The Hunger (7 page)

Yet he found himself seeking alternatives on her behalf. Her lust for success was contagious. There was something almost visceral in her belief, in her will. No doubt her faith in the value of her work mirrored that of others who had approached discoveries with great impact on humankind. But there was some deep thing in Sarah, a kind of cruel yearning, heedless of herself and others, that swept beyond the norms of duty or even scientific curiosity and colored her hope with the tint of obsession.

Tom looked at her, the brown hair, the frequently pretty face, her curiously flat pallor, and the rich, unquenchable sensuality of her compact body. He wanted to hold her again. After she had broken his last embrace she had hidden her feelings in gruffness.

He wished that she did not feel victimized by her femininity. To his way of thinking, her tough, brilliant mind should be satisfactory compensation for all that was wrong with what she referred to as her sexual conditioning. But it was not enough, not for her.

Tom was embarrassed for her. More, he felt sad. With the rhesus dead she was seriously set back. She couldn’t possibly make a case for continued project funding before the budget committee. She was a small, fuming woman, her eyes flashing prettily as she faced the cancellation of an experiment to which she had given five years of her life.

Something ungenerous — a kind of glee — seemed to be hiding beneath Tom’s genuine sorrow. He knew it was there; it had been a long time since he had taken his own surface feelings at face value. The destruction of her project would hurl Sarah back into the depths of her relationship with him, would make her seek the comfort of being a junior partner again — and a part of him welcomed the power her need would confer.

“I’ve got a meeting with Hutch now,” he said. “We’re reviewing the allocation requests.” His mouth was dry. The stench of the apes was sickening. “Sarah,” he said. He paused, surprised. Why had he used such a bedroom tone of voice? She whirled at him. Defeat had made her pugnacious. He wanted to comfort her, knew the condescension of it would outrage her. The touching a few minutes ago had been an unwilling concession.

“Well?”

For an instant the bluster in her eyes gave way. Then, with a tilt of her chin she was off, ordering a tranquilizer for Methuselah so they could get the cage open and pull out Betty’s remains.

Tom left unnoticed, going slowly through the equipment-cluttered lab. Every item, every inch of space, had been pried out of Riverside Medical Research Center by the force of Sarah’s determination. Her discovery had come as an accident, incidental to some conventional work on sleep deprivation. The fact that the inner rhythm of the sleeping process also contained the key to aging was a totally unexpected result. Her initial findings had been published in her book,
Sleep and Age
. It had caused certain stirrings; the rigor of her methods could not be questioned, nor could her skill in her experiments. The implications were so large, though, that they hadn’t really been appreciated. Sarah’s view that old age was nothing more than a disease, potentially curable, was just too enormous a change. Her book had brought her much congratulation, little support.

Tom exited into the wide tile hallway of the lab floor and took the staff elevator to the Sleep Therapy Clinic above. He occupied a small office beside Dr. Hutchinson’s suite. The old man had founded the clinic ten years ago. After eight years the board had hired Tom Haver to step in “when the director elects to retire.” It had been nothing more than sales talk; Hutch had not so elected. They had wanted a scientist-administrator with powerful credentials to draw more funding to the clinic.

Lately, Tom had begun to catch himself looking hopefully for some sign of senility in the old man.

Hutch sat in Tom’s office, his angular form folded into one of the old chairs. It was an affectation of his to scorn his own sumptuous quarters. “Dimethylaminoethanol,” he said in a reedy, amused voice.

“She’s far beyond DME research, you know that. Aging Factor is a transient cellular protein. DME is nothing more than the regulating agent.”

“The philosopher’s stone.”

Tom went to his desk, forcing a thin smile. “More than that,” he said quietly. He refused to acknowledge the sarcasm. Hutch tossed a typed budget survey sheet on his desk. It was hard not to resent the man’s style. He picked up the summary. “What am I supposed to say, Doctor — ‘no gerontology appropriation’ and fall to my knees?”

“You can if you want to but it won’t work.”

Tom disliked smugness; it was poison in a scientist. “If you cancel the project, she’ll leave.”

“Well, of course I’d hate to see that. But there just aren’t any results. Five years and no progress.”

Tom tried to contain himself. If only Methuselah had waited another twenty-four hours! “They’ve developed a damn good schematic of cellular aging. I’d call that progress.”

“Yes, for a pure research facility. The Rockefeller Institute would love them. But they don’t belong in a place like Riverside. Tom, we’ve got to justify every penny to the City Health and Hospitals Corporation. How the hell does a hospital explain the purchase of thirty-five rhesus monkeys, even a research hospital? Seventy thousand dollars’ worth of brachiating boobies. You tell me.”

“Hutch, you weren’t born yesterday. If we lose Gerontology, there goes ten percent of the clinic’s overall budget. For that reason alone she should
not
be cut.”

At once Tom regretted what he had just said. If Hutch was told to cut a budget he did it the hard way, by firing people and selling off equipment. He knew little of the reality of administration. To him the concept of maintaining functions while cutting dollars was a contradictory impossibility.

“You’re going to tell me we ought to cut by charging for paper cups and installing pay toilets, I suppose.” He tapped his worn class ring on the edge of Tom’s desk. “I can’t see it that way. They give me a dollar figure upstairs. I’m going to meet that figure and have done with it.” Like an aging crane he rose out of the chair. “The committee convenes at ten
A.M
. in the boardroom.” He sighed, suddenly wistful, betraying his own losses.

Then he was gone, striding down the hall, a sad, fierce old warrior in the declining castle of his hopes. Tom ran his fingers through his hair. He knew how Sarah felt; he wouldn’t have minded hitting a wall himself. The Health and Hospitals Corporation was so intractable, a bureaucracy of desperation. It worried about keeping emergency rooms in business, not obscure research projects. How ironic that man’s fate, the very secret of death, would be almost found — and perhaps forever lost — in the rubble of a bureaucracy’s dissolution.

Tom looked at his watch. Nine-thirty. It had been a hell of a long day. Outside the sky was gray-black. There were no stars. It would rain soon, the promise of spring. Tom got his jacket and turned off the lights. Maybe he would beat Sarah home and fix her a nice dinner. It was the least he could do in view of the fact that he had lost her a career. It would be years while the bureaucrats at other institutions picked over the bones of her work and waffled about taking her on.

Meanwhile, Tom would have to watch her vegetate in the Sleep Clinic, back to her old job processing incoming patients for physical disorders before they entered the therapeutic track — if she could even be convinced to return to such work.

The sky was lowering as Tom walked down Second Avenue toward their apartment building. Gusts of wind lifted paper and dust around him and brought big, cold raindrops. Lightning flickered in the clouds. It was fourteen blocks from Riverside to the apartment building. Usually the walk was relaxing, but not tonight. He wished he had taken a cab but there were only a few blocks to go, no sense in getting one now. The rain came faster, and the brightly lit lobby of the building was a welcome sight when it appeared in the distance.

As he went through the door into the lobby Alex the doorman nodded greeting. Tom planned his dinner as the elevator took him to the twenty-fifth floor.

The apartment was freezing cold. This morning had been mild and they had left the windows open. Now the weather had changed and the wind was rising. It whipped through the living room dense with smells brought from far away, of darker country. Beyond the windows the lights of the city glittered, now obscured by a scudding tendril of cloud, now twinkling brightly.

Tom closed the windows and set the thermostat to 85° to warm the place up. Then he made the dinner. It turned out to be a lonely and unexpectedly tiresome job. He was a more than serviceable cook — his father had seen to that — but there was something about the lateness of the hour and the bitter disappointment; he just wanted to go to bed and forget the whole damn day.

By ten-thirty it was ready. It looked cheerful enough despite the way he felt. He finished tossing the salad and turned on the fire under the pasta. The only thing left to do when she came home would be the veal. That was a matter of the last moment. He went into the living room and had a drink.

At eleven he called the lab. It rang six times before there was an answer. “What’re you doing?”

“Watching Methuselah not sleep. Even the tranks didn’t put him down. We’re trying to plug him in but he tears out the electrodes. So far we haven’t got half an EEG.” Her voice was leached of expression.

“Who’s helping you?”

“Phyllis. Charlie’s downstairs doing slides on Betty.”

“Come home. I have something for you.”

“Not tonight, darling.” She was sad, of course. That was why her voice sounded so empty. There, he felt it again — that ugly little stab of glee. Soon enough her nights would belong only to him.

“I mean dinner. And it’s raining, so take a cab.”

“I can tell if it’s raining, Tom.”

“You might not notice. Look, you can always go back after we eat.”

Coaxing Sarah out of her lab was never easy. He could only wait and hope tiredness and hunger would overcome her determination long enough to get her out the door. Salad, pasta, veal. Fruit and cheese afterward. Plenty of wine. By dinner’s end she’d probably be so close to sleeping that she wouldn’t try to go back. “There has to be room for more in life than a laboratory,” he thought.

Sooner than he expected, the familiar footsteps clicked down the hall, Sarah’s usual quickstep. Then the door banged and she was home, hair wet from her walk in the rain, mascara running down her cheeks, and still wearing her lab coat. She looked lost and boyish. Her small mouth was set in a stern line, her eyes were startlingly alive. Tom went to her.

“Careful, I’m covered with monkey shit.” She threw off the lab coat and only then let him hold her. It was so comfortable to feel her in his arms, even if it was only for an instant. “I’ve got to have a shower.”

“Dinner’ll be on the table when you come out.”

“Thank God for administrative personnel who still have energy at the end of the day.” She kissed him on the nose and broke away. “That damn rhesus is in bad shape,” she said as she headed for the bathroom. “His hair’s falling out and his bowels are loose. He’s agitated and all of a sudden he
cannot
be made to sleep. Won’t even doze. Poor thing.” He heard the clothes hamper squeak. Then more words, drowned by the sound of running water. It was obvious that it didn’t much matter to her whether he heard or not. The angry words themselves were all the comfort she demanded.

Tom felt isolated. People in love were supposed to be at the center of each other’s lives. Sometimes it was hard to tell if she wanted to be in love, or simply to be loved.

As he cooked his veal scallopini he heard the roaring of the wind and thought how he loved her. It made him believe in her love also. And it made the fact that he was going to fail her, see her dropped from the budget, make him feel as caged as one of the experimental animals.

“Honey, thank you.” She had come up behind him. She was wrapped in the blue silk robe he had given her for her birthday. Her skin was flushed from the shower, her eyes now shimmering gently in the candlelight. She looked altogether fetching. Sarah’s miracle was the purity of her womanhood. She was not conventionally beautiful — eyes too big, chin too prominent — and yet men’s eyes always followed her. One moment she would be aggressively neutral, and the next more a woman than any other he had known.

They ate quietly, relying on their eyes for communication, Tom and his magic lady. By the time the meal was over. Tom was ready to carry her into the bedroom, avid to possess her. He was delighted that nothing more had been said about Riverside. Let Sarah bank her fires for a few hours, let the problems wait.

When she stood up from the table he saw his chance. Tom was easily big enough to sweep Sarah off the floor. He knew it was an assault on her dignity, in a way a dismissal. But it was a loving dismissal. She made a little sound in her throat, drew her arms around his neck, fluttered her eyes at him. It was a parody, but of the kindest sort, an affirmation of her love and respect for him. He would not have been surprised to be damned for what he had done. The fact that she had not done so was deeply pleasing, almost as if his physical strength and his need granted him rights with her that usually he did not have.

He put her down on the bed. She didn’t speak. It was their customary way, honored from the beginning of their love.

He stripped in the dark, with only the glowing clouds outside to reveal him. Then he went to her, slipped the soft robe from her body, and climbed into bed beside her.

In their years together they had established few conventions; both were avid experimenters. But tonight imagination would rest. Tom sensed she also wanted the solace of simplicity, and they took one another’s offering with the gentle acceptance of familiar lovers. She pressed herself close as he entered, and they sighed with the enjoyment of it. This was a lesser act of love, but it fulfilled its purpose and left them drifting to sleep in one another’s arms. Tom’s last conscious thought was of the wind, how it howled past the windows. A spring storm.

Francie Parker awoke suddenly. She was shocked motionless; she felt something crawling between her legs. Too late did she realize that she should have moved. The ropes tightened, she was tied to the bed.