don’t like Melendez-Lynch, but goddamn it, he’s right this time!
They’re going to kill that little boy because somehow we screwed up, and it’s
driving me nuts.”
She pounded a small fist on the desk, snapped herself
to a standing position, and paced the cramped office. Her lower lip quivered.
I stood up and put my arms around her and she buried
her head in the warmth of my jacket.
“I feel like such a fool!”
“You’re not.” I held her tightly. “None if it is your
fault.”
She pulled away and dabbed at her eyes. When she
seemed composed I said, “I’d like to meet Woody.”
She nodded and led me to the Laminar Airflow Unit.
There were four modules, placed in series, like rooms
in a railroad flat, and shielded from one another by a wall of curtain that
could be opened or drawn by pushing buttons inside each room. The walls of the
units were transparent plastic and each room resembled an oversized ice cube,
eight feet square.
Three of the cubes were occupied. The fourth was
filled with supplies—toys, cots, bags of clothing. The interior side of the
curtained wall in each room was a perforated gray panel—the filter through
which air blew audibly. The doors of the modules were segmented, the bottom
half metal and closed, the top plastic, and left ajar. Microbes were kept out
of the opening by the high speed at which the air was expelled. Running
parallel to all four units were corridors on both sides, the rear passage for
visitors, the front for the medical staff.
Two feet in front of the doorway to each module was a
no-entry area marked off by red tape on the vinyl floor. I stood just outside
the tape at the entrance of Module Two and looked at Woody Swope.
He lay on the bed, under the covers, facing away from
us. There were plastic gloves attached to the front wall of the module, which
permitted manual entry into the germ-free environment. Beverly put her hands
inside them and patted him on the head gently.
“Good morning, sweetie.”
Slowly and with seeming effort, he rolled over and
stared at us.
“Hi.”
A week before Robin left for Japan, she and I went to
an exhibition of photographs by Roman Vishniac. The pictures had been a
chronicle of the Jewish ghettos of Eastern Europe just before the Holocaust.
Many of the portraits were of children, and the photographer’s lens had caught
their small faces unaware, flash-freezing the confusion and terror it found
there. The images were haunting, and afterward we cried.
Now, looking into the large dark eyes of the boy in
the plastic room, these same feelings came back in a rush.
His face was small and thin, the skin stretched across
delicate bone structure, translucently pale in the artificial light of the
module. His eyes, like those of his sister, were black, and glassy with fever.
The hair on his head was a thick mop of henna-colored curls. Chemotherapy, if
it ever happened, would take care of those curls in a brutal, though temporary,
reminder of the disease.
Beverly stopped stroking his hair and held out her
glove. The boy took it and managed a smile.
“How we doing this morning, doll?”
“Okay.” His voice was soft and barely audible through
the plastic.
“This is Dr. Delaware, Woody.”
At the mention of the title he flinched and moved back
on the bed.
“He’s not the kind of doctor who gives shots. He just
talks to kids, like I do.”
That relaxed him somewhat, but he continued to look at
me with apprehension.
“Hi, Woody,” I said. “Can we shake hands?”
“Okay.”
I put my hand into the glove Beverly relinquished. It
felt hot and dry—coated with talc, I recalled. Reaching into the module I
searched for his hand and found it, a small treasure. I held it for a moment
and let go.
“I see you’ve got some games in there. Which is your
favorite?”
“Checkers.”
“I like checkers, too. Do you play a lot?” “Kind of.”
“You must be very smart to know how to play checkers.”
“Kind of.” The
They’re going to kill that little boy because somehow we screwed up, and it’s
driving me nuts.”
She pounded a small fist on the desk, snapped herself
to a standing position, and paced the cramped office. Her lower lip quivered.
I stood up and put my arms around her and she buried
her head in the warmth of my jacket.
“I feel like such a fool!”
“You’re not.” I held her tightly. “None if it is your
fault.”
She pulled away and dabbed at her eyes. When she
seemed composed I said, “I’d like to meet Woody.”
She nodded and led me to the Laminar Airflow Unit.
There were four modules, placed in series, like rooms
in a railroad flat, and shielded from one another by a wall of curtain that
could be opened or drawn by pushing buttons inside each room. The walls of the
units were transparent plastic and each room resembled an oversized ice cube,
eight feet square.
Three of the cubes were occupied. The fourth was
filled with supplies—toys, cots, bags of clothing. The interior side of the
curtained wall in each room was a perforated gray panel—the filter through
which air blew audibly. The doors of the modules were segmented, the bottom
half metal and closed, the top plastic, and left ajar. Microbes were kept out
of the opening by the high speed at which the air was expelled. Running
parallel to all four units were corridors on both sides, the rear passage for
visitors, the front for the medical staff.
Two feet in front of the doorway to each module was a
no-entry area marked off by red tape on the vinyl floor. I stood just outside
the tape at the entrance of Module Two and looked at Woody Swope.
He lay on the bed, under the covers, facing away from
us. There were plastic gloves attached to the front wall of the module, which
permitted manual entry into the germ-free environment. Beverly put her hands
inside them and patted him on the head gently.
“Good morning, sweetie.”
Slowly and with seeming effort, he rolled over and
stared at us.
“Hi.”
A week before Robin left for Japan, she and I went to
an exhibition of photographs by Roman Vishniac. The pictures had been a
chronicle of the Jewish ghettos of Eastern Europe just before the Holocaust.
Many of the portraits were of children, and the photographer’s lens had caught
their small faces unaware, flash-freezing the confusion and terror it found
there. The images were haunting, and afterward we cried.
Now, looking into the large dark eyes of the boy in
the plastic room, these same feelings came back in a rush.
His face was small and thin, the skin stretched across
delicate bone structure, translucently pale in the artificial light of the
module. His eyes, like those of his sister, were black, and glassy with fever.
The hair on his head was a thick mop of henna-colored curls. Chemotherapy, if
it ever happened, would take care of those curls in a brutal, though temporary,
reminder of the disease.
Beverly stopped stroking his hair and held out her
glove. The boy took it and managed a smile.
“How we doing this morning, doll?”
“Okay.” His voice was soft and barely audible through
the plastic.
“This is Dr. Delaware, Woody.”
At the mention of the title he flinched and moved back
on the bed.
“He’s not the kind of doctor who gives shots. He just
talks to kids, like I do.”
That relaxed him somewhat, but he continued to look at
me with apprehension.
“Hi, Woody,” I said. “Can we shake hands?”
“Okay.”
I put my hand into the glove Beverly relinquished. It
felt hot and dry—coated with talc, I recalled. Reaching into the module I
searched for his hand and found it, a small treasure. I held it for a moment
and let go.
“I see you’ve got some games in there. Which is your
favorite?”
“Checkers.”
“I like checkers, too. Do you play a lot?” “Kind of.”
“You must be very smart to know how to play checkers.”
“Kind of.” The
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