relationship with Dianne was tenuous, and he'd do whatever he could to guard it. He had considered the towel a one-time peace gesture, but Mrs. Robbins continued to bring it in every Wednesday afternoon.
Today he said thanks, took the towel, and found his favorite armchair. The oldest library in the state,its rooms were bright and lofty. The reading room had a stone fireplace large enough to roast an ox, and Alan settled beside it with a stack of journals to read. Clear April light flooded through the arched windows; he lost himself in the latest literature on marine mammals. And then he thought of his own family.
Their oldest brother, Neil, had loved whales. When they were only teenagers, he, Tim, and Alan had run their own whale-watching business, taking people out in their runabout to the feeding grounds off Chatham Shoals. Leaving from the steamship dock in Hyannis, they had charged ten dollars per person. It had been Neil's idea to give full refunds, no questions asked, if they failed to spot whales or dolphins. That was Neil through and through-generous, good-hearted, and confident enough of their whale-finding abilities to know those refunds would be few and far between.
Neil died of leukemia. The summer they were sixteen and fourteen, Alan and Tim had watched their older brother slip away. Locked in the house, the curtains drawn and no one allowed to make any noise or enter Neil's room, Neil had suffered horribly. Not just from the pain of his disease, but from isolation. He had missed the sea, the whales, the boat. He had missed his brothers. At eighteen Neil had died of leukemia, but also of a broken heart. Tim had spent the last two nights of Neil's life sitting on the grass under his window. Alan had snuck inside to be with him.
Alan's parents had been afraid the cancer was catching. It didn't matter that Neil's doctor had told them it wasn't. They had a primal fear of the blood disease, and they had lived in terror of losing all their sons. They were simple people, a fisherman and hiswife. Alan's dad would go to sea, barely coming home at all. His mother had turned to drink.
Alan and Tim had spent the next few years caring more about fish and whales than about people. Tim had dropped out of school to lobster. Like his father, he would lose himself at sea. Alan had latched on to Malachy Condon at WHOI. The old guy was as crusty as a fisherman, but he had a Ph.D. from Columbia. Tim would steam in from a night off Nantucket, meet Alan on the docks at Woods Hole, and listen to Malachy's colorful stories about research trips to the North Sea and the Indian Ocean. Both brothers were numb with losing Neil and the attention of their parents, and Malachy had been a steadying force.
In Alan's senior year at Harvard, he had found himself dreaming every night of Neil. One cold November morning he ripped up his application to Woods Hole and applied to Harvard Medical School instead. Malachy had been disappointed, and Tim had thought he was crazy. Tim had had the idea they could share a boat, him catching fish and Alan studying them. He had confronted Alan on the steps of the Widener Library, wanting to talk some sense into him.
“Stick with fish,” Tim had said. “If they die, who cares?”
“Exactly,” Alan had said. “I'm studying plankton past midnight every night, and I can't get that worked up about it. I'm going to be a doctor.”
“And do what?”
“Help people,” Alan had said, thinking of their brother, their parents.
“You want to spend your life with sick people?” Tim had shouted. “You think you can make any difference at all?”
“Yeah, I do,” Alan had said.
“Like Dr. Jerkoff did with Neil?”
“He should have talked to us,” Alan had said. “Told Mom and Dad what could happen. Helped them to understand, to prepare us better. He should have helped us help Neil die, Tim. I hate thinking of us all going through that alone.”
“What's the difference, how it happened?” Tim had asked wildly.
Today he said thanks, took the towel, and found his favorite armchair. The oldest library in the state,its rooms were bright and lofty. The reading room had a stone fireplace large enough to roast an ox, and Alan settled beside it with a stack of journals to read. Clear April light flooded through the arched windows; he lost himself in the latest literature on marine mammals. And then he thought of his own family.
Their oldest brother, Neil, had loved whales. When they were only teenagers, he, Tim, and Alan had run their own whale-watching business, taking people out in their runabout to the feeding grounds off Chatham Shoals. Leaving from the steamship dock in Hyannis, they had charged ten dollars per person. It had been Neil's idea to give full refunds, no questions asked, if they failed to spot whales or dolphins. That was Neil through and through-generous, good-hearted, and confident enough of their whale-finding abilities to know those refunds would be few and far between.
Neil died of leukemia. The summer they were sixteen and fourteen, Alan and Tim had watched their older brother slip away. Locked in the house, the curtains drawn and no one allowed to make any noise or enter Neil's room, Neil had suffered horribly. Not just from the pain of his disease, but from isolation. He had missed the sea, the whales, the boat. He had missed his brothers. At eighteen Neil had died of leukemia, but also of a broken heart. Tim had spent the last two nights of Neil's life sitting on the grass under his window. Alan had snuck inside to be with him.
Alan's parents had been afraid the cancer was catching. It didn't matter that Neil's doctor had told them it wasn't. They had a primal fear of the blood disease, and they had lived in terror of losing all their sons. They were simple people, a fisherman and hiswife. Alan's dad would go to sea, barely coming home at all. His mother had turned to drink.
Alan and Tim had spent the next few years caring more about fish and whales than about people. Tim had dropped out of school to lobster. Like his father, he would lose himself at sea. Alan had latched on to Malachy Condon at WHOI. The old guy was as crusty as a fisherman, but he had a Ph.D. from Columbia. Tim would steam in from a night off Nantucket, meet Alan on the docks at Woods Hole, and listen to Malachy's colorful stories about research trips to the North Sea and the Indian Ocean. Both brothers were numb with losing Neil and the attention of their parents, and Malachy had been a steadying force.
In Alan's senior year at Harvard, he had found himself dreaming every night of Neil. One cold November morning he ripped up his application to Woods Hole and applied to Harvard Medical School instead. Malachy had been disappointed, and Tim had thought he was crazy. Tim had had the idea they could share a boat, him catching fish and Alan studying them. He had confronted Alan on the steps of the Widener Library, wanting to talk some sense into him.
“Stick with fish,” Tim had said. “If they die, who cares?”
“Exactly,” Alan had said. “I'm studying plankton past midnight every night, and I can't get that worked up about it. I'm going to be a doctor.”
“And do what?”
“Help people,” Alan had said, thinking of their brother, their parents.
“You want to spend your life with sick people?” Tim had shouted. “You think you can make any difference at all?”
“Yeah, I do,” Alan had said.
“Like Dr. Jerkoff did with Neil?”
“He should have talked to us,” Alan had said. “Told Mom and Dad what could happen. Helped them to understand, to prepare us better. He should have helped us help Neil die, Tim. I hate thinking of us all going through that alone.”
“What's the difference, how it happened?” Tim had asked wildly.
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