and he was back in Boston, on a slushy Thursday night. He sat with Ann in a sea of business suits and jersey dresses, ties, turtlenecks, Fair Isle sweaters. This was Symphony Hall in spring: a scent of damp wool and perfume, a glint of old diamonds, a sweep of stoles, the shimmer of silk scarves and squelch of waterproof boots.
“Sandy,” Ann chided during the break. “You're plotting.”
“What, me?”
She shook her head at him. She could always tell. Sandy smiled at the orchestra as he schemed and daydreamed. Sometimes he even laughed silently during concerts, the way other people might laugh during sleep.
He stood and stretched. “It's Marion,” he confessed.
“She won't do what you want,” said Ann, who knew all their latest arguments. Ann was used to hearing Sandy complain, but also accustomed to hearing how he got his way. Perversely, it amused her when Marion stonewalled Sandy. So few people could. Ann herself had given up fighting with him years ago, and chosen more circuitous means to get what she wanted. “You have to pick your battles,” she'd explained once to Louisa, and was more than a little hurt by Louisa's reply: “So which battles did you pick?”
“She's got no sense of timing,” Sandy growled.
“Do you want my advice?” Ann asked.
“Advise,” he said, “advise away.”
“Just don't do anything you're going to regret later.”
“That's it?”
“Isn't that enough?”
“But what does that mean?”
“You know what it means.”
He looked at her glumly.
Ann shook her finger at him. “If you try to send out a press release without Marion, she'll never forgive you.”
“If we get scooped, I'll never forgive myself.”
“Oh, you forgive yourself all the time,” said Ann. “Marion's the one you should worry about.” She knew the strictures by which Marion lived. Marion was not given to forgiveness or compromise of any kind. To Ann's mind, Marion had an almost ruthless sense of self and mission. And yet Marion was precious to Sandy, and by extension to his wife. Ann's loyalty and gentleness extended that far. She was old-fashioned in this, more than generous—reading her husband's mind at the symphony, reminding him not to ruin his friendship. Sulkily, Sandy flopped his program face down on the back of his chair and made his way out to the aisle to stretch his legs. Like anyone accustomed to expensive gifts, he took Ann's advice for granted, and simply hated that she was always right.
5
C LIFF CAME to the next lab meeting with his hair still damp from the shower. He wore clean jeans and a T-shirt printed with TOSCANINI'S DARK CHOCOLATE #3. He and Feng were going to present the new results: sixty percent of the cancer-stricken mice injected with R-7 were now in remission. The disease had run its course in the controls, but in the experimental groups the engineered virus seemed to stop cancerous cells from multiplying altogether. The tumors shrank and shrank and seemed to disappear. What might this mean in the future for cancer patients? An alternative to the poisons of chemotherapy? In more than half of the diseased mice, R-7 acted like a heat-seeking missile, entering and subverting only cancerous cells, and skipping cells that were growing normally.
This was a great moment. Even as they gathered in the conference room, Prithwish and Natalya and Aidan were placing bets on how Feng would describe the new developments. Aidan and Natalya both bet on “random luck” as Feng's designated catchphrase, while Prithwish wagered on “some new fluke.”
As it happened, Feng did not say a word to downplay the numbers in his lab book. If the work had been his alone, he might have undercut the results. However, Feng deferred to Cliff when it came time to delineate and extrapolate from the numbers of mice in remission and their near-perfect health. He gave Cliff all the glory: the discussion of molecular and genetic issues; the ongoing work to understand where and how the genes
“Sandy,” Ann chided during the break. “You're plotting.”
“What, me?”
She shook her head at him. She could always tell. Sandy smiled at the orchestra as he schemed and daydreamed. Sometimes he even laughed silently during concerts, the way other people might laugh during sleep.
He stood and stretched. “It's Marion,” he confessed.
“She won't do what you want,” said Ann, who knew all their latest arguments. Ann was used to hearing Sandy complain, but also accustomed to hearing how he got his way. Perversely, it amused her when Marion stonewalled Sandy. So few people could. Ann herself had given up fighting with him years ago, and chosen more circuitous means to get what she wanted. “You have to pick your battles,” she'd explained once to Louisa, and was more than a little hurt by Louisa's reply: “So which battles did you pick?”
“She's got no sense of timing,” Sandy growled.
“Do you want my advice?” Ann asked.
“Advise,” he said, “advise away.”
“Just don't do anything you're going to regret later.”
“That's it?”
“Isn't that enough?”
“But what does that mean?”
“You know what it means.”
He looked at her glumly.
Ann shook her finger at him. “If you try to send out a press release without Marion, she'll never forgive you.”
“If we get scooped, I'll never forgive myself.”
“Oh, you forgive yourself all the time,” said Ann. “Marion's the one you should worry about.” She knew the strictures by which Marion lived. Marion was not given to forgiveness or compromise of any kind. To Ann's mind, Marion had an almost ruthless sense of self and mission. And yet Marion was precious to Sandy, and by extension to his wife. Ann's loyalty and gentleness extended that far. She was old-fashioned in this, more than generous—reading her husband's mind at the symphony, reminding him not to ruin his friendship. Sulkily, Sandy flopped his program face down on the back of his chair and made his way out to the aisle to stretch his legs. Like anyone accustomed to expensive gifts, he took Ann's advice for granted, and simply hated that she was always right.
5
C LIFF CAME to the next lab meeting with his hair still damp from the shower. He wore clean jeans and a T-shirt printed with TOSCANINI'S DARK CHOCOLATE #3. He and Feng were going to present the new results: sixty percent of the cancer-stricken mice injected with R-7 were now in remission. The disease had run its course in the controls, but in the experimental groups the engineered virus seemed to stop cancerous cells from multiplying altogether. The tumors shrank and shrank and seemed to disappear. What might this mean in the future for cancer patients? An alternative to the poisons of chemotherapy? In more than half of the diseased mice, R-7 acted like a heat-seeking missile, entering and subverting only cancerous cells, and skipping cells that were growing normally.
This was a great moment. Even as they gathered in the conference room, Prithwish and Natalya and Aidan were placing bets on how Feng would describe the new developments. Aidan and Natalya both bet on “random luck” as Feng's designated catchphrase, while Prithwish wagered on “some new fluke.”
As it happened, Feng did not say a word to downplay the numbers in his lab book. If the work had been his alone, he might have undercut the results. However, Feng deferred to Cliff when it came time to delineate and extrapolate from the numbers of mice in remission and their near-perfect health. He gave Cliff all the glory: the discussion of molecular and genetic issues; the ongoing work to understand where and how the genes
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