Prizes (58 page)

“Fine,” the Russian stated, standing as abruptly as he had seated himself. “I will liaise with all parties concerned.” He added, “And that of course includes you, Dr. da Costa.”

“Please don’t, Professor Avilov. If I never hear from you again, it’ll be too soon.”

Jerry Pracht knew there was only one absolute way of reassuring Isabel.

“Isa, let’s get married right away.”

“What?”

“You heard me. And if you want me to, I’ll even ask your father’s—and by that I mean Raymond’s—permission.”

“There’s no way I’d let you. I’m a genetic time bomb.”

“But Isa, I love you.”

“Me too,” she responded. “Which is why you can’t go through with this. I have no choice, but you do.”

“In that case,” he stated, “I’ve changed my mind.”

“About what?”

“About your taking the genetic test. At least that would give me half a chance of getting you to say yes.”

“To be honest, that’s the only reason I’d go through with it. Otherwise, I agree with everything you said to my mother. I haven’t been able to sleep since I heard the news. And even if the results are terrible, at least I’d know. On the other hand, if we let Avilov do it, there’s not much chance of keeping the results under wraps.”

“I agree. For all the bull about ethics, scientists can blab as much as anybody if a celebrity’s concerned.”

Isabel sighed with disappointment.

“But the field is not lost,” Jerry announced. “This may sound perverse, but I’ve asked around and located the one person in the world who’s least likely to divulge our secret to that fat Russian shit.”

“But what makes this individual so scrupulous?”

“It’s his first wife.” His eyes twinkled. “She’s now married to Adam Coopersmith at Harvard, and even though she’s working in immunology now, when they first came over, she worked as ‘Ivan the Terrible’s’ flunky, and actually helped him develop the Huntington’s test. Between you and me, I think she probably did most of the work. And from everything I hear, she’s a wonderful person. Apparently Avilov really treated her shabbily.”

“Actually, I can’t imagine him acting any other way.”

Fifteen minutes later Jerry had booked an appointment with Dr. Anya Coopersmith.

Preoccupied though she was, Isabel could not help but feel an inexplicable kinship between herself and the still youthfully attractive Russian doctor.

As Anya sat across the desk in her office at Harvard Medical School, her face—especially her eyes—seemed to emanate a sympathy that could only have been nurtured by a personal acquaintance with tragedy.

She fully understood the need for discretion, and even insisted on drawing the blood herself.

“Gosh.” Isabel flinched. “I’m really scared of injections.”

“Everybody is.” Anya smiled. “But before I passed my U.S. boards, I worked as a lab technician. I still pride myself on my needlework.”

Her concern for minimizing pain extended to the psychological as well. After taking the blood, she promised Isabel, “The very minute I learn anything, I’ll call you.”

“Day or night,” she pleaded.

Anya nodded understandingly. “Don’t worry. My husband taught me never to keep a patient waiting a second more than necessary for news.”

“He must be a very special person,” Jerry remarked.

“Yes.” There was a tinge of sadness in her voice. To keep up appearances, she said in parting, “I’m sure Adam would like to meet you. Perhaps we can have dinner or something.”

“That would be terrific,” Isabel responded. “But first things first.”

“You’re right,” Anya Coopersmith smiled wanly. “First things first.”

Earlier that week, they had gotten their first letter from Ray on the gold-embossed Coventry Prep School paper. The timing was perfect.

Rather than sit around all weekend waiting for the phone to ring, they drove down to see him. Despite the
fact that they were obliged to hide so much, it was an enjoyable outing.

Perhaps the most surprising aspect of their visit was the fact that Ray had already begun to establish the rudiments of a social life. He probably was unaware of how often the name Sharon came up in the conversation. She was the head of the girls’ athletic program and a divorcée.

“She’s a lovely girl. You’ve got to meet her the next time you’re down,” Ray emphasized, perhaps an oblique way of requesting that the two of them come again soon.

Raymond’s change of heart seemed to be unshakable. For now, far from resenting his daughter’s relationship, he seemed to sense in Jerry someone who, like himself, was totally devoted to Isabel. He even embraced the young man warmly as they exchanged good-byes.

When they reached Cambridge, there was a message on the answering machine to call Dr. Coopersmith at her home.

“I thought you would be nervous, so I rushed the test through,” she explained. “Anyway, I’m overjoyed to tell you that Isabel’s chromosomal makeup doesn’t—repeat, does not—have a dominant Huntington’s gene. That means you can look forward to a long, productive—and reproductive—life.”

Nonetheless, Anya invited the couple to come back in for another personal chat.

This time she offered an extensive explanation of what the data meant. Not only was Isabel herself in no danger of developing Huntington’s, there was no risk whatever to any children she and Jerry might have.

“You’ll just have to worry about dying from something else,” Anya said. Again, like a shadow, that strangely sad smile crossed her face.

“I propose old age,” Jerry offered.

“That’s a very good one,” Anya agreed. “What’s more, there’s all sorts of exciting work being done on
longevity. We’re not far from an average life span of more than one hundred years.”

“God,” Jerry blurted, “can you imagine an entire century of that asshole, Avilov?”

He caught himself too late, and quickly turned to Anya. “I’m sorry, Dr. Coopersmith.”

“No, not at all,” she concurred. “I agree. A few months of Dmitri is enough for a lifetime.”

They all laughed.

Twenty minutes later, as they were walking down the corridor hand in hand, Isabel whispered, “Do you know how many kids the Coopersmiths have?”

“Well, he’s got a girl from a first marriage, but I don’t think he has any with Anya.”

“I could tell,” Isabel commented sympathetically. “There was such a terrible look of loss in her face when she mentioned babies.”

She stopped and said with deep emotion, “Thank you.”

“For what in particular?” he smiled.

“For being you. And for being willing to stay with me either way.”

60
 

It was only in 1994 that the money radically changed Sandy Raven’s life. That year,
Forbes
magazine added his name to their golden honor roll of the four hundred richest people in America.

Yet even this formidable publication could not specify
his net worth to the last penny. But since the humblest person on their list was worth $300 million, it could be said without fear of contradiction that Sandy was extremely well off.

The night before the issue appeared, his lawyer, Nat Simmons, who had been privileged to see an advance copy, called him with the sensational news.

Sandy’s reaction startled the attorney.

“Dammit, Nat. Can’t we stop them?”

“First of all, the thing’s been printed in a zillion copies. But why would you want to? People kill—or at least lie—to make this stupid list. Are you afraid women will start to lust after your money?”

“Yeah,” Sandy replied sardonically. “Something like that.”

“Well, there’s nothing to worry about on that score,” Nat reassured him.

“What do you mean?”

“Because they already do. Anyway, my professional advice is that when the audience applauds, you should take a bow. Good night, Sandy. I hope you sleep off the lousy mood you’re in.”

Sandy hung up and walked out on to the patio, where Sidney, against doctor’s orders, was sneaking in a few rays of California sun, and offhandedly told him the news.

“That’s great, sonny boy,” the old man enthused. “Who would have dreamed that the son of a small potato guy like me would—”

“Come on, Dad,” Sandy cut him off. “You’re the real businessman in this family. I just got lucky.”

“Yeah,” Sidney remarked. “Like King Midas.”

“Dad, if you recall,” Sandy said, “King Midas was a very unhappy man.”

“Maybe,” Sidney replied, “that’s because there was no Mrs. Midas.”

As usual, the
Los Angeles Times
gave a big play to the local citizens who had made that year’s “Four Hundred.”

Now elevated to the pantheon of plutocracy, Sandy was besieged by telephone calls from adoring well-wishers—many of whom he had forgotten he even knew.

He told Maureen not to put any of the callers through, so he could at least have a few hours of hands-on time in the lab.

She disobeyed him only once. “I know what you said, but this one I know you’ll want to take.”

He was certain it wasn’t Kimiko, since she used his home phone. In fact they had spoken earlier that morning. So he barked: “Unless it’s from Stockholm, I can’t imagine anyone I’d like to speak to.”

“I can,” she replied knowingly.

“Try me,” he challenged.

She answered simply, “Kim Tower.”

It opened a torrent of feelings. The object of his childhood longings, the princess who, in reverse fairytale fashion, had turned out to be a dragon. And nearly destroyed his father. The lodestone of his strongest passions of love and hate, whom for sanity’s sake he had tried to banish from his consciousness. Now she who had ignored or—on some rare occasions—deigned to recognize him only to disparage him, was suddenly telephoning of her own accord.

“Okay,” Sandy capitulated. “Put her through.”

He could feel his blood pressure mounting as he waited for the connection.

“Hi, sweetheart,” she purred. “How does it feel to be the talk of the town?”

“I don’t know. How should I feel?”

“Like a nuclear firecracker,” she suggested, and segued quickly into further greetings, asking sweetly, “How’s Sidney? I hear he’s doing a great job at CBS. Give him my best regards.”

Sandy was too astounded to be outraged. Her presumption was breathtaking.

“I’ll pass it on,” he said dryly.

“You’ll never guess why I’m calling you,” she said coquettishly.

“Don’t tell me.” Sandy could barely hide his sarcasm. “The studio wants to do the story of my life.”

She laughed. And the sound was still like crystal.

“Actually, that’s not such a bad idea,” she responded with glossy Hollywood hypocrisy. “Rags-to-riches is always boffo stuff. But anyway, why don’t we get together, break bread, and talk about old times?”

Old times? Sandy thought to himself. What do we have to reminisce about? But then she had lit the fires again. And for reasons conscious and unconscious, he thought, what the hell.…

“That would be great, Rochelle.”

“What about tonight at the Bel Air? It’s Friday, and we can stay up extra late.”

“Fine with me. I only hope you recognize me after all these years.”

“Dollface,” she replied, “lately your picture’s been in the paper more than mine. After all, I’ve never been on the cover of
Time.
See you at eight. By the way, it’s my treat.
Ciao.
”