Blood Test

“Very good. Oncovin. We’ve refined it for non-Hodgkin’s. It’s working wonders when we combine it with intrathecal methotrexate and radiation. Eighty-one percent of patients are achieving three-year, relapse-free survival. That’s a national statistic — the figures on my patients are even better — over ninety percent. I’m following a growing number of kids who are five, seven years and looking great. Think of that, Alex. A disease that killed virtually every child it got hold of a decade ago is potentially curable.”

The light behind his eyes picked up extra wattage.

“Fantastic,” I said.

“Perfect word — fantastic. The key is multimodal chemotherapy. More and better drugs in the right combinations.”

The food came. He put two rolls on his plate, cut them into tiny chunks, and systematically popped each piece in his mouth, finishing all of it before I’d downed half my bagel. The waitress poured coffee, which was inspected, creamed, stirred, and quickly swallowed. He dabbed his lips and picked imaginary crumbs out of his mustache.

“Notice that I used the word curable. No timid talk of extended remission. We’ve beaten Wilm’s Tumor, we’ve beaten Hodgkin’s disease. Non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma is next. Mark my words, it will be cured in the near future.”

A third roll was dissected and dispatched. He waved the waitress over for more coffee.

When she’d gone he said, “This isn’t really coffee, my friend. It is a hot drink. My mother knew how to make coffee. Back in Cuba we had the pick of the coffee crop. One of the servants, an old black man named José, would grind the beans by hand with great finesse — the grind is essential — and we would have coffee!” He drank some more and pushed his cup away, taking a glass of water as a replacement and emptying it. “Come to my home and I’ll make you real coffee.”

It occurred to me that though I’d worked with the man for three years and had known him twice that long, I’d never seen his living quarters.

“I may take you up on that one day. Where do you live?”

“Not far from here. Condo on Los Feliz. One bedroom — small but sufficient for my needs. When one lives alone it is best to keep things simple, don’t you agree?”

“I suppose so.”

“You do live alone, don’t you?”

“I used to. I’m living with a wonderful woman.”

“Good, good.” The dark eyes seemed to cloud. “Women. They have enriched my life. And torn it apart. My last wife, Paula, has the big house in Flintridge. Another’s in Miami, and two others, God knows where. Jorgé — my second oldest, Nina’s boy — tells me his mother is in Paris, but she never stayed in one place very long.”

His face drooped and he drummed on the table with his spoon. Then he thought of something that made him suddenly brighten.

“Jorgé’s going to medical school next year at Hopkins.”

“Congratulations.”

“Thank you. Brilliant boy, always was. Summers he would visit me and work in the lab. I’m proud to have inspired him. The others are not so on the ball, who knows what they will do, but their mothers were not like Nina — she was a concert cellist.”

“I didn’t know that.”

He picked up another roll and hefted it.

“Drinking your water?” he asked.

“It’s all yours.”

He drank it.

“Tell me about the Swopes. What kind of noncompliance problems are you having?”

“The worst kind, Alex. They’re refusing treatment. They want to take the boy home and subject him to God knows what.”

“Do you think they’re holistic types?”

He shrugged. “It’s possible. They’re rural people, come from La Vista, some little town near the Mexican border.”

“I know the area. Agricultural.”

“Yes, I believe so. But more important, close to Laetrile country. The father is some kind of farmer or grower. Crass man, always trying to impress. I gather he’d had some scientific training at one time or another — likes to throw around biological terms. Big heavyset fellow, in his early fifties.”

“Old to have a five year old.”

“Yes. The mother’s in her late forties — makes you wonder if the boy was an accident. Maybe it’s guilt that’s making them crazy. You know — blaming themselves for the cancer and all that.”

“That wouldn’t be unusual,” I said. Few nightmares compare to finding out one’s child has cancer. And part of the nightmare is the guilt parents inflict upon themselves, searching for an answer to the unanswerable question: why me? It’s not a rational process. It occurs in doctors and biochemists and other people who should know better — the mental floggings, the I should haves and I could haves. Most parents get over it. The ones who don’t can be crippled ...

“Of course in this case,” Raoul was hypothesizing, “there would be more of a basis for it, wouldn’t there? Aged ovaries, etc. Well, enough conjecture, let me go on. Where was I — ah, Mrs. Swope. Emma. A mouse. Obsequious even. The father’s the boss. One sibling, a sister, around nineteen or so.”

“How long’s the boy been diagnosed?”