She grabbed for one of the smaller syringes. In her haste to remove the plastic cover she bent the needle. She grabbed for the other one. Charles, who was now blotching with hives, pointed to his left upper arm. Holding her breath, Cathryn jammed the needle into the muscle. This time she used ample force. She pressed the plunger and pulled it out. Quickly she discarded the used syringe, and picked up the first one, trying to straighten the bent needle. She was about to give it to Charles when he held up his hand.
“It’s okay,” he managed, his voice still abnormal. “I can already feel the reaction subsiding. Whew! Good thing you were here.”
Cathryn put down the syringe. If she thought she was trembling before, now she was shaking. For Cathryn, using a needle on Charles had been the supreme test.
Fourteen
By nine-thirty they were settling in for the night. Earlier Cathryn had prepared some food while Charles worked in the makeshift lab. He’d taken a sample of his blood, separated the cells, and isolated some T-lymphocytes with the aid of sheep erythrocytes. Then he’d incubated the T-lymphocytes with some of his microphages and Michelle’s leukemic cells. While they had dinner he told Cathryn that there still was no sign of a delayed, cell-mediated hypersensitivity. He told her that in twenty-four hours, he’d have to give himself another challenge dose of Michelle’s antigen.
Michelle had awakened from her morphine-induced sleep and was overjoyed to see Cathryn. She’d not remembered seeing her stepmother arrive. Feeling somewhat better, she had even eaten some solid food.
“She seems better,” whispered Cathryn as they carried the dishes back to the kitchen.
“It’s more apparent than real,” said Charles. “Her system is just recovering from the other medicines.”
Charles had built a fire and brought their king-sized mattress down to the living room. He had wanted to be close to Michelle in case she needed him.
Once Cathryn lay down, she felt a tremendous fatigue. Believing that Michelle was as comfortable and content as possible, Cathryn allowed herself to relax for the first time in two days. As the wind blew snow against the front windows, she held on to Charles and let sleep overwhelm her.
Hearing the crash and tinkle of glass, Cathryn sat up by pure reflex, unsure what the noise had been. Charles, who had been awake, reacted more deliberately, rolling off the mattress onto the floor and standing up. As he did so he hefted his shotgun and released the safety catch.
“What was that?” demanded Cathryn, her heart pounding.
“Visitors,” said Charles. “Probably our friends from Recycle.”
Something thudded up against the front of the house, then fell with a thump on the porch floor.
“Rocks,” said Charles, moving over to the light switch and plunging the room into darkness. Michelle murmured and Cathryn made her way over to the child’s side to comfort her.
“Just as I thought,” said Charles, peering between the window boards.
Cathryn came up behind him and looked over his shoulder. Standing in their driveway about a hundred feet from the house was a group of men carrying makeshift torches. Down on the road were a couple of cars haphazardly parked.
“They’re drunk,” said Charles.
“What are we going to do?” whispered Cathryn.
“Nothing,” said Charles. “Unless they try to get inside or come too close with those torches.”
“Could you shoot someone?” asked Cathryn.
“I don’t know,” said Charles, “I really don’t know.”
“I’m going to call the police,” said Cathryn.
“Don’t bother,” said Charles. “I’m sure they know about this.”
“I’m still going to try,” returned Cathryn.
She left him by the window and made her way back to the kitchen where she dialed the operator and asked to be connected to the Shaftesbury police. The phone rang eight times before a tired voice answered. He identified himself as Bernie Crawford.
Cathryn reported that their house was being attacked by a group of drunks and that they needed immediate assistance.
“Just a minute,” said Bernie.
Cathryn could hear a drawer open and Bernie fumbled around for something.
“Just a minute. I gotta find a pencil,” said Bernie, leaving the line again before Cathryn could talk. Outside she heard a yell, and Charles came scurrying into the kitchen, going up to the window on the north side facing the pond.
“Okay,” said Bernie coming back on the line. “What’s the address?”
Cathryn quickly gave the address.
“Zip code?” asked Bernie.
“Zip code?” questioned Cathryn. “We need help right now.”
“Lady, paperwork is paperwork. I gotta fill out a form before I dispatch a car.”
Cathryn gave a zip code.
“How many guys in the group?”
“I’m not sure. Half a dozen.”
Cathryn could hear the man writing.
“Are they kids?” asked Bernie.
“Cathryn!” yelled Charles. “I need you to watch out the front. They’re torching the playhouse but it may be just a diversion. Somebody has got to watch the front door.”
“Listen,” shouted Cathryn into the phone. “I can’t talk. Just send a car.” She slammed down the phone and ran back into the living room. From the small window next to the fireplace she could see the flickering glow from the playhouse. She turned her attention to the front lawn. The group with the torches was gone but she could see someone lifting something out of the trunk of one of the cars. In the darkness, it looked like a pail. “Oh, God, don’t let it be gasoline,” said Cathryn.
From the back of the house Cathryn could hear glass breaking. “Are you all right?” she called.
“I’m all right. The bastards are breaking the windows to your car.”
Cathryn heard Charles unlock the rear door. Then she heard the boom of his shotgun. The sound reverberated through the house. Then the door slammed shut.
“What happened?” yelled Cathryn.
Charles came back into the living room. “I shot into the air. I suppose it’s the only thing they respect. They ran around this way.”
Cathryn looked back out. The group had reassembled around the man coming from the car. In the light of the torches, Cathryn could see that he was carrying a gallon can. He knelt down, apparently opening it.
“Looks like paint,” said Cathryn.
“That’s what it is,” said Charles.
While they watched the group began to chant “Communist” over and over. The man with the paint can approached the house seemingly building up the courage of the rest of the group. As they got closer, Cathryn could see that the men were carrying an assortment of clubs. The chanting got progressively louder. Charles recognized Wally Crabb and the man who had punched him.
The group stopped about fifty feet from the house. The man with the paint kept walking as the others egged him on. Charles pulled away from the window, making her stand behind him. He had a clear view of the door, and he slipped his finger around the trigger.
They heard the footsteps stop and then the sound of a paintbrush against the shingles. After five minutes there was a final sound of paint splashing up against the front door, followed by the clatter of the can hitting the front porch.
Rushing back to the window, Charles could see that the men were yelling and whooping with laughter. Slowly they walked back down the drive pushing and shoving each other into the snow. At the base of the driveway and after several vociferous arguments, the men climbed into the two cars. With horns blaring they drove off into the night, heading north on Interstate 301 toward Shaftesbury.
As abruptly as it had been broken, the wintry silence returned. Charles let out a long breath. He put down the shotgun and took Cathryn’s hands in his. “Now that you’ve seen how unpleasant it is, perhaps it would be better for you to go back to your mother’s until this is over.”