The God Project (2 page)

Eastbury itself, of course, had not changed much. It was still a small town, its plain façade cheered only by a new civic center which was a clumsy attempt at using new money to create old buildings. What had resulted was a city hall that looked like a bank posing as a colonial mansion, and an elaborately landscaped “town square” entirely fenced in with wrought iron fancy-work. Still, Eastbury was a safe place, small enough so the Montgomerys knew almost everyone in town, yet large enough to support the college that employed Sally.

The tea was cold, and Sally glanced at the clock, only slightly surprised to see that she’d been working for more than an hour. But the program was done, and Sally was sure that tomorrow morning it would produce the desired printouts. Eastbury College would have a freshman class next year after all.

She meticulously straightened up the desk, readying it for the onslaught of telephone calls that greeted Steve every morning. Using his talents as a salesman in tandem with the contacts he had made growing up in Eastbury, Steve had turned the town into what he liked to refer to as his “private gold mine.” Mornings he often worked at home, and afternoons he spent either in his office or at the athletic club he had helped found, not out of any great interest in sports, but because he knew the executives of the new companies liked to work in what they called casual surroundings. Steve believed in giving people what they wanted. In turn, they usually gave him what he wanted, which was invariably a small piece of whatever action was about to take place. When asked what he did, Steve usually defined himself as an entrepreneur. In truth, he was a salesman who specialized in putting people together to the benefit of all concerned. Over the years, it had paid handsomely, not only for the Montgomerys, but for the whole town. It had been Steve who had convinced Inter-Technics to donate a main-frame computer to Eastbury that would tie all
the town’s small computers together, though Sally had never been convinced that it was one of his better ideas.

But now Steve was beginning to get bored. During the last few months he had begun to talk about the two of them going into business for themselves. Sally would become an independent consultant, and Steve would sell her services.

And mother will call him a pimp, Sally thought. She closed the roll-top desk and went into the kitchen. She was about to pour the untouched tea down the drain when she changed her mind and began reheating it. She wasn’t tired, and her work was done, and the children were asleep, and there were no distractions. Tonight would be a good time for her to think over Steve’s idea.

In many ways, it was appealing. The two of them would be working together—an idea she liked—but it also meant they would be together almost all the time. She wasn’t sure she liked that.

Was there such a thing as too much togetherness? She had a good marriage, and didn’t want to disturb it. Deep inside, she had a feeling that one of the reasons their marriage was so good was that both of them had interests beyond the marriage. Working together would end that. Suddenly their entire lives would be bound up in their marriage. That could be bad.

Sally poured herself a cup of the tea, still thinking about the possibilities. And then, in her head, she heard Steve’s voice, and saw his blue eyes smiling at her. “You’ll never know till you try, will you?” he was asking. Alone in the kitchen, Sally laughed softly and made up her mind. No, she said to herself, I won’t. And if it doesn’t work, we can always do something else. She finished the tea, put the cup in the sink, and went upstairs.

She was about to go into the bedroom when she paused, listening.

The house was silent, as it always was at that time of night. She listened for a moment, then went on into the bedroom and began undressing. The near-total darkness was broken only by the faint glow of a streetlight half a block away.

She slipped into bed next to Steve, and his arms came out to hold her. She snuggled in, resting her head on his shoulder, her fingers twining in the mat of blond hair that covered his chest.

She pressed herself closer to Steve and felt his arm tighten around her. She closed her eyes, ready to drift off to sleep, content in the knowledge that everything was as close to perfect as she could ever have wanted it, despite what her mother might think. It was, after all, her life, and not her mothers.

And then she was wide-awake again, her eyes open, her body suddenly rigid.

Had she heard something?

Maybe she should wake Steve.

No. Why wake Steve when she was already awake?

She slipped out of his arms and put on a robe. In the hall she stood still, listening carefully, trying to remember if she had locked the doors earlier.

She had.

She could remember it clearly. Right after Steve had gone up to bed, she had gone around the house, throwing the bolts, a habit she had developed during Steve’s time on the road, when she had been alone with Jason for so many nights. The habit had never been broken.

The silence gathered around her, and she could hear her heart beating in the darkness.

What was it?

If there was nothing, what was she afraid of?

She told herself she was being silly, and turned back to the bedroom.

Still, the feeling would not go away.

I’ll look in on the children, she decided.

She moved down the hall to Jason’s room and opened the door. He was in his bed, the covers twisted around his feet, one arm thrown over the teddy bear he still occasionally slept with. Sally gently freed the covers and tucked her son in. Jason moved in his sleep and turned over. In the dim glow from the window, he looked like a miniature version of his father, his blond hair tangled,
his little jaw square, with the same dimple in his chin that Sally had always thought made Steve look sexy. How many hearts are you going to break when you grow up? Sally wondered. She leaned over, and kissed Jason gently.

“Aw, Mom,” the little boy said.

Sally pretended to scowl at her son. “You were supposed to be asleep.”

“I was playin’ possum,” Jason replied. “Is something wrong?”

“Can’t a mother say good night anymore?” Sally asked.

“You’re always kissin’ me,” Jason complained.

Sally leaned down and kissed him again. “Be glad someone does. Not every kid is so lucky.” She straightened up and started out of the room. “And don’t kick the covers off. You’ll catch pneumonia.” She left Jason’s room, knowing he’d kick the covers off again in five minutes, and that he wouldn’t catch pneumonia. If Julie grew up as healthily as Jason had, she would be twice blessed. As she approached Julie’s room, she began trying to calculate the odds of raising two children without having to cope with any sicknesses. The odds, she decided, were too narrow to be worth thinking about.

She let herself into the room, and suddenly her sense of apprehension flooded back to her.

She crossed to the crib and looked down at Julie. The baby was as different from her brother as she was from Steve. Julie had Sally’s own almost-black hair, dark eyes, and even in her infancy the same delicate bone structure. She’s like a doll, Sally thought. A tiny little doll. In the dim light the baby’s skin was pale, nearly white, and Sally thought she looked cold, though the pink blanket was still tucked around her shoulders as Sally had left it earlier.

Sally frowned.

Julie was an active baby, never lying still for very long.

Apparently she hadn’t moved for more than an hour.

Sally reached down, and touched Julie’s face.

It was as cold as it looked.

As she picked up her tiny daughter, Sally Montgomery felt her life falling apart around her.

It wasn’t true.

It couldn’t be true.

There was nothing wrong with Julie.

She was cold. That’s all, just cold. All she had to do was cuddle the baby, and warm her, and everything would be all right again.

Sally Montgomery began screaming—a high, thin, piercing wail that shattered the night.

   Steve Montgomery stood in the doorway staring at his wife. “Sally? Sally, what’s wrong?” He moved forward tentatively, watching her as she stood near the window, rocking back and forth, muttering in a strangled voice to the tiny form in her arms. Then he was beside her, trying to take the baby out of her arms. Sally’s hold on the child tightened, and her eyes, wide and beseeching, found his.

“Call the hospital,” she whispered, her voice desperate. “Call now. She’s sick. Oh, Steve, she’s sick!”

Steve touched Julie’s icy flesh and his mind reeled. No! No, she can’t be. She just can’t be. He turned away and started out of the room, only to be stopped by Jason, who was standing just inside the door, his eyes wide and curious.

“What’s wrong?” the little boy asked, looking up at his father. Then he looked past Steve, toward his mother. “Did something happen to Julie?”

“She’s—she’s sick,” Steve said, desperately wanting to believe it. “She’s sick, and we have to call the doctor. Come on.”

Pulling Jason with him, Steve went into the next room and picked up the phone on the bedside table, dialing frantically. While he waited for someone to answer, he reached out and pulled his son to him, but Jason wriggled out of his father’s arms.

“Is she dead?” he asked. “Is Julie dead?”

Steve nodded mutely, and then the operator at Eastbury
Community Hospital came on the line. While he was ordering an ambulance for his daughter, he kept his eyes on his son, but after a moment Jason, his face impassive, turned and left the room.

E
ASTBURY COMMUNITY HOSPITAL
, despite its name, was truly neither a hospital, nor a community service. It was, in actuality, a privately owned clinic. It had started, thirty years earlier, as the office of Dr. Arthur Wiseman. As his practice grew, Wiseman had begun to take on partners. Ten years before, with five other doctors, he had formed Eastbury Community Hospital, Inc., and built the clinic. Now there were seven doctors, all of them specialists, but none of them so specialized they could not function as general practitioners. In addition to the clinic, there was a tiny emergency room, an operating room, a ward, and a few private rooms. For Eastbury, the system worked well: each of the patients at Eastbury Community felt that he had several doctors, and each of the doctors always had six consultants on call. It was the hope of everyone that someday in the not-too-distant future, Eastbury Community would grow into a true hospital, though for the moment it was still a miniature.

In the operating room, Dr. Mark Malone—who, at the age of forty-two, was still not reconciled to the fact that he would forever be known as Young Dr. Malone—smiled down at the unconscious ten-year-old child on the table. A routine, if emergency, appendectomy. He
winked at the nurse who had assisted him, then expertly snipped a sample of tissue from the excised organ, and gave it to an aide.

“The usual tests,” he said. He glanced at the anesthetist, who nodded to him to indicate that everything was all right, then left the operating room and began washing up. He was staring disconsolately at the clock and wondering why so many appendixes chose to go bad in the wee hours of the morning, when he heard his name on the page.

“Dr. Malone, please. Dr. Malone.”

Wiping his hands, he picked up the phone. “Malone.”

“You’re wanted in the emergency room, Dr. Malone,” the voice of the operator informed him.

“Oh, Christ.” Malone wracked his brain, trying to remember who was supposed to be on call that night.

The operator answered his unasked question. “It’s—it’s one of your patients, Doctor.”

Malone’s frown deepened, but he only grunted into the phone and hung up. He slipped off his surgical gown, put on a white jacket, then started for the emergency room, already sure of what had happened.

The duty man would have handled the emergency. The call to him meant that one of his patients had died, and, since he was in the clinic, someone had decided he should break the news to the parents. He braced himself, preparing for the worst part of his job.

He found the nurse, shaken and pale, just outside the emergency room. “What’s happened?” he asked.

“It’s a baby,” the nurse replied, her voice quaking. She nodded toward the door. “She’s in there with her mother. It’s Julie Montgomery, and Sally won’t let go of her. She just keeps insisting that she has to make the baby warm.” Her voice faltered, then she went on. “I—I called Dr. Wiseman.”

Malone nodded. Though Julie Montgomery was his patient, the child’s mother was Art Wiseman’s. “Is he coming?”

“He should be here any minute,” the nurse promised. Even as she spoke, the distinguished gray-haired figure
of Arthur Wiseman strode purposefully through the door from the parking lot.

The older doctor sized the situation up at once.

Sally Montgomery was sitting on a chair, with Julie cradled in her arms. She looked up at Wiseman, and her eyes were wide and empty.

Shock, Wiseman thought She’s in shock. He moved toward her and tried to take Julie from her arms. Sally drew back and turned away slightly.

“She’s cold,” Sally said, her voice no more than a whisper. “She’s cold, and I have to make her warm.”

“I know, Sally,” Wiseman said softly. “But why don’t you let us do it? Isn’t that why you brought her here?”

Sally stared at him for a moment, then nodded her head. “Yes … I—I guess so. She’s not sick, Dr. Wiseman. I know she’s not sick. She’s—she’s just cold. So cold …” Her voice trailed off, and she surrendered the tiny body to the doctor. Then she covered her face with her hands and began to cry. Wiseman gave Julie to Mark Malone.

“See what you can do,” he said softly.

Leaving Sally Montgomery under Wiseman’s care, Malone took Julie Montgomery’s body into a treatment cubicle. For the child, he knew already, there was no hope of resuscitation. But even knowing it was already far too late, he began trying to revive her. A few minutes later, holding Julie as if his will alone could bring her back to life, he felt a presence in the room and glanced up. It was Wiseman.

“Is she gone?” he asked.