It wasn’t until I had driven halfway back to Old Saybrook that I realized that I had gotten precious little information about Arthur Marshak. Hours and hours about the new antibody process and Cassie Ianetta’s work on stopping tumor growth. But the background information about the man himself was minuscule.
Is he really that self-effacing? I asked myself. He sure doesn’t come across as humble or shy. Then I wondered, Is he hiding something? Is there a bigger story here than the one Omnitech wants me to write?
By the time I got to our weather-beaten old cottage I had made up my mind to phone Marshak first thing the next morning to schedule a follow-up interview.
As I tossed my bag on the kitchen table, I heard Livvie call from the living room, “That you, Patsy?”
Who else? I answered silently.
“Patsy?”
How I hated being called Patsy!
“Patsy, is that you or should I call 911?”
“It’s me, Mom. Who else would it be?”
I walked into the tiny front room, suddenly feeling tired and cranky. The picture window had once looked out on a nice lawn and the shore of Long Island Sound. But our landlord had put up another bungalow on that lawn and now all we had to look at was its back windows.
Olivia Hayward—Livvie—was a head shorter than I and forty pounds overweight. She often said ruefully that she got her only child (me) from her second husband (of four) and I got my tall, slim genes from the sneaky, smooth-talking sonofabitch.
“How was your day?” Livvie asked. She sat in her usual recliner, a plastic tumbler in her hand and the vodka bottle at her elbow.
“Pretty interesting,” I said. I started to tell her about Grenford Lab and Arthur Marshak while I went back into the kitchen and poured myself a glass from the jug of white wine in the refrigerator.
I sat down beside my mother and told her about my day while the sun went down. Neither one of us made any attempt to begin dinner. I sipped slowly at my wine. Livvie drained her tumbler and poured herself another healthy slug of vodka.
“This scientist guy sounds nice,” Livvie said. “He makes a bundle, I bet. Is he cute?”
He’s as handsome as they come, I thought. But aloud I answered, “What’s that got to do with anything? I interviewed him, Mom. It’s work, not romance.”
“You never can tell,” Livvie said, almost dreamily. “I met your father when he came to the house to fix the bathroom sink.”
And divorced him two years later, I added silently.
“Don’t you even think about marriage anymore?” she asked me.
“Let’s not start that again.”
“You’re not getting any younger.”
I gritted my teeth, then leaned forward toward her and said, “Tell you what, Mom. You find somebody who is getting younger and I’ll write a story about her and win the Pulitzer prize. Okay?”
Livvie gave me a puzzled look. “Just because you made one mistake shouldn’t turn you off marriage forever.”
No, I said to myself, I should go on like you did and make four mistakes. Or the same mistake four times, really.
To change the subject, I asked, “Did I get any calls?”
My mother frowned with concentration for a moment. “Yeah, the phone did ring. Not too long ago, either.”
I got up and went to my bedroom, which doubled as my office. There was only one message on my phone machine:
“This is Arthur Marshak. I hope you don’t mind my calling, Pat, after spending a pretty intense afternoon at the lab. I just thought that it might be fun if we had dinner together some evening soon. Maybe tomorrow night, if you can make it. Get to know each other a little better, without the lab around us. Please give me a ring as soon as you can. Thanks.”
I plopped down on my bed, grinning foolishly, all my weariness and irritation vanished. The man must really be a mind reader, I thought. Really!
“Anybody important?” Livvie called from the front room.
My grin evaporated at the thought of bringing Arthur Marshak home to meet my mother.