “I’ll call you back in half an hour. Thank you, Jesus.” This appeared to be his way of saying good-bye, for he hung up without waiting for a response from Max.

“Well?” asked Elihu as he closed the door to the hall closet where coats were hung.

“He’ll try to arrange for us to talk to the congregation before prayer meeting,” said Max as he went back toward the living room.

“Well, that’s a start,” said Elihu, who was picking up the phone.

“Who’re you calling now?” asked Max.

“I just thought of her: Annie Melton, the midwife. There’s lots of remote farms and ranches out in the mountains, and the only person they see who might know something about disease is Annie.”

Max leaned back, trying not to count the minutes, trying not to think about what he would do if the congregation refused to let him speak to them. He hated the bleakness of spirit that threatened to overcome him. “Elihu, when you’re through, I better phone home and tell them not to wait dinner for me.”

“Okay,” said Elihu, and resumed his conversation with the midwife’s answering machine.

—Dale Reed and Wendell Picknor—

Irene Channing’s room was on the isolation floor and was as close to a penthouse as a hospital could boast; it was large enough to accommodate twenty people in comfort if they didn’t mind standing up, or sitting on the massive isolation bed where Irene now lay, her features pale and drawn, her luminous eyes sunken.

“We’re making progress,” Dale Reed was telling her, leaning over the bed. “We’ve been doing another series of tests on the blood samples we took, and we’re reasonably sure that this is a toxic reaction of some sort. Are you sure the only thing you’re allergic to is aspirin?” For a joke it was feeble, but Irene was willing to smile for him.

“Just aspirin, and anything else coming from willow trees,” said Irene, sounding more exhausted than Reed had ever heard before.

“There are allergies that might account for the trouble, even as serious as yours appears to be.” He stopped and looked at her closely. “You have the most beautiful eyes.”

To his surprise she made a dismissing gesture. “Christ, don’t say that; it’s almost as bad as saying that I have pretty hair or good skin.”

“But you do,” protested Reed, bewildered by her reaction.

“Sure. And every plain girl that ever lived has been told those things, over and over and over again. Just like the pep talks that say if you work to bring out your good points, the bad ones won’t matter. Or the worst of all—that if a guy really cares for you it won’t matter what you look like. I heard every one of ’em when I was growing up.” She stopped abruptly, her face slightly flushed, the shadows around her eyes deepening. Her nearest hand extended toward his, but the protective clothing and bed covering hampered them and she let her hand drop.

“We’ve found another fifteen cases, all in the same general area—Highland Park, unfortunately—and we’re trying now to find out what the cause is.”

She did not want to be distracted. “I’m sorry to hear that. But what does that have to do with my miserable youth, I want to know?”

“Was it really a miserable youth?” Reed asked, hardly believing it.

“It wasn’t very happy,” she amended. “There I was, all elbows and knees and graceless as a pelican on the beach. The only thing I could do was draw, and my mother, a very sensible woman in her own way, wanted me to learn something worthwhile, such as how to be a legal secretary so I could land a good catch. That last was her phrase.”

“And you got a man worth millions,” said Reed, “because of your drawing.”

“Painting,” she corrected, then took a deep, uneven breath. “Highland Park, hum?”

“Yes. There’s a lot of pressure being put on the State Health Bureau to investigate for toxic wastes. Of course, no one in Highland Park is anxious to open that can of worms, either—millionaires are like that—and so there’s a delicate little ballet going on. We’ll see what comes of it in the next couple weeks.” He hesitated. “The boys are doing well. I’m trying to get the hospital to bend the rules a little so they can visit you, but I’m not making much headway.” It was not easy to admit this; still he felt she had to know that she was not forgotten.

“So long as they’re okay,” said Irene. “Do either of them have anything . . . you know,
wrong?”

“You mean symptoms like yours? No, neither Steven nor Brice have shown any sign of your condition. All the same, I do think it’s just as well that they stay with their cousins in Austin.”

“How do the Hills feel about it?” Irene asked, her manner a bit arch. “Don’t tell me they’re thrilled, because I won’t believe it. Having cousins dropped on them in an emergency like this is nothing to be happy about.” She looked toward the window, at the drawn blinds. “Is it still snowing?”

“It stopped about an hour ago,” said Reed. “Irene, if there’s anything I can do,
anything,
all you have to do is name it and you can bet it’s done.” He smiled, hoping she would see it in his eyes since his mouth was hidden. “Your mail is being taken in, and the arrangements for the show are going on as planned.”

“But I didn’t finish all the paintings I wanted,” she protested, nearly whining.

“There were nine more in the house, and that’s enough. You’ll have over forty works on display, and that’s—”

“Almost enough to cover my medical bills?” she quipped.

“Your insurance covers everything but the first five hundred dollars,” he reminded her, not amused at her observation. “Not that it matters, under the circumstances.”

“You mean I could sell the farm and the house and some of the trinkets and I’d be okay?” Her lightness was fading as fast as it had come. “I suppose that would do it, if I have to pay. If the mortuary has to be paid, someone else can make that choice.”

“Don’t say that,” Reed ordered sharply. “I don’t want to hear that from you, Irene.”

“Don’t you?” She turned her head away from him. “But I have to face facts. I don’t have the luxury of ignorance, and if I pretend I do, I’ll only leave a greater mess for the boys, and that isn’t fair. I’ve been trying to put my affairs in—”