Dante's Wood Page 11

  I hadn’t expected a warm response. “Oh, it’s you,” she said, like she had just taken a sip of battery acid.

  I went ahead quickly so she wouldn’t hang up. “Listen, I just thought of something. Something that may be important.”

  She cut me off. “Mark, I’m not in the mood for this, not after what happened yesterday.”

  “Please hear me out. I may be able to prove the paternity test was wrong.”

  “Sure. And I’ve just discovered the antidote to world hunger. Speaking of which, my takeout is waiting.”

  “I’ll pay for another delivery if it gets cold. Just be patient for a minute. Charlie may not be the father of that baby.”

  “That seems farfetched. And how much would you know about paternity tests anyway? I understand you’re a doctor, but that doesn’t make you an expert on DNA typing.”

  “I’ll admit that, but I’ve done more than the usual amount of reading on the subject . . . for personal reasons,” I added, playing on her sympathy.

  Hallie sighed loudly. “You’re trying to make me feel like a hard-hearted bitch if I hang up on you.”

  “Maybe just hard-hearted.”

  “All right, what is it?”

  “It’s complicated, but bear with me. Do you remember much biology?”

  “Are you kidding?”

  “All right. I’ll start with my own situation.” I still had trouble using the B-word so I had to search for the right way to begin. “This, uh, thing I have . . . well, it’s caused by a defect in my DNA. But not the kind of DNA you’re probably familiar with.”

  “There’s more than one kind?”

  “Yes. Usually when we speak of DNA we’re referring to nuclear DNA, the genetic material that tells a cell how to act, its brain, so to speak. But cells also have another kind of DNA associated with their mitochondria, mini-organisms in the cell that break down food into energy. Think of mitochondria as a kind of powerhouse for the cell. You with me so far?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “The mutation I have causes the mitochondria to wear out prematurely. The cells run out of juice and stop working.”

  There was a momentary hush on the other end. “That sounds serious. Does it mean you’re slowly dying?”

  “We’re all slowly dying.”

  “I didn’t mean that in a philosophical sense.”

  “I didn’t either. But don’t worry. I won’t be disappearing from your life anytime soon. My mutation doesn’t affect all cells equally—it mainly shuts down the ones that need a lot of energy to function. In my case, nerve cells in the retinas. What’s significant is that in humans mitochondrial DNA is inherited exclusively from the mother. My father couldn’t have caused my problem.”

  “That’s interesting, but what does it have to do with Charlie?”

  “What Charlie has, Fragile X Syndrome, is similar because of the maternal inheritance pattern. The syndrome is caused by excessive repeats in a gene called the FMR-1 gene. The gene produces a protein that’s crucial for intellectual development, though no one knows exactly why. When the defect is present the gene doesn’t make enough of the protein to support normal intelligence and the result, depending on the number of repeats, is retardation.”

  “Go on.”

  “The syndrome is called Fragile X because the FMR-1 gene is located exclusively on one of two sex-linked chromosomes, the X chromosome. Every child gets two sex-linked chromosomes, one X chromosome from their mother and either an X chromosome or a Y chromosome from their father.”

  Hallie said, “I remember this now. If you get two X chromosomes you’re a girl. Boys have one of each.”

  “Right,” I said. “Charlie has Fragile X because of the X chromosome he inherited from Judith. It couldn’t have come from Nate. Even if Nate were a carrier, he could only pass on the mutation to his daughters. The same is true for Charlie. Charlie’s male children couldn’t inherit the syndrome from him. His female children wouldn’t be so lucky.”

  “Because they would inherit one of their X chromosomes from their father.”

  “Exactly. Do you recall anyone at the hearing saying what the sex of Shannon’s fetus was?”

  “No. I don’t think it came up.”

  “Or whether they tested it for Fragile X?”

  “I don’t remember that being a part of the discussion either.”

  “Because if it was a girl, the absence of repeats on the FMR-1 gene would be conclusive proof the baby wasn’t Charlie’s.”

  “So you’re saying the testing lab overlooked something?”

  “It depends on what they looked for and how far they went. I don’t know whether you’re aware of this, but paternity tests are based on averages. A finding of paternity with a 99 percent degree of accuracy only tells you that the alleged father has a DNA profile possessed by one in every hundred males in the general population.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning it identifies someone who could be the biological father, but doesn’t necessarily prove he is. Charlie has a genetic marker that makes him fairly unique. It should have been part of the lab analysis. Assuming the fetus was a girl.”

  “And if it wasn’t?”

  “Then it would be irrelevant. But still worth knowing one way or the other.”

  Hallie whistled. “Well, that is something.”

  “Can you get a copy of the full lab report?”

  “I can subpoena it, but it may take a while.”

  “What about O’Leary? He doesn’t seem entirely comfortable about what’s happening to Charlie. Would he give it to you?”

  “Maybe. I’ll try to get a hold of him tonight or first thing in the morning.”

  “Will you let me know right away?”

  “Of course.” She stopped. “Mark,” she said, assuming a more conciliatory tone. “I hope we can still be on good terms after yesterday. I’m sorry for what I said to you. I blamed you too quickly. What happened was . . . well, it was my fault too. I forgot one of the first rules of being a trial lawyer: know your own witness. You did better than most laymen faced with that kind of surprise.”

  “I’m sorry, too,” I said, “but not because of what you said. We both screwed up.”

  “Fair enough. But remember what I said about not getting too involved. Let the legal professionals do their work now. I’ll get on that lab report and call you as soon as I know something.”

  After Hallie rang off I cleaned up the mess the can had made and put the rest of the soup on the burner to heat up. I wasn’t very hungry and most of it ended up in the disposal. When I was done I poured myself a glass of bourbon and settled on the couch with a copy of The Inferno I had just ordered from an Italian Braille service. It was a mistake. When I came to the lines “I reached a place mute of all light, which bellows as the sea in tempest tossed by conflicting winds,” I slammed the book shut in disgust and headed for bed. That night I slept fitfully, passing into real slumber only toward early morning.

  At 9:00 a.m. my bedroom phone rang. I had the handset to my ear on the second ring. It was Hallie, but she didn’t sound like she’d slept well either.

  “I’m impressed,” I said, hoping the strain in her voice didn’t mean anything. “You work fast.”

  “It’s not that. Are you sitting down?”

  “Why do people always ask that?” I was still cranky from lack of rest and alarm bells were going off in my head. “What’s going on?”

  “It’s about Charlie.”

  “Of course it is, or you wouldn’t be calling me.”

  All of her usual pugnacity was gone. “I don’t know how to tell you.” She stopped. “He was . . . assaulted.” She stopped again, as though she hadn’t quite convinced herself of the fact.

  I managed to get out, “Where? When?”

  “In a corridor last night.”

  “Was he . . . ?” I couldn’t get the word past my lips.

  “No, thank God. His pants were down when a guard found him but he understood enough of
what was happening to him to scream and kick his attacker where it would do the most good. Apparently he’d been taking some kind of course . . .”

  “Fucking Christ!” I cried. “He was supposed to be in protective custody!”

  “I know, but it wasn’t very protective apparently. I didn’t want to tell you. I only got word from the Dickersons a little while ago. I’ve had the shakes ever since.”

  “Do they know who . . . went after him?”

  “They’re holding someone, a gang member who was on a suicide watch. But why does it matter?”

  “Because if I ever find the bastard, I’m going to . . .” I disciplined myself to stop. There were no words for what I wanted to do, and it wasn’t important. The only important thing was getting Charlie the best possible care so that he wouldn’t be permanently scarred. “Where is he now?”

  “In the prison clinic. They say he’s not talking.”

  “I’m on my way.”

  “Mark, you can’t—”

  “He needs to be counseled by a psychiatrist right away. I’m the best person to do it.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Please, Hallie. I can help him. He trusts me and I’ve dealt with this kind of thing before. It’s my specialty.”

  “Yes, but the Dickersons, well, they’re . . . distraught. Saying crazy things. I don’t think they’d give permission, is what I’m trying to say.”

  “Will you ask?”

  “I already did.”

  The universe shrunk to the size of a pinprick. Then it expanded to an enormous space that threatened to collapse and send its atoms hurling in every direction. My skull began to vibrate.

  “Mark, what’s the matter? Mark?”

  I let the handset drop to the floor. Hallie’s voice continued to come over the wire, like the whine of an insect. I kicked at the dangling plastic with my foot and missed. I tried to kick it again, but all I met was air. I grabbed for the body of the phone and lifted it high in the air. I brought it down on the nightstand and smashed it into the wood. I didn’t stop until the thing was just a piece of mangled wire and circuit board and the shards of the plastic casing were gouging my skin. Then I started on the bedside lamp. The smashing continued until I couldn’t find anything else to hurt myself with.

  When the tears finally came, they were three years too late . . .

  Nine

  I’d always been a loner. It was my mother’s legacy to me, along with the bad gene I’m glad she never had to know about. Like so much of my life to come, my birth was a mess. Even then I did things my way and entered the world feet first, with my umbilical cord wrapped around my neck. She died not long after, of postpartum hemorrhage. This left me in the care of my father. He was a chemist, one of the few former enemy combatants to secure a visa after the war, and he worked in a research laboratory on Long Island, not far from our home in Queens. He should have remarried, but never did, perhaps out of loyalty to my mother, though I think it had more to do with outlook. I’d therefore grown up one of those rarities among Catholic families in the late sixties: an only child.

  You can imagine the pressure this put me under. I wasn’t just a male with the responsibility of living up to the family name. I was also on earth to prove myself worthy of my mother’s sacrifice. To his credit, my father never openly reminded me of the way I was born. I think he loved me too much for that. But it was love of the controlling, suffocating variety for which Italian paterfamilias are famous, the kind I like to think even Jesus Christ would have fled from.

  From an early age I could sense I wasn’t meeting expectations. I was a scrawny child who daydreamed at school, didn’t appear talented at anything, and had what they called a Mouth. My mouth had a mind of its own. I could never turn it off, least of all when my father was losing his temper. He never subjected me to real abuse, just a stinging slap when I talked back once too often, or time under the belt when I stayed out playing kick the can past curfew, punishment most parents in my neighborhood considered good child-rearing practice.

  I didn’t thrive under it, though. I was one of those kids who saw massive injustice in my circumstances, reinforced by the weekly torture of confession, where I had to own up anew to the many ways in which I’d disappointed my father—always overestimating them by half a dozen to be on the safe side. As the years went by, I developed a reputation for how much time I spent on my knees afterward, even though I had learned to race through an Act of Contrition like a Formula One driver. Around age ten, I decided that since I was going to stew in hell anyway, I might as well have some fun getting there.

  My resistance started out small: lifting five-cent Bazookas from the cigar store on the corner, blowing up cherry bombs in garbage cans in the alley, listening to avant-garde music like the Rolling Stones, whose Sticky Fingers album, shoplifted from a Crazy Eddie’s outlet when I was thirteen, sent my father into a celestial orbit to rival Pluto’s. In high school my rebellion blossomed into long hair, more serious acts of theft, and sneaking joints behind the gym, where I was caught more than once by the savvy Jesuit fathers who watched over us. I don’t lay claim to being a true outlaw here. In comparison to many teenagers then and now, my antics were tame. But in my particular household they were affronts to authority on the same order as the Budapest uprising. My father reacted with the same heavy-handed tactics as the Kremlin, though since he couldn’t actually ship me off to the Soviet Bloc, without the same record of success.

  Luckily, I was never caught in the act of doing something really stupid, like setting fire to the chemistry lab or hotwiring a Buick, nor did I ever manage to impregnate Angela Santorini, the local puttana in training, though I spent many happy hours in her parents’ basement trying. By senior year my grades were abysmal and my disciplinary record worse. When I failed, naturally, to gain admission to a good college, it was clear to my father that I would never amount to anything more than a fast-talking salesman in one of the used-car outlets on Northern Boulevard. He didn’t go so far as to disown me, but he made it clear that from then on I was on my own. I reacted the same way I always do when faced with a stiff challenge. Having confirmed every one of his worst fears, I set out to prove him wrong.

  Fourteen years later, I had turned myself around and risen to something of a star. I wasn’t all that smart, but I’d learned the value of hard work, which in my case consisted mainly of not having to think too much about my many shortcomings as a person. As long as I kept capturing the brass ring, I could reassure myself I wasn’t all that bad. My obsession with winning didn’t leave much room for relationships, but I told myself I didn’t mind. I’d grown used to being alone, especially after my father died of cancer during my second year in medical school. I’d also discovered that women were attracted to success, and even though I only made passing grade in the looks department, I could have the pick of the lot at the Manhattan teaching hospital I’d joined after completing my fellowship: single doctors and nurses themselves just trying to keep pace with the long hours and the mold taking off in their refrigerators. In the years that followed I had a number of flings, none of them ever progressing to the live-in stage. They were good for keeping loneliness in check, but little else; just enough connection to let me continue to claim membership in the human race. I was content, or so I thought, to work and read and ride and fuck, more or less in that order, and occasionally enjoy a good meal out or a visit to my cousins in Italy.

  And that’s where things stood on the day in my late thirties when Roger Whittaker took me aside and told me it was time to marry.

  Roger was my boss, the cold, brilliant offshoot of an old Hudson River clan. Distantly related to the Roosevelts, graduate of Exeter and Yale, inducted into Skull and Bones, the whole nine yards of what still counted as aristocracy in America if you left out the navel gazers in Hollywood. For some reason he didn’t mind my outspokenness or my unglamorous family tree, and almost from the day I joined his department began grooming me to take his place when it came time fo
r him to retire to the family’s tree-shaded acreage near Poughkeepsie. We weren’t close—Roger was too formal for that—but my upbringing had left me vulnerable to friendly attention from father-figure types, and I responded by doing everything I could to live up to his good opinion of me. So when Roger advised me there was a hole in my résumé where a family ought to be, I took him seriously.

  Roger had a girl in mind: his fourth child and only daughter. Annie was twenty-nine and worked in a firm that advised the Fortunes on how to select the artwork that graced their executive suites. Roger arranged for us to meet at a cocktail party at the Greenwich Country Club, and right away I came under the spell of Annie’s formidable charms. To this day, I don’t know why. Before then I’d always shied away from trophy wives in the making, thinking they could have no interest in a sarcastic upstart like me. Annie fit the mold right down to the blonde hair and thoroughbred limbs that were a scarce commodity in the borough I hailed from. After Roger introduced us, we were together all night. I learned that she’d gone to a Seven Sisters school where she’d majored in art history and how to be fascinating to men. Her conversation was light and breezy and touched upon all the usual preoccupations of a Manhattan dweller with means—finding the right prewar apartment, the restoration of Central Park—along with fashion and the arts. Aside from her father, we had almost nothing in common. Yet she seemed to regard me as a potential match, and being flattered, it wasn’t long before I started thinking in like terms. We were married in no time in a June ceremony in the same country club.

  For a while it was fine. We bought a duplex in the Upper Eighties and a farmhouse near Fairfield for weekends and holidays. As a doctor’s daughter, Annie understood the drill and made few demands on my time, filling the hours I was away with her own job, shopping, and a vast circle of friends. She was always impeccably groomed, right down to the last manicured fingernail, and I loved sinking into her honey-toned flesh at the end of a long day, sucking her perfect small breasts, and caressing her smooth thighs before thrusting to blissful release. The sex was so good that for a long time it blotted out everything else. So good, in fact, that I was unprepared for the day, not long after our second anniversary, when the fly in the ointment made its first appearance.