observed.
When the doors opened, he was greeted by a man about his own age.
“Mr. McGuire?” asked Adam.
“No, I’m Tad, Mr. McGuire’s secretary. Would you follow me, please.”
He led Adam to an outer office, told him to wait, and disappeared through a door that said “District Sales Manager, Northeast.”
Adam glanced around. The furniture was reproduction Chippendale, the wall-to-wall carpet a luxurious beige. Adam couldn’t help but compare the environment to the decaying medical center he’d recently left, and recalled the dean’s warning. He didn’t have time for second thoughts before Clarence McGuire opened the door and motioned Adam inside. He walked over to a couch and sat down as McGuire gave Tad a few final orders before dismissing him.
McGuire was a youthful, stocky man an inch or so shorter than Adam. His face had a satisfied air about it, and his eyes almost closed when he smiled.
“Would you care for something to drink?” he asked.
Adam shook his head.
“Then I think we should begin,” said Mr. McGuire. “What made you interested in Arolen?”
Adam nervously cleared his throat. “I decided to leave medical school, and I thought that the pharmaceutical industry would find use for my training. Arolen gave my class their black bags and the name stuck in my mind.”
Mr. McGuire smiled. “I appreciate your candor. OK, tell me why you are interested in pharmaceuticals.”
Adam fidgeted a little. He was reluctant to give the real, humbling reasons for his interest: Jennifer’s pregnancy and his desperate need for cash. Instead, he tried out the line he had practiced on the bus. “I was influenced to a large degree by my gradual disillusionment with the practice of medicine. It seems to me that doctors no longer consider the patient their prime responsibility. Technology and research have become more rewarding intellectually and financially, and medicine has become more of a trade than a profession.”
Adam wasn’t sure what he meant by that phrase, but it had a nice ring to it so he let it stand. Besides, Mr. McGuire seemed to buy it.
“Over the last two and a half years I’ve come to believe the pharmaceutical companies have more to offer the patient than the individual doctor has. I think I can do more for people if I work for Arolen than if I stay in medicine.”
Adam leaned back on the sofa. He thought what he had said sounded pretty good.
“Interesting,” said McGuire. “It sounds as if you have given this a lot of thought. However, I must tell you that our usual method of starting people like yourself is in our sales force. What the medical professional likes to call
‘detail men.’ But I don’t know if that would give you the sense of service you are seeking.”
Adam leaned forward. “I assumed that I would start in sales, and I know it would be a number of years before I could really make a contribution.” He watched McGuire for signs of skepticism, but the man continued to smile.
“One thing that I particularly wanted to ask . . .” said McGuire. “Is your father with the Food and Drug Administration?”
Adam felt the muscles of his neck tighten. “My father is David Schonberg of the FDA,” he said, “but that has no bearing on my interest in Arolen. In fact, I am barely on speaking terms with my father, so I certainly couldn’t influence his decisions in any way.”
“I see,” said Mr. McGuire. “But I can assure you that we are interested in you and not your father. Now, I would like to hear about your schooling and work experience.”
Crossing his legs, Adam began from the beginning, starting with grammar school and leading up to medical school. He described all his summer jobs. It took about fifteen minutes.
“Very good,” said Mr. McGuire when Adam had finished. “If you’ll wait outside for a few minutes, I’ll be out shortly.”
As soon as the door closed, McGuire picked up the phone and called his boss, William Shelly. Shelly’s secretary answered, and McGuire told Joyce to put the VP on the line.
“What is it?” asked Bill Shelly, his voice crisp and commanding.
“I just finished interviewing Adam Schonberg,” said Mr.
McGuire, “and you were right. He is David Schonberg’s son, and he’s also one of the best candidates I’ve seen in five years. He’s perfect Arolen executive material, right down to his philosophies about current medical practice.”
“Sounds good,” agreed Bill. “If he works out, you’ll get a bonus.”
“I’m afraid I can’t take credit for finding him,” said Clarence. “The kid called me.”
“You’ll get the bonus just the same,” said Bill. “Give him some lunch and then bring him up to my office. I’d like to talk with him myself.”
Clarence hung up the phone and returned to the waiting area outside his office. “I just spoke with the vice- president in charge of marketing who is my boss and he’d like to talk with you after lunch. What do you say?”
“I’m flattered,” said Adam.
• • •
Jennifer turned away from the window in Cheryl’s room and looked at her friend. She seemed almost angelic with her white skin and freshly washed blond hair. The tranquilizer that she’d been given had obviously taken effect. Cheryl was asleep, her head comfortably elevated on a pillow.
Jennifer didn’t know what to do. Cheryl had been brought back from the treatment room and told about Dr. Foley’s death. Marlene Polaski had tried to convince Cheryl that Dr.
Stephenson was as good a doctor as Dr. Foley and that Cheryl should go ahead and have the procedure done. She reminded Cheryl that every day that passed made the abortion more risky.
Jennifer eventually had agreed with Marlene and had tried to change Cheryl’s mind, but the girl continued to insist that no one was going to touch her except Dr. Foley. It was as if she refused to believe the man had committed suicide.
Staring at the still form on the bed, Jennifer noticed that her friend’s eyes were slowly opening.
“How do you feel?”
“Fine,” said Cheryl sleepily.
“I think I should be going,” said Jennifer. “I’ve got to get dinner ready before Adam gets home. I’ll give you a call later. I can come back tomorrow if you’d like. Are you sure you don’t want Dr. Stephenson to do the procedure?”
Cheryl’s head lolled to the side. When she spoke, her words were slurred. “What did you say? I didn’t hear you exactly.”
“I said I think I’ll be going,” said Jennifer, smiling in spite of herself. “Did they give you some champagne before they brought you back here? You sound drunk.”
“No champagne,” murmured Cheryl as she fumbled with the bed covers. “I’ll walk you to the elevator.” Cheryl threw back the blanket, inadvertently jerking the IV line that was still attached to her left arm.
“I think you’d better stay where you are,” said Jennifer.
Her smile disappeared, and she felt the initial stirring of fear. She reached out to restrain Cheryl.
But Cheryl already had her legs over the side of the bed and was pushing herself up into a shaky sitting position. At that point she noticed that she had pulled out her IV and was bleeding from the spot where the tube had entered her arm.
“Look what I did,” Cheryl said. She pointed to the IV and in doing so, lost her balance.
Jennifer tried to grab her shoulders, but in a limp, fluid movement, Cheryl slipped off the bed onto the floor. All Jennifer could do was to ease her down. She ended up bent double, her face resting on her knees.
Jennifer didn’t know what to do: call for help or lift Cheryl. Since Cheryl was in such an unnatural position, she decided to help her back to bed and then get the nurses, but when she raised Cheryl’s arms, all she saw was blood.
“Oh God!” she cried. Blood was pouring from Cheryl’s nose and mouth. Jennifer turned her on her back and noted that the skin around her eyes was black and blue, as if she’d been beaten. There was more blood on her legs,
