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“Not in the slightest,” Deborah said. “Especially thinking about that Louisburg Square apartment we looked at. I hope someone doesn’t nab it before we have the money in our hot little hands.”
“It’s also dependent on the seller willing to give us a second mortgage,” Joanna said. “Otherwise it’s far beyond our means.”
The women had contacted real estate agents in both Cambridge and Boston, and had seen a number of condo units for sale. The one on Louisburg Square in Beacon Hill had impressed them the most.
It was one of Boston’s finest addresses, centrally located, and close to the Red Line subway, which would whisk them over to Harvard Square in no time at all.
“To tell you the truth, I’m surprised the price is so reasonable.”
“I think it’s because it’s a fourth-floor walkup,” Joanna said. “And because it’s so small, especially the second bedroom.”
“Yeah, but that bedroom has the best view in the whole apartment, plus the walk-in closet.”
“You don’t think walking through the kitchen to get to the bathroom is a problem?”
“I’d walk through someone else’s apartment to get to the bathroom for a chance to live on Louisburg Square.”
“How would we decide who gets what bedroom?” Joanna asked.
“Hey, I’ll be happy with the smaller one if that’s what you’re worried about,” Deborah said.
“Seriously?”
“Absolutely,” Deborah said.
“Maybe we could rotate somehow,” Joanna suggested.
“It’s not necessary,” Deborah said. “I’d be perfectly happy with the smaller bedroom. Trust me!”
Joanna turned her head to look out the passenger-side window. The farther north they went the more intense the fall colors became. The red of the maples was so bright it almost didn’t look real, especially when surcharged against the dark green of pine or hemlock trees.
“You’re not having second thoughts, are you?” Deborah questioned.
“Not really,” Joanna said. “But it’s dizzying how quickly everything is happening. I mean, if everything goes according to plan, by this time next week we’ll not only be landowners, we’ll be in Venice. It’s like a dream.”
Deborah had gone on-line and had found surprisingly inexpensive seats to Milan via Brussels. From Milan they would take the train to Venice, arriving in the middle of the afternoon. Deborah had also found a small bed-and-breakfast in the San Polo sestière near the Rialto Bridge where they’d stay until they could find an apartment.
“I can’t wait!” Deborah exclaimed. “I’m psyched! Benvenuto a Italia, signorina!” She reached across and briefly tousled Joanna’s coiffure.
Joanna leaned to the side, batted Deborah’s hand away, and laughed. “Mille grazie, cara,” she said in a playfully sarcastic tone. She then bent her head back and ran her fingers through her shoulder-length hair in hopes of returning it to some semblance of order. “I guess I’m a bit taken aback at how quickly the Wingate Clinic is making this all happen,” she said as she used the rearview mirror to inspect her efforts with her hair. Joanna was moderately obsessive about her hair and general appearance, much more so than Deborah who often teased her about it.
“It’s probably the two clients who are pressuring them,” Deborah said. She readjusted the mirror.
“Did Dr. Donaldson mention that?” Joanna questioned.
“No,” Deborah answered. “I just assumed as much. She did say that the clinic was only interested in two donors, so we’re lucky we called when we did.”
“There’s a sign that says Bookford is the next exit,” Joanna said, pointing ahead. The sign was small and set in front of a small clump of oak trees ablaze in lustrous orange.
“I saw it,” Deborah said as she put on the directional signal.
After another twenty minutes of driving along a narrow two-lane road bordered with apple trees and stone fences that wound across a countryside of rolling hills and rust-colored cornfields, the women entered a typical New England town. At the outskirts there was a large billboard that said WELCOME TO BOOKFORD, MASSACHUSETTS, HOME OF THE BOOKFORD HIGH SCHOOL WILDCATS, DIVISION II STATE FOOTBALL CHAMPIONS 1993. The country road leading from the highway became Main Street and proceeded to bisect the town in a north and south direction. It was lined with the usual bevy of turn-of-the-previous-century, brick-fronted stores. About midway a large white steepled church stood behind a green across from a granite municipal building. A swelling and noisy throng of schoolkids with bookbags were moving north along the sidewalks like migratory wingless birds.
“It’s a cute town,” Deborah commented as she leaned forward to get a better view through the windshield. She slowed to less than twenty miles per hour. “It looks almost too cute to be real, like it’s part of a theme park.”
“I didn’t see any sign for the Wingate Clinic,” Joanna commented.
“Hey, did you hear the one about why it takes a hundred million sperm to fertilize one egg?”
“Can’t say that I have,” Joanna said.
“Because none of them are willing to stop and ask directions.”
Joanna chuckled. “I suppose that means we’re going to stop.”
“You’ve got that right,” Deborah said as she turned into a parking spot in front of the RiteSmart drugstore. There was angled parking up and down both sides of Main Street. “Do you want to come in or wait here?”
“I’m not going to let you have all the fun,” Joanna said as she alighted from the car.
The women had to dodge children chasing each other along the sidewalk. Their taunting yells and screeches were just shy of the auditory pain threshold, and it was a relief for both women when the drugstore door closed behind them. In contrast, the interior of the store was engulfed in a relative hush. Adding to the calm was the fact that there were no customers. There weren’t even any store personnel in sight.
After exchanging shrugs when no one appeared, the two women walked down the central aisle toward the prescription section in the back of the store. Positioned on the counter was a bell, which Deborah struck decisively. The noise was considerable in the comparable silence. Within moments a mostly bald, obese man in a pharmacist’s tunic unbuttoned at the collar appeared through a pair of swinging doors like those leading into saloons in Hollywood westerns. Although it was relatively cool in the store, beads of perspiration stood out on his forehead.
“Can I help you ladies?” the proprietor asked cheerfully.
“We’re looking for the Wingate Clinic,” Deborah said.
“No problem,” the proprietor said. “That’s out in the Cabot State Mental Hospital.”
“Excuse me?” Deborah said with surprise. “It’s in a mental institution?”
“Yup,” the proprietor said. “Old Doc Wingate bought or rented the whole damn place. I’m not sure which. Nobody really knows, not that it matters much.”
“Oh, I understand,” Deborah said. “It used to be a mental institution.”
“Yup,” the proprietor repeated. “For about a hundred years or so. It was also a TB sanitarium. Seems that the people down in Boston were eager to banish their mentally ill and people suffering with tuberculosis. Kind’a locked ‘em up in a fortress of sorts. Kinda outta sight, outta mind. A hundred years ago Bookford was considered to be way out in the sticks. Boy, times have sure changed. Now we’re a Boston bedroom community.”
“They just locked these people up?” Joanna questioned. “Didn’t they try to treat them?”
“I suppose,” the proprietor said. “But there wasn’t much treatment back in those days. Well, that’s not entirely true. They did a lot of surgery out there. You know, experimental stuff like collapsing the lungs of the people with TB and lobotomies on the crazies.”
“That sounds awful,” Joanna said. She shuddered.
“I imagine it was,” the proprietor agreed.
“Well, there’s no TB or mental patients anymore,” Deborah added.
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br /> “Of course not,” the proprietor said. “The Cabot, as we call it around here, has been closed for twenty to thirty years. I think it was in the seventies when the last patients were moved out. You remember: That was when the politicians began to seriously screw around with health care. It was a tragedy of sorts. I think they just bused the remaining patients back to Boston and let ‘em loose in the Boston Common.”
“I think that was a little before our time,” Deborah said.
“Suppose you’re right there,” the proprietor agreed.
“Could you tell us how to get to the Cabot?” Deborah asked.
“Sure as shooting,” the proprietor said. “Which way you headed?”
“North,” Deborah said.
“Perfect,” the proprietor said. “Head up to the next traffic light and hang a right. That’s Pierce Street with the public library on the corner. From the intersection you can see the Cabot’s brick tower. It’s about two miles east of town, off Pierce Street. You can’t miss it.”
The women thanked the pharmacist and retreated back to their vehicle.
“Sounds like a charming environment for an infertility clinic,” Joanna said as she buckled her seat belt.
“At least it’s no longer a TB sanitarium-cum-mental institution,” Deborah said as she backed out into the street. “For a moment there I was ready to head back to Cambridge.”
“Maybe we should,” Joanna said.
“You’re not serious, are you?”
“No, not really,” Joanna said. “But a place having a history like that gives me the willies. Can you imagine the horrors it’s witnessed?”
“I can’t,” Deborah said.
PAUL SAUNDERS PUT DOWN THE MEMORANDUM SHEILA Donaldson had prepared for him and forcefully rubbed his eyes with the fingers of both hands, keeping his elbows on his desk. He’d repaired to his fourth-floor tower office after spending several hours in the lab checking his embryo cultures. For the most part they were doing reasonably well although not perfectly. He feared it was due to the age and quality of the eggs, a problem that he hoped to remedy shortly.
Paul was an early riser. His usual schedule was to get out of bed before five and be in the lab before six. That way he could get a significant amount of work done prior to the patients’ arrival which generally began at nine. That morning he was starting his clinical day early because two egg retrieval procedures were scheduled. He liked to do retrievals as early as possible to ensure that the donors would have adequate time to recover from anesthesia to be discharged the same day. In-patient accommodations were for emergencies only, and even then, Paul preferred to refer them to the nearest acute-care hospital.
Picking up the memorandum again and pushing back from the desk, Paul ambled over to the windows. They were triple-hung monsters that were considerably taller than Paul’s diminutive five-foot-six stature. The view was the extensive lawn in front of the clinic that stretched down to the cast-iron, razor-wire-topped fence that encircled the entire grounds. Slightly to Paul’s left was the stone gatehouse from whence came the macadam drive. It swept up toward Paul and then curved away before disappearing from view to the left where there was parking on the south side of the building. In the middle distance Paul could see the spire of Bookford’s Presbyterian church as well as the chimneys of a few of the town’s taller buildings poking up through the fall colors. In the far distance the foothills of the Berkshire Mountains were arranged along the horizon in the form of purple blips.
Paul reread the memorandum, pondered it for a moment, then looked back out at the view. He had every reason to be content. Things couldn’t have been going better, and the thought brought a smile to his doughy face. It seemed incredible that only six years previously he’d been essentially run out of Illinois, having lost his hospital privileges and barely keeping his medical license. His lawyer at the time had told him it didn’t look good, so he’d left, and migrated east, all because of a stupid fracas over his Medicare and Medicaid billing. He had, of course, pushed the envelope, but so had his ob-gyn colleagues. In fact, he’d merely copied and then refined a practice that another group that occupied the same medical building was using. Why the government came after him was still a mystery—one that could make him furious if he thought about it. But he didn’t need to, not anymore now that things had turned out so rosy.
When he first arrived in Massachusetts and was concerned that he might have difficulty getting licensed if the Massachusetts Medical Board heard about his Illinois problems, Paul had decided to continue his training by taking a fellowship in infertility. It had been the best decision of his life. Not only had he avoided licensing problems, but he’d gained entry into a field that had no oversight to speak of, professionally or businesswise. On top of that, it was amazingly lucrative.
For him, infertility was a perfect match, especially since by sheer luck of being at the right place at the right time he’d come in contact with Spencer Wingate, an established infertility specialist, who was eager to semi-retire, lead the good life, rest on his laurels, do fund-raisers, and lecture. By now Paul was running the show in both the research and clinical realms.
Whenever Paul thought of the irony of his being a researcher, it never failed to bring a smile to his face, because he’d never imagined himself in such a role. He’d been last in his class in medical school and had never had any research training. He’d even managed never to take a single course in statistics. But it didn’t matter. In infertility the patients were desperate enough to try anything. In fact they wanted to try new things. What Paul lacked in research experience he thought he made up for in imagination. He knew he was making real progress on a lot of fronts that would eventually make him famous as well as rich.
Turning back from gazing out over what he now thought of as his domain, Paul caught a fleeting glimpse of his image in an ornately framed mirror positioned between the two gigantic windows. Returning to peer directly at his reflection, Paul ran a hand up and down both cheeks. He was surprised and concerned by the pastiness of his skin, emphasized by his almost-black hair, until he realized it was mostly due to the harsh fluorescent light coming from the banks of fixtures mounted on the high ceiling. He laughed at his momentary concern. He knew he was pale; given his schedule, his skin rarely saw the light of day, much less real sun, but he knew he didn’t look as bad as the mirror suggested. In his reflection, his complexion matched his signature white forelock.
Returning to the desk, Paul vowed to get down to Florida sometime during the winter, or maybe find an ob-gyn conference someplace in the sun where he’d present some of his work. He also thought that perhaps he should find the time to get some exercise since he’d gained weight—particularly around his neck, of all places. He hadn’t exercised in years. Paul wasn’t much of an athlete, which had caused him serious distress in his South Side Chicago high school, where athletics played a significant social role. He’d tried out for some of the teams, but it had never worked, and his efforts had only made him the butt of jokes.
“Let them see me now,” Paul said out loud as he thought of the people who’d teased him. “They’re probably bagging groceries.” He knew the twentieth reunion was coming up that June, and he wondered if he should go just to flaunt his success in the faces of those bastards who had given him such a hard time.
Paul picked up the phone and dialed the lab. When it was answered, he asked to speak to Dr. Donaldson. As he waited for her to come on the line, he reread the memorandum he had in his hand.
“What is it, Paul?” Sheila asked without a preamble.
“I got your memorandum,” Paul said. “These two women who are coming in. You think they are good candidates?”
“Perfect,” Sheila said. “Both are healthy with normal habits; absolutely no gyn problems; they’re not pregnant; both deny drugs or any medications of any kind, and both are about mid-cycle.”
“Are they both really graduate students?”
“That’s affirmative.”
“Without doubt.”
“But what’s this about one wanting local anesthesia?” Paul asked.
“She’s getting a Ph.D. in biology,” Sheila said. “She knows something about anesthesia. I made some suggestions, but she didn’t bite. I figure Carl can have a go.”
“But you tried?” Paul persisted.
“Of course I tried,” Sheila said irritably.
“All right, have Carl talk to her,” Paul said. He hung up the phone without saying good-bye. Sheila could annoy him on occasion with her obvious jealousy.
“THAT MUST BE THE TOWER THE PHARMACIST WAS TALKING about,” Deborah said, pointing through the windshield. They’d just made the turn onto Pierce Street from Main, and in the distance a narrow brick structure could be barely discerned poking up above its surrounding landscape.
“If that’s two or three miles away, it’s got to be one tall tower.”
“From here its silhouette looks a little like the tower on the Uffizi Gallery in Florence,” Deborah said. “How apropos.”
Once they left the town behind, the trees lining the road blocked any further view of the tower or the Cabot complex itself until they’d passed a dilapidated red barn on the right. Around the next bend they came upon a sign for the Wingate Clinic on the left with an arrow pointing up a gravel road. As soon as they turned onto the unpaved road they caught sight of the two-story, gray granite gatehouse set back amongst the trees. It was a heavy, squat structure with small shuttered windows and a dark gray slate roof with elaborate finials at either end of the ridgepole. The trim was painted black. Stone gargoyles stuck out from the corners.
As they approached they could see that the road led under the house into a tunnel where it was blocked by a heavy chain-link gate. Beyond the gate they could see a recently mowed lawn, the only evidence the place was currently in use. An imposing cast-iron fence topped with razor wire was attached to both sides of the gatehouse and ran off into the trees on either side.
Deborah slowed, then stopped. “My word,” she said. “That pharmacist wasn’t joking when he said the inmates of the Cabot were locked up in a fortress. It almost looks like a prison.”