Deep freeze, p.1
Deep Freeze, page 1
06-11-2023
THE TIP OF THE ICEBERG
I feel waves of grogginess flow over me. 1 am waking. I suspect, from a deep sleep. With my eyes closed, in this state of semi-consciousness, I try to recall the time which has passed. I remember the sense of melting into a pool. Sensation ended abruptly with a light going out and darkness falling over my mind.
Then there is a dream. And I seek in the dream to find an answer. I dream of the Arctic. I am lying on an iceberg, arms and legs buried in snow. In the distance is a great white polar bear. The bear is coming towards me. slowly at first, then more quickly; finally he is running. Soon he is standing over me, his mouth wide open and his hot breath panting in my face. At that instant l feel fear and a terrible numbness from the cold and the lurching sense that I am asleep and dreaming and must awaken.
But in a moment the bear has disappeared. I am still lying on the iceberg, and the iceberg is sailing down a steaming jungle river, melting away into the mud. Again l feel fear. I am afraid that the floating iceberg will disintegrate and 1 will be left unprotected, to be eaten by the crocodiles approaching from either shore. Their teeth glisten in the moonlight.
Just as the iceberg starts breaking into small pieces, I hear a motor and the sound of voices, and I know that 1 am waking from a very deep sleep indeed.
H. WALTER WHYTE
Contents
PART 1: THE COMING OF THE ICE AGE: 1978 I New York/June 30,1978/10:40 A.M.
II New York/June 25, 1978/12:58 P.M.
III New York/July 8, 1978/10:00 A.M.
IV New York/July 8, 1978/7:35 P.M.
V London/July 9, 1978/10:45 A.M.
VI Oxford/July 9, 1978/3:00 P.M.
VII London/July 10, 1978/9:08 A.M.
VIII Over the Atlantic/July 10, 1978/8:30 P.M.
IX NewYork/July 14, 1978/10:12 A.M.
X White Ridge/July 14, 1978/2:14 P.M.
XI New York Thruway/July 14,1978/5:12 P.M.
XII On the Road to White Ridge/July 18, 1978/ 1:35 P.M.
PART 2: THE TIP OF THE ICEBERG: 1978 I Newtowne/July 28, 1978/4:40 P.M.
II Newtowne/July 29, 1978/2:12 P.M.
III Newtowne/August 8, 1978/4:20 P.M.
IV Newtowne/September 3,1978/8:12 A.M.
V Montreal/September 3, 1978/12:14 P.M.
VI Chadworth/September 3, 1978/6:25 P.M.
VII Chadworth/September 7, 1978/3:10 P.M.
PART 3: ICE COLD: 2008 I Chadworth/February 15,2008/10:15 A.M.
II Over New Hampshire/February 15, 2008/ 11:30 A.M.
III Hanover/February 16, 2008/8:49 A.M.
IV Hanover/February 16, 2008/11:35 A.M.
V Hanover/February 16, 2008/4:20 P.M.
VI Hanover/February 21, 2008/8:35 A.M.
VII New York/February 22, 2008/10:31 A.M.
VIII New York/February 22,2008/11:20 A.M.
IX New York/February 26, 2008/7:30 P.M.
X New York/February 27, 2008/10:40 A.M.
XI New York/March 1,2008/10:23 A.M.
XII New York/March 5,2008/9:15 P.M.
XIII New York/March 12,2008/11:50 P.M.
XIV New York/March 14, 2008/9:46 A.M.
XV New York/March 22, 2008/8:23 A.M.
XVI New York/April 21, 2008/8:41 A.M.
XVII New York/April 21, 2008/10:20 A.M.
XVIII New York/April 21, 2008/3:20 P.M.
XIX New York/August 18, 2008/2:40 P.M.
XX New York/August 18, 2008/3:30 P.M.
XXI New York/September 4, 2008/12:30 P.M.
XXII New York/February 7, 2009/8:38 A.M.
XXIII New York/February 10,2009/8:10 P.M.
A MANOR BOOK
Manor Books, In
432 Park Avenue South
New York, New York 10016
Copyright, ©, 1977, by Manor Books, Inc.
All rights reserved.
Published by arrangement with the author.
Printed in the United States of America.
ISBN CODE 0-532-12527-4
PART 1: THE COMING OF THE ICE AGE: 1978
I
New York/June 30,1978/10:40 A.M.
“Hays Syndrome.”
The words charge out of the telephone at my ear. I tighten my grasp on the receiver. Am I attempting, like the ancients, to wring the neck of the messenger of bad tidings?
“There’s nothing that can be done for it, is there, Doctor?” I hear the echo of my voice, the hollowness of the words. It is barely a question. Last Thursday he had made it clear, painfully clear, that if the suspected diagnosis was confirmed by the tests, there was no cure for me.
Across the telephone wire I hear Dr. Soames explain the death sentence. “I’m afraid, Mr. Minton, all three tests were positive,” he says. I listen for sympathy, a word of hope, an inflection of understanding. But all I hear are the detached dronings of the scientific technician.
“There’s no question but that it’s Hays Syndrome,” Soames continues, “I might say that I’ve shown the test results to several of my colleagues, and there was quite a bit of excitement. It’s such a rare thing; one of those things you just read a-bout in the textbooks. We’ll watch you closely, possibly prepare an article or two for the medical journals, if you don’t mind, and of course we’ll see to it that you are as comfortable as possible …” The voice trails off. It is a whine.
“Thank you, Doctor, thank you for the news,” I say. The conversation has gone on too long. I must end it. “I’ll call you tomorrow.” I feel the knot in the pit of my stomach tighten as I hang up the receiver. I have suddenly developed an enormous revulsion for Dr. Soames, for all doctors. I’m not going to let myself fall into their clutches. No, the Dr. Soames of the world aren’t going to get me. If this disease means I have to die in my prime, at forty, better to do it without the benefit of medical ministrations.
The white intercom light flashes, interrupting my thoughts. It is that ever efficient secretary reporting on the half a dozen calls she intercepted while I was getting the report from Dr. Soames. She ticks off the messages; two land speculators looking for Minton money for deals they were trying to put together, a tennis partner calling about the new schedule for the club tournament, a call from the London office about progress on the Oxford shopping mall, and a message from Leland Anderson’s secretary that Mr. Anderson had reviewed the Canadian contract.
Anderson, cool headed, cold blooded Anderson, surely he’s the man to talk to at a time like this. Anderson is a lawyer, my lawyer, but he’s more than an attorney, he is a detached intellectual presence, one of the few minds I have ever honestly respected. Perhaps, Anderson’s quiet cool could be comforting.
“Lee, baby, I know you must have a date for lunch,” I say when I finally have Anderson on the telephone. My tone is pleading, more pleading than I have sounded in thirty years or more. I catch the tone and reassert myself. “Break your date,” I say, “I must see you. Meet me at the Four Seasons at one.”
There is a brief silence at the other end of the phone, long enough to suggest sacrifice but not annoyance on Anderson’s side. “Sure, Dennis, I can make it; but what’s up?”
“Can’t talk now, Lee. I’ll tell all when I see you, baby.” There is a quick disconnect. I realize that in talking to Anderson I have, without conscious decision to do so, buried the fear which gripped me. My ability to dissemble, to cover over my real feelings with the personality the world has come to expect, is suddenly exposed to me in all its full color. I wonder to what use I’ll be putting that ability in the coming weeks.
II
New York/June 25, 1978/12:58 P.M.
I arrive early. Pm always early for appointments. It’s a habit, maybe a bad habit.
Michel, that tall headwaiter who always seems to walk without actually letting his feet touch the floor, escorts me to my favorite table, the one in the far comer, with a commanding view of the large room.
I order a martini, dry, extra dry, and while I wait I scan the room for familiar faces. Suddenly the room depresses me. It is a galaxy, each table a solar system of influential executives. But the restaurant overflows with solar systems. Any one of them could be removed, the room would be no less full, the galaxy no less bright. My own unimportance overwhelms me.
The wave of depression is total. The arrival of t*he martini rescues me. The gin blurs the edges of insight, it makes the room fuzzy.
Then there is Anderson, tall, thin, craggy-faced Anderson. His meticulously pressed suit has a thin gray stripe, a perfect match for the gray at his temples.
“You’re looking well,” he says in greeting.
“It’s as if he had thrust at me with a switchblade. The greeting sticks in my ears, it echoes. I gulp at my martini, drinking deeply from the large snifter.
“Sit down, Lee,” I say, “something terrible has happened.” I gulp at the drink again, this time finishing it. The glass shakes in my hand. “I have Hays Syndrome,” I say.
Anderson bends forward toward me and frowns slightly. “What?” he asks.
In my preoccupation and fear, I have forgotten that the disease is an obscure medical oddity. I myself had never even heard of it until last Thursday when Dr. Soames first suspected the diagnosis.
The gin warms my insides, and the warmth pours over my body. I begin to explain slowly, “It’s a rare disease, a virus, I think, attacks the nerve endings. It begins in a silly way, Lee, tingling in the toes. Can you imagine that?” I laugh weakly, and continue, “That’s what sent me to the doctor last week. Anyway, Lee, there haven’t been too many cases, b
In the silence when I finish speaking I suddenly become aware of all the sounds of the restaurant. They are magnified many times their normal level, the clangs of dishes and trays, and silver and people, a cacophony of small silence, and it nearly drowns out Anderson’s hushed, “Oh, my God!”
Anderson reacts as if he has been hit in the solar plexus. He calls for a drink and a refill for my glass. This interruption gives me time to regain a sense of balance, of composure.
He immediately challenges the verdict. “You’re sure?” he says. “Maybe you should see another doctor.”
“No,” I explain, “Soames made the diagnosis last week; he called this morning to say that three separate lab tests confirm it. He even told me he had reviewed the tests with some other doctors. Lee, they were all excited about it, like vultures. They want to write me up in medical journals.” Talking about it puts distance between me and my real feelings, makes me more detached.
“Still, I think you should see someone else,” says Anderson. He is persuasive, insistent. “You know, Dennis, in my business, if you lose in the district court, you appeal to the Circuit Court, and even if you lose there, you can still appeal to the Supreme Court. What kind of lawyer would give up on a case just because he lost in the first court? Well, it’s the same thing here. I don’t think you should quit just because one judge decided against you. Appeal the decision. Get a change of venue.”
I hear the advocate pleading his case, but I shake my head in disagreement, and dive into the cool waters of that second martini.
Anderson continues, “Look, you’re forty years old; you’ve been immensely successful in real estate, you have an attractive wife, you have everything to look forward to. If I were you I’d fight for that future; I’d go to the top men in the field; I’d try anything. In medicine there are always breakthroughs, new discoveries that old Dr. Soames may not be aware of.”
I suddenly feel like a judge, before whom Anderson is making his crucial closing argument. I understand the source of Anderson’s enormous reputation as a trial lawyer; in just a few minutes without preparation, he has been very persuasive. I smile. “Thanks, Lee, for the pep talk,” I say.
But Anderson pursues the point. He won’t let it lie. “You will get another opinion, then?” he says.
I hesitate. I smile again and nod slowly. The court has decided in Anderson’s favor. “I will,” I say.
“Good,” says Anderson. He moves his chair closer to the table and takes a pad and thin silver pen from his breast pocket. I witness a transformation. Anderson the advocate has left; in his place is Anderson the administrator. “Now who do you want me to contact?” says the administrator.
I am confused by the change in roles, by the no nonsense approach of the administrator. I grope. “I’m not sure I understand, Lee. What do you mean?”
“Aren’t there people you want me to speak to, people you want me to tell?” he says. The pen is poised on the pad, ready to take down any instructions.
“No.” I am frightened again. “I don’t want you to tell anyone. I’ve told no one. I thought you should know since you’re my lawyer, but I’m not telling anyone else.”
“Not even Mary?” asks Anderson. I sense that Lee can not fathom my motivation for not wanting to tell my wife.
“No, I don’t want to tell Mary just yet,” I say. But as I speak I wonder how long I’ll be able to keep it from her. I wonder how the deterioration will first manifest itself. What will Mary’s reaction to it be?
“Of course you’re entitled to your privacy,” says Lee. “But time is limited. That privacy should not conflict with your use of the remaining time. It seems to me that you should have two goals: first you should do everything you can to find a doctor who can cure this thing. At the same time you should be making pretty complete plans for the possibility that Dr. Soames is right.” During lunch the problems are explored further. I see these as the alternatives of hope and despair. Looking for another specialist to disagree with the Soames’ diagnosis or to produce a cure for the disease is the alternative of hope. I promise to tackle that one. Planning for the possibility that Dr. Soames is right is the alternative of despair. Anderson, the administrator, promises to deal with that one. Before we finish I thank him. He has helped; he has helped.
III
New York/July 8, 1978/10:00 A.M.
The old wall clock strikes ten as I open the glass door with the gold lettering. “Smoot, Baldwin, Blackwell & Anderson.” As I sit in a green corduroy chair in the reception room, there is a twinge in my left ankle. It is dim, barely noticed pain, but it is there.
I try concentrating on the carved mahogany chest across the room, on the intricacies of its design. But as I wait, my mind turns to the deals I have closed with Anderson, the good ones and the bad ones. They’ve been mostly good. And we’ve made a lot of money, Lee and me.
I’m doing what I always do, pricing things. I put a price on the green chair, on the old Jacobean chest, on the elegant Kirman rug on the floor. What, I wonder, have I paid Smoot, Baldwin in fees in the last ten years, and how many of these lovely pieces of furniture have been paid for with my money?
The pricing game is interrupted by Anderson’s secretary. She has come to escort me through the intricacies of the firm’s interior. Without her I would be lost in a maze, perhaps never heard from again, among the whir of the electric typewriters and the reverse turns. Even with her it seems to take a full five minutes to reach- the comer office which is Leland’s and which identifies his rank in the firm. It is a northern and western comer, with full views up Park Avenue and across the Hudson to New Jersey. It is perhaps not as choice as the southern comers, but still marks Anderson as one of the three or four top men in the firm.
Lee greets me with reserve, even more reserve than usual. He stands, stiffly, offers a hand, but keeps the desk between us as he says, “Good morning, Dennis.”
There is no small talk. He launches directly in, saying, “Since our lunch last week, I have given your situation considerable thought.” He is upset, he is trying to conceal it, but it is clear. “I know, Dennis,” he continues, “we agreed that you were to do the research in the medical field and I would limit myself to legal implications.
But I must tell you that I’ve done some medical research of my own.”
I feel like I should do something to put Lee more at ease. I relax into the chair, hoping he will pick up the cue, and I say, “Well, lay it on, Lee, what’ve you got?”
Anderson seems to straighten in his chair. He has become more rigid, unmovable. He smiles, but the smile makes no sense in the context of the neat pinstripe and that perfect part in his hair. I realize that I have put up with Anderson, the person, all these years, in order to get the services of Anderson, the lawyer. And I understand, too, that the relationship has been symbolic, with Anderson putting up with Minton, the person, in order to get the legal fees from Minton, the entrepreneur.
Anderson fixes his eyes on me and speaks in the administrator’s monotone. “I don’t know if you remember, but my partner, Howard Blackwell had a neurological problem, that is his first wife, Julia, did. She was treated by a team of specialists in London. Howard did a hell of a lot of research and he found out that they were the best in the business. I spoke to him about your Situation the other day. He checked his team out again and apparently they are still working, doing the most advanced things, chemotherapy, radiation…”
