I was determined to end the separation between Jesse and Arthur, but I didn’t know how to do it. It hurt Jesse deeply, even though he tried not to show it. He simply stopped talking about Arthur; no mention of him at all. If I brought up his name in conversation, though, I could see the pain in his eyes. So I stopped mentioning Arthur, as well, even though I knew it was wrong of me to do so.
It was because of me, of course. Not that I saw myself as some femme fatale at the hypotenuse of a lovers’ triangle. But Arthur still cared about me, and it was my miscarriage that had driven this terrible wedge between the two brothers.
It was a shock when I learned that Arthur’s laboratory had been attacked and he injured. Jesse didn’t tell me about it; I read it in a magazine article about animal rights, a little sidebar about the excesses of the movement’s radical fringe, several months after the attack had actually taken place.
I spent the entire day wondering what to do. When Jesse came home that night I asked him about it.
“That was months ago,” he said.
“You knew about it?”
He looked pained, remorseful. “A couple of FBI agents asked me about a possible link between Simmonds’s people and the terrorists.”
I felt his pain. “Oh, dear,” was all I managed to say. It was clear that Jesse believed there was a link between Reverend Simmonds’s followers and the more rabid activists. And he felt guilty about it.
“Did you call Arthur? Speak to him?”
“No.” Jesse looked away from me.
As gently as I could, I asked, “Don’t you think you should?”
The sorrow in his eyes was enough to make me want to wrap my arms around him. “He’s finished with me, hon. He hates me. Even more now, I bet. He’ll blame me for everything, like he always does.”
“I can’t believe that Arthur hates you,” I said.
“He does.” And Jesse actually burst into tears and buried his head against my breast. I held him for a long time while he sobbed quietly. I stroked his hair and told him that I loved him and he mustn’t be sad or upset.
Yet I knew that whatever pain Jesse was feeling, Arthur felt, too. He would never shed a tear, of course. Arthur kept his suffering entirely to himself. But the pain would be inside him, bottled up, hurting him just as much as it hurt Jesse.
So the following morning, as soon as I arrived in my office, I phoned Arthur. His secretary sounded surprised when I told her who it was.
“Just a moment,” she said guardedly. “I’ll see if he’s in his office.”
She put me on hold, and a bit of Vivaldi played in my ear.
“Julia?” Arthur’s voice sounded brimming with wonder.
Without preamble, I said, “I just read something about your laboratory being attacked.”
“Oh, that was months ago. We’ve recovered.”
“And you were injured?”
He actually laughed. “I looked like a prizefighter. A losing prizefighter.”
“Are you all right?”
“Yes, I’m fine now. And you?”
“I’m fine, too.”
Suddenly we had nothing else to say. Nothing that wouldn’t open up old wounds. The silence was embarrassing.
“And Jess?” Arthur asked at last.
“Busy as ever,” I said. Then, before I could think twice about it, I added, “He rather blames himself for what happened to you.”
“Does he.” Arthur’s voice became grim.
“It’s nonsense, of course,” I went on. “Jesse would never knowingly harm you, Arthur. You know that, don’t you?”
It took him a long time to answer. “Yes,” he said at last. “I suppose that’s true.”
“I really feel awful about the two of you.”
“So do I.”
“Then why don’t you do something about it?”
Another long hesitation. Then, “Julia, I’ve tried. More than once. All I’ve gotten for my efforts is a lot of pain and misery. I think it’s best if we stay apart, at least for a while longer.”
“I don’t agree,” I said, although I wasn’t being entirely truthful. Sometimes it actually is best to avoid the thing that hurts you. Or the person.
“Julia, dear,” he said, “it was wonderful of you to call. I should have realized that you and Jess are just as agonized about all this as I am. Thanks for making me understand that.”
“And that’s all?” I asked.
“That’s all for now,” he said. “That’s all I can manage to do right now. Give me time, Julia. I need more time.”
“Very well, Arthur. I think I understand.”
“Thanks for calling.”
I didn’t know what else to say.
Then Arthur said, very softly, “I love you, Julia.”
And he hung up.
I felt miserable for weeks afterward.
And for weeks afterward, for months, actually, the Reverend Roy Averill Simmonds kept up his attacks on “the godless humanist scientists” who were “tampering with God’s plan for mankind.” He never mentioned Arthur by name, not publicly, but the news media began to pick up the trail and send reporters to almost any laboratory in the country that was working on stem cells or anything hinting of extending the human life span. They covered Grenford Laboratory extensively, and Arthur’s work on organ regeneration became the center of intense media scrutiny.
Naturally, they got most of the scientific details wrong, or ignored them altogether. But the basic idea of growing a new organ within one’s body, or regenerating a lost limb—that fundamental possibility became the focus of solemn round-table discussions on television and long, self-important, usually incorrect editorials in newspapers and magazines.
During all that time I was taking the best physical care of myself that I had ever taken. Ever since the miscarriage, I had decided that I would work myself up to tip-top physical condition before becoming pregnant again. I worked out at a “wellness center” near my midtown office. I had monthly checkups, not by my gynecologist (whom Jesse knew) but by an Indonesian internist who specialized in infectious diseases. I stayed on the pill.
My plan was to get pregnant once again only when I was absolutely certain that any possible infection that might have caused my miscarriage was completely gone from my system. I decided that I would wait a year; if twelve blood tests in a row showed that there were no exotic microbes lingering in my blood, then I could safely bear Jesse’s baby.
My biological clock was ticking loudly; I knew that time was running fast, but I was determined not to go through another miscarriage. I wanted a baby, a healthy dear baby that Jesse and I could love and bring up together.
In the meantime I worked out, ate sensibly, drank little, and lost nearly ten pounds. Jesse never noticed, except now and then to comment on how terrific I looked. I smiled to myself and we made love whenever he wasn’t too exhausted from the grueling hours he put in at the hospital and medical center.
I bided my time. And Jesse never knew what I was doing.