Traces of Mercury

Chapter One

When the baby was half born—with its head and shoulders and one arm delivered, and the rest of it still inside its mother—the nurse assisting on the right side of the delivery table looked at the exposed arm and involuntarily said, Oh, my God—

Dr. Lee Madrigal, bending over the end of the table to assist and accept the infant into its new world, turned his head and glared coldly at the nurse over his green surgical mask. Shut your mouth, he ordered.

The woman in labor, who was very much awake and aware, raised her head enough to look down between her widespread knees. What—what’s the matter? she asked through dry, sticking lips.

Nothing, dear, Madrigal said. He spoke as if he were talking to a much younger person, when actually he and the woman on the table were the same age, thirty-four. Just give me one more big push now, Lola. Come on, one more—

Lola clenched her jaw, gripped metal handpieces oh the sides of the table, pressed her feet firmly in the stirrups, and did as she was told. The infant was delivered the rest of the way, all of the way, with a gush of uterine fluid, and its mother lay back exhausted. As soon as Madrigal was sure he would need no more help from her, he looked over and nodded to the anesthetist, who immediately turned a valve and placed a tube-connected plastic cup over the new mother’s dry mouth. Madrigal attended to the umbilical cord, cutting and clamping it, then examined the episiotomy incision he had made. Seeing that it was still clean and unlacerated, he nodded to the intern who was assisting on the left side of the table. Take care of the placenta and suture the episiotomy, he instructed. Her uterus is open a little too much: better massage it down. If it doesn’t contract in a couple of minutes, give her some oxytocin.

Madrigal handed the baby to the nurse, and she took it quickly to a corner of the delivery room and placed it on a padded receiving counter. Madrigal came over immediately and used a glass catheter to pump the infant’s throat and nose clear of mucus. It began crying at once, loudly, indignantly. Madrigal checked its heartbeat and found it normal. He soaked a swab in a beaker of silver nitrate solution and cleaned the squirming, crying baby’s eyes. Then he checked the testicles to be sure they had descended into the scrotum. When he finished, he let the nurse sponge the blood and other scut matter from the child’s body and place it on a clean blanket on a scale. A maternity aide came over to them.

Baby Boy Compton, Madrigal said, standing between the scale and the aide so that she could not see the baby. Six pounds, two ounces.

The aide turned away to fill out a chart for the infant and make its identification bracelet. While that was being done, Madrigal grimly examined the baby.

Dr. Madrigal, the nurse said, I’m sorry for what happened at the table. It just came out.

Madrigal acknowledged her apology with a nod, but said nothing. He continued his careful survey of the baby, his sensitive fingers touching, probing, feeling. The intense concentration of his eyes and the hard, almost clenched set of his jaw on the open sides of the surgical mask told the nurse that what she said at the table was all but forgotten now. Her blunder was greatly overshadowed by the condition of the baby.

In a moment, the maternity aide was back with the ID bracelet, a string of tiny blue alphabet cubes that spelled

COMPTON

. Normally she would have put the bracelet around the baby’s wrist herself, but in this instance Dr. Madrigal stopped her before she got to the scales and took the bracelet from her.

I’ll take care of that, he said simply, dismissing her. When she was gone, Madrigal handed the little bracelet to the nurse. Here, find some place to tape this on, he said quietly.

He shouldered his way into the operating scrub room, stripping off his surgical mask on the way.

Joe Compton knew something was wrong the instant Dr. Madrigal walked into the waiting room. Joe had known Lee Madrigal all his life. They had grown up together, played football together at San Lucas High, worked together during the summer at the cannery over in Monterey and the bean fields up in Salinas. They had even dated some of the same girls, although Madrigal had never taken out Lola Chavez, who later had become Lola Compton, whose firstborn Madrigal had just delivered.

Joe Compton and Lee Madrigal had never been close friends—not best buddies or anything like that—but they had nevertheless known each other long enough for one to be able to tell when the other was greatly disturbed about something. And the expression on Lee Madrigal’s face as he entered the waiting room told Joe Compton at once that something was gravely wrong. Compton stood up as the doctor approached. When they were face to face, Compton voiced his absolute worst fear.

It’s Lola, isn’t it? Something’s happened to Lola.

No, Lola is fine, Joe, Madrigal said.

Then it’s the baby. The baby died.

Madrigal shook his head briefly. No. No, the baby didn’t die. He looked around the waiting room. There was a middle-aged Chicano couple whose grown son had crushed his foot under a tractor an hour earlier and was at that moment waiting for an ambulance to take him to the orthopedic hospital in Oakland, and there were an elderly townswoman and several friends and relatives who had been waiting up all night for the woman’s husband to finish dying of throat cancer. Joe Compton should not even have been in there with those people, Madrigal thought. But San Lucas Hospital was too small to have a separate waiting room for maternity, so the people waiting for life and the people waiting for death all had to wait together. Madrigal took Joe Compton by the arm. Let’s go out on the parking lot and talk, Joe.

Sure. Sure, okay. Compton’s expression had tightened. There was now no question in his mind that something was very wrong. But he could not figure out what in the hell it could be. Lola was fine. The baby had lived. What the hell could be so awful, then? Was Lee going to tell him that his wife had had a bad time of it, that he’d had to take out more than just the baby, and that she couldn’t have any more children? Compton wet his lips. Hell, that wasn’t so bad. They had tried for ten years to have this one. As long as they had one of their own, they could always adopt more if they wanted to. As a matter of fact, Joe Compton had been giving a lot of thought to taking in Bubba, the twelve-year-old town foundling who was boarded by Miss Mattie Lou Grimes, a spinster lady, at county expense. Living with a spinster lady wasn’t any place for a healthy, spunky boy like Bubba. Compton had already taught him to fish and to net prawns in Diablo Creek. Maybe after Lola got settled in with the little one, he’d see about bringing Bubba to live with them.

Joe, I’ve got to tell you something about your baby, Lee Madrigal said soberly when they got out on the parking lot. It was seven o’clock in the morning, and the sun was already burning the last of the night-time moisture off the asphalt. Madrigal’s station wagon and Compton’s pickup truck were parked side by side near the door. The two men walked over next to them, as if a closer proximity to the sturdy vehicles might somehow reinforce their own strength. The baby is alive and appears to be physically healthy, Madrigal said, but it’s not a normal infant.

Not normal how? Compton asked. His lips suddenly became parchment dry. A birthmark, he thought. One of those brown hairy things, probably on the baby’s face. Hell, that wasn’t so bad. Why, with the plastic surgeons they had today a thing like that could be fixed up fine. It would cost a lot of money, but so what? He had good medical coverage at the plastics plant, and he and Lola could always stay in their little rented house instead of using their savings for a down payment on a home of their own—

Joe, the baby has serious birth defects, Madrigal told him. It has no hands and no feet.

Joe Compton felt as if he might faint. He leaned against the front fender of his pickup; immediately he felt cool moisture seep through the back of his jeans just under the belt.

No hands? No feet? But—how could that be? What—what’s the reason?

I don’t know the reason, said Madrigal. I’ll try to find out, but right now I don’t have any idea.

Jesus Christ, said Compton. His face contorted as if he were in physical agony. Does Lola know?

Madrigal shook his head. I had her sedated. It’s best that she get some rest before she finds out.

Are you going to tell her?

I will. Unless you want to.

Compton shook his head emphatically. I couldn’t. No, I couldn’t.

I will, then, said the doctor. He put his hand on Compton’s shoulder. Why don’t you go on home and have a good stiff drink. Then try to take a nap. I’ll call you this afternoon when Lola wakes up. His grip tightened on the other man’s shoulder. It tightened more than a little. Listen, Joe, these things usually work out all right. There’s no problem that can’t eventually be solved. You and Lola are both good, intelligent people—

Okay, Doc, thanks, said Compton. He moved from under Madrigal’s hand, leaving the doctor’s arm outstretched, and walked around to get into his pickup. Without another word, he started the engine and drove away.

Lee Madrigal heaved a heavy sigh from deep within his chest, then let his shoulders slump with the fatigue he felt. His tanned, handsome face, scarred though it was from Vietnam, looked drained of everything essential: hope, strength, faith, confidence. Like a beaten warrior, he got into the station wagon and drove to his office.

Madrigal was at his desk, a glass of gin in front of him, the bottle nearby, when Dr. Park Murphy came in half an hour later. Park Murphy, who was exactly twice Madrigal’s age at sixty-eight, raised his bushy white eyebrows inquiringly. Gin? he said. Before eight o’clock in the morning? That could only mean one of two things: either you’ve got woman troubles or you just lost a patient.

I just delivered Lola Compton’s baby, Madrigal said. A boy. He’d be perfectly formed if he had hands and feet.

Murphy grimaced and looked away for a moment. He had delivered Lola Compton to old Raul Chavez’s wife back in 1943, during the second year of the war. He’d delivered Joe Compton that same year. And Lee Madrigal. Goddamn it to hell, why did he have to live to see a thing like this? After forty-three goddamned years of practicing medicine in San Lucas, why in hell couldn’t his last few years be concerned strictly with life and death? At sixty-eight and counting, why couldn’t he at least be spared birth defects?

Park Murphy kept his thoughts to himself and sat heavily next to the desk. What does it look like causally?

I don’t know. The ulna seems to be perfectly formed and the radius is fine in each arm. I couldn’t feel anything wrong with the flexors. Yet the baby has no hands. Madrigal took a quick swallow of gin. In the legs, there’s no immediate sign of anything unusual about the tibialis, the gastrocnemius, or the soleus. The tibia and the fibula feel like they’re perfectly formed, and I even detected tarsals in both limbs. Yet the baby has no feet."

Are the extremities of the limbs grotesque? Murphy asked.

Not in the least. There’s a little lumpiness at the muscle terminus in all four, and some natural unevenness in the legs where the tarsals formed. But other than that they could almost be mistaken for completely healed amputations. Madrigal swallowed tightly. Christ, Park, it’s a pitiful sight. Pitiful.

I know, the older man said. "I know. As doctors, we aren’t supposed to be emotionally affected by the varieties of horrible states in which we sometimes see the human body. But it’s hard as hell not to be affected when you’ve known the people involved all your life. We just have to be careful not to communicate our feelings to those involved. I presume you’ve told Joe."

Yes.

How did he take it?

Like a man being punished for something he didn’t do.

I can’t think of a more appropriate way to feel. How about Lola?

I had her sedated. She doesn’t know yet.

Park Murphy pursed his lips in thought for a moment, then slapped both knees lightly with the palms of his hands and stood up. Well, today’s clinic day, so I’d better get in gear. Why don’t you run home and catch a nap? I’ll have one of the girls call you when the waiting room gets full. Be sure you gargle that gin off your breath before you see any patients.

Okay.

Park Murphy left to go into his own office. Madrigal put the bottle of gin away and buzzed the reception room. Libby Nelson, whose husband owned the big Arco station in San Lucas, came in.

Bring me Lola Compton’s file, please.

Oh, did she have her baby?

Yes.

Boy or girl?

Boy.

Oh, lord. Joe Compton will be strutting like a cock of the walk today, Libby said.

Here— Madrigal handed her the glass he had been drinking from—put this in the lab sink to be washed.

Libby sniffed at it and, like Park Murphy, raised her eyebrows. Gin? At this hour?

Bring me that file, Lib, he said solemnly.

Libby’s expression turned serious. All right, Doctor.

She was back in two minutes. Madrigal opened the file and nodded for her to sit while he made a new entry in it. She took the same chair Park Murphy had occupied a little while earlier. Libby Nelson was a deep-busted woman of forty-two who sat as she walked, perfectly erect. Her legs and hips were as nicely turned as her bosom, and she rarely failed to get a few admiring glances from the storekeepers whenever she went downtown. Her husband, Sid, kept long hours at the station, her two children were both away at college nine months out of the year, and Libby, who as Libby Edwards had worked for Dr. Murphy for three years after she finished high school, had come back to her job twenty-one years later as an alternative to terminal boredom.

Madrigal pushed a pen and note pad over to her. I want you to call the hospital and schedule some special tests on Lola Compton, he said. I want the level of somatotropic hormomes in her pituitary gland measured. Also check the level of thyroxin, and check for hypothyroidism in all nongoitrous areas. Also run a complete calcium survey and a D-vitamin study. And have blood samples sent up to the Berkeley medical center with a request for a complete blood analysis, including a breakdown of any foreign matter.

Madrigal sat back in his chair and pursed his lips, a habit he had picked up from Park Murphy. In thirty years, Libby thought affectionately, he would be just like Park. As much as if they were father and son. Which, except for the actual biological connection, they practically were.

I guess that’s all for now, Madrigal said. Most of those tests will have to be scheduled at the university or Oakland Methodist or Letterman, wherever they can be done soonest. I don’t want anything done within the next few days, however—she’s not going to be up to it. He got up and put back on the windbreaker he had worn over to the hospital when Lola Compton had begun labor at four that morning. "I’m going home to sleep for a while. Call me when Park gets bogged down. And don’t wait for him to tell you to call, either."

I won’t, Libby said. I know him as well as you do.

As soon as the doctor was gone, Libby Nelson opened Lola Compton’s file and read the new entry. After she read it, she had to close her eyes tightly to hold back the tears.

Chapter Two

Madrigal was driving through town on his way home, when suddenly a yellow Corvette came speeding around the corner past a yield sign. He slammed on his brakes and the station wagon skidded to a stop three feet from where the sports car stopped.

A dark-haired woman with eyes like ripe grapes got out of the Corvette and walked over to him. She put her hands on the door of his station wagon and bent to look at him thoughtfully for a moment. Then she leaned through the window and kissed him hungrily on the mouth. She tasted the gin on his breath. My, my. You’re getting as bad as a TWA pilot I used to know.

When are you going to stop driving like a goddamn maniac? Madrigal asked irritably.

Well, that’s gratitude for you. Here I am, nubile and desirable, rushing over to spend an hour with you before I go to work, and all I get is criticism. That’s pretty shabby treatment. Especially from someone who’s coming home drunk at eight a.m.

I’m no more drunk than you are nubile. You want to follow me home?

How about racing you home?

Just follow me, Parnelli.

Yes, Doctor. As she went back to the Corvette, she said over her shoulder, And I am so nubile. It means of marriageable age or condition. At thirty four, I’m certainly of age, and I think you know I’m in condition.

Before Madrigal could think of a response, she was in her car, speeding away.

As he followed her to his house, it crossed Madrigal’s mind again, as it had numerous times the past few months, that he was going to have to make up his mind whether to marry Danielle Daner or not. Half the town of San Lucas knew by now that they were sleeping with each other. Dany’s yellow Corvette was frequently parked outside his house all night, sometimes even all weekend. Father Lemas often gave him distinctly penetrating looks whenever the old priest made his hospital calls, and Madrigal dared not even walk past St. Viator’s anymore for fear of encountering Mother Veronica and her withering stare and icy, How is your Miss Daner these days, young man? Father was wondering if you’re ever going to bring her to Mass.

Sister Veronica knew very well that Dany and her father, Abner Price Daner, were Presbyterians. She had also figured out, Madrigal suspected, what a major religious coup it would be if Madrigal married Dany and the grandchildren of Ab Daner were raised Catholic. Ab Daner, owner of Daner Plastics, the sole industry in San Lucas, who had built in one year a splendid Presbyterian church easily the equal of St. Viator’s, which had taken a dozen years to erect on the tithes of its laboring-class parishioners. Yes indeed. A major coup if the next generation of Daners, via Madrigal, were Catholic.

Madrigal was not yet liberated from the church enough to be immune to the barbs of a parish priest and a mother superior who had known him since infancy; but nevertheless he was not about to be pressured into marriage, and neither was Dany. A lot had happened to both of them in the years since they had first fallen in love at San Lucas High. They had both been through respective hells of one kind or another: Dany with a dreadful first marriage, a health wrecking miscarriage, a deep homosexual involvement, and the long road back to loving a man again; and Madrigal with the emotional hurt of losing her once, the physical hurt of eight fragmentation wounds in Vietnam that left him with a scarred face, and then the lean, bare years he took to find himself and find medicine. Dany had deep scars, and so did he. They had been back together now for only a few months, were really just getting to know one another as the adults they had become. They knew they loved each other, very passionately, very physically; but they did not know if that was enough to sustain any sort of permanence togther. When they were in bed, there was nothing else alive in the world except themselves and what they were doing. But when they weren’t making love, they tried to be practical about their lives. They found it quite difficult.

When Madrigal got home, he found Dany on the tiny front porch feeding a grubby alley cat of nondescript color that Madrigal had made the mistake of giving some leftovers to one time. The cat had since taken to sitting on the porch and waiting for him to get up every morning and to get home every night. No matter how late he slept or how late he came in, the cat was there. Madrigal was not sure where it lived—under the house, he suspected. Where it came from, he had no idea. All he really knew about it was that it appeared with religious regularity every morning and every evening to be fed.

Save some of that milk for me, if you don’t mind, he said as he walked past Dany and the cat and went into the house.

Why? Dany asked. Did you save any gin for the cat?

Are you sure you were a model back in New York. and not a nightclub comic? Madrigal said. He made his way through an incredibly cluttered living room, threw his windbreaker and shirt into a tiny bedroom, and continued on into the kitchen. The house, which he rented from Mrs. Mattie Lou Grimes, had only the three rooms, and the kitchen had long since become its focal point. It contained, in addition to the usual appliances, his television, a recliner, stereo and speakers, and more than two hundred LP albums—most of which he had played only two or three times, except for the complete collections of Judy Garland and Al Jolson, which he played constantly. The room that should have been the living room, had, by the process of accumulation, become a combination medical library, laboratory, storeroom, and catchall. When it had reached the point of terminal clutter, so that one had to make one’s way through it, Madrigal had moved the TV, recliner, and stereo into the kitchen, which was the house’s largest room anyway. He had arranged a very comfortable, convenient area in which he could eat, rest, relax, watch TV, read, or listen to his records. Because the living room was now in such an impossible state, and because his bedroom was little more than a cubbyhole, Madrigal spent far more time in the kitchen than in any other room. At least, he had until Dany returned to San Lucas. Now the cubbyhole bedroom was about neck-and-neck.

As he entered the kitchen, Madrigal saw that the water for his instant coffee was ready