Prizes (49 page)

Adam’s reply was quite unexpected.

Still staring into the fire, he answered in a monotone, “So do I.”

In the days that followed, he was driven to communicate. All his waking hours became an incessant dialogue
with Anya. He had a lifetime of things to tell her—and a cruelly short space in which to do it.

Their lovemaking took on a kind of urgency, a sort of unspoken communion in which the intensity of his touch reassured her that he knew exactly what he was doing. And what he was trying to say.

His hands were articulate in silence. They spoke with an eloquence that transcended words.

When he kissed her, it was for all eternity.

Certain people had to be informed. First and foremost, there was Heather. Since Adam was declining swiftly, she was doomed to lose him well before his actual death.

That meant telling Toni.

Anya called Lisl, who came over immediately, to “help put the house in order.”

She proved a welcome source of strength for Anya, who up to now had had no one to support her.

Lisl insisted on being the one to tell Heather and Toni. She reported her surprise on their reactions. Unexpectedly, Toni wept openly.

And Heather was too stunned to cry.

“May I see him?” Toni begged.

“I don’t know,” Lisl answered candidly. “That’s something I think Anya has to decide. But he wants to see Heather very badly.”

She looked at her goddaughter and said gently, “Shall I pick you up tomorrow after school?”

Heather nodded mutely.

Anya—on whose shoulders the burden would weigh the heaviest—knew that the rest of Adam’s life would be a series of cruel ironies, for which she had to prepare herself as well as possible. One example was the letter received by Adam’s secretary at the lab:

Because she wanted to keep Adam’s mind alive as long as possible, Anya read him the letter and even went through the charade of discussing it with him.

“He’s really interested,” Anya said with forced optimism. “I mean he wrote such a long and thoughtful letter.”

“And what are you going to do about it?” Adam asked bitterly. “Tell him I’m taking early retirement?”

She tried to smile. “I’ll think of something,” she said softly.

He sat for a moment and then said, “Contact him,
Annoushka, start the project with him yourself. Then you can work.…”

His voice trailed off.

52
 

Raymond da Costa was outraged.

“How could you do such a thing? Don’t you think I deserved to know before anybody?”

He had never gotten angry with her like this. Never had he fired off verbal bullets of recrimination.

“I’m sorry, Dad,” Isabel said softly, “but there was no point in showing it to you until I knew I was on the right track.”

“What you’re saying is that you thought it would be too far above my head.”

Isabel was trapped. In truth, she could have explained it to Ray in terms he would have understood, but had balked at the prospect. And she herself could not comprehend why she had wanted to deny him the pleasure of priority.

Suddenly her father was seated at the kitchen table, his head in his hands, crying.

Isabel felt cold and frightened. Perhaps, in a reflex of self-protection, she had been too brutal, she thought. Was he going to crack?

“Dad, I apologize. I realize now I should have told you first.”

She stood motionless, painfully aware that their relationship
had been torn in a way that could never be healed.

Just then the telephone rang. She picked up the receiver.

“Yes?” She listened for a moment and then said, “I told him.” She paused and added, “Of course he was happy. Anyway, eight o’clock’s fine.”

As she hung up, Ray snarled, “Jerry Pracht?”

Isabel nodded. “En route to Wimbledon. He’s invited me for dinner.”

“He’s a kid. He hasn’t got a chance.”

“He beat Becker—”

“Who had the flu. He was playing with a 102-degree fever. The kid’ll get knocked out in the first round.”

Isabel lost her temper and shouted, “Even if he doesn’t get the ball over the net once, it won’t make me care for him any less!”

She looked at her father.

“Please,” she said, taking the initiative. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Well, you’ve certainly done a good job of it without trying.”

“Come on,” she implored. “Let’s go out for a nice relaxing jog and I’ll tell you about my thesis idea.”

Raymond’s feelings were almost instantly assuaged. “I’d like that, Isabel,” he said warmly, “but lately, I prefer to discuss my science sitting down. Can we do it over a glass of iced tea when you get back?”

“Sure, Dad, sure, that’d be lovely,” she answered quickly.

Moments later she emerged in her running clothes and went to kiss him on the forehead.

“Now, don’t do anything foolish while I’m gone,” she cautioned.

“What would you regard as ‘foolish’?” he asked, trying to be good-natured.

“Like clean the house again,” she joked.

She spent most of her run castigating herself for being so harsh with Ray. He had given her so many years. Couldn’t she have taken a few more days to let him down more gently?

She entered the apartment and was genuinely relieved to see that his mood—at least superficially—had radically changed. He had prepared a huge glass pitcher of tea with sprigs of mint.

She quickly showered and put on jeans and a shirt, unpacked her notes, placing various papers around the table, and prepared to deliver her second presentation of the day.

Ray sat there enthralled by his daughter’s genius. It not only sounded right, but—like many great discoveries—seemed as if it had always been waiting there in full view.

At the end of her exposition, he rose enthusiastically and said, “This calls for a celebration.”

“Thanks, Dad. Tomorrow we can—”

“I knew this was going to be brilliant,” he interrupted her. “So while you were out, I went and shopped for all your favorite things. I’m preparing the most fantastic dinner you’ve ever seen.”

“But, Dad,” she protested gently, “Jerry’s coming over to pick me up.”

“This is a great occasion for you,” Ray muttered frantically, still on his own wavelength.

It did not escape her notice that, totally out of character, her father had not spoken in the first person plural.

Clearly, he was determined to hang on at any cost.

She spoke to him with emphatic calm, like a parent to a hysterical child. “I’m going to go and change now, Dad. And then when Jerry comes, we’ll be going out.”

He appeared not to assimilate her remark and continued to set the table.

Twenty minutes later she reappeared dressed in her best silk blouse and blue skirt. To her dismay, Raymond
was still fussing with the dinner arrangements. Significantly, a third place had been set.

“Dad, I told you—”

“You can both eat here,” he said, the words tripping out in a tone bordering on hysteria. “I mean, Jerry’s a nice boy, a fine boy. There’s more than enough for him to …”

Isabel stared at her father. The man she had once revered as omniscient and infallible was now reduced to a helpless frenzy. She was gripped with a pity that consumed her body. And, surprisingly, a feeling of anger. For she suddenly allowed herself to resent the cloistered isolation in which he had kept her nearly all the days of her life.

The front door intercom buzzed then, and Isabel picked up the entry phone receiver, listened for a moment, and then said quietly, “I’ll be out in a moment.”

She turned back to Ray, just in time to hear him gasp, “P-Please …” He clutched his chest and sank to his knees.

“What’s the matter, Dad?” she asked with mounting terror.

“Don’t leave me now.” Raymond’s face reddened and he began to sweat.

Managing to keep a cool head, Isabel pressed the entry phone button and implored Jerry to hurry inside.

He took charge immediately.

“I’ll handle this, Isa. You just call 911 for an ambulance.”

“Don’t,” Ray murmured with difficulty, “I’ll—be—all right. Just stay—”

He lost consciousness and fell back onto the floor.

For Isabel it had been a horrible feeling of déjà vu.

She remembered the trauma of Ray’s Berkeley attack and her fear while waiting for the doctors to pronounce their verdict. Only now there was one important difference.
Jerry Pracht was by her side. And the news—at least the medical diagnosis—was far less ominous.

“There was no cardiac implication,” the senior resident at Cambridge City Hospital explained. “I don’t know if he’s been taking his beta blockers regularly, but he must have had some sort of shock that drove his blood pressure sky high. We’ve sedated him and, considering his history, we’ll monitor him for two or three days.”

Since her father would sleep till morning, Isabel acceded to Jerry’s suggestion that they have a bite. But, unable to exorcise her feelings of guilt, the highest gastronomic level she would allow herself was Dunkin’ Donuts.

Jerry had been wonderful that evening. Strong and protective, revealing enormous compassion. She had never imagined she could … love him more. But she did.

While they were on their third helping of French crullers, he affectionately broached another subject.

“Hey, remember a million years ago, when we were originally going out to have something fancier than this?”

“Yes?”

“Well, I was going to make a big deal about it because I had something important—at least what I thought was important—to tell you.”

“Tell me now.”

“Events have somewhat diminished its significance,” he said. “I’ve come to the conclusion that our relationship has no future if we’re only united by a telephone wire.”

For a moment Isabel misunderstood and thought he might be about to leave her.

“Anything else?” she asked uneasily.

“Yeah. We should live in the same city.”

Her heart melted. “I’d like that,” she whispered. “I’d like that very much.”

“You damn well better. I’m giving up eccentricity for you. Can you imagine the embarrassment? And I’ll cease to be known as ‘Pracht the dropout.’ ”