The arcane scientific language meant nothing to him. But it was his mother’s words, her fierce intelligence expressed in her adoptive language. The coincidence was almost too much to grapple with. And yet, he sensed a logic and some greater import, like watching a Polaroid photo slowly develop.
He moved the cursor back to the search box, typed in “Solakandji N. Sarkisian,” and hit the Search button. Four articles came up listed under “Hydra Library”:
Sarkisian, N.A., 1969. Isolation and determination of structure of a novel polypeptide extracted from marine organism Chiropsalmus quadrigatus Mason. Pure Appl Chem 14: 49.
Sarkisian, N.A., 1970. The potent excitatory effect of a novel polypeptide, protopleurin-B, isolated from a rare jellyfish (Chiropsalmus quadrigatus Mason). J Pharmacol Exp Ther 14: 443—8.
Sarkisian, N.A., 1972. Pharmacologically active toxin from a rare tropical jellyfish. Various neurological activities demonstrated in maze-patterned behavior in laboratory animals. J Pharmacol Exp Ther 17: 226—233.
And there were others with her name and coauthors. From what he could determine, his mother had been involved with the identification of some properties in the jellyfish toxin that over time had been found to have some effect on lab animals with potential pharmacological implications.
He then went back to the less technical sites, those of general information on the species, and looked up pages that gave its habitat. After scanning several articles about the creatures’ encounters with swimmers off various Caribbean islands, he got the hit he was looking for—an article written by a reporter for the Cape Cod Times: “Fish Out of (Home) Waters,” with the subheading : “Writer finds tropical fish in an unlikely place—Homer’s Island”
For years scuba divers have reported seeing exotic strangers such as butterfly fish, triggerfish, and angelfish around the point of Buck’s Cove of Homer’s Island in late summer and early fall. They are not so much visitors as prisoners of the sea—swept north by the Gulf Stream when they’re the size of a button.For most of them, the journey is a one-way trip, and their time is limited. They’re doomed to die when the water temperature falls as winter approaches … .Among the visitors spotted by aquarists are cobia, black drum, and stingrays. Even a juvenile lionfish was captured two years ago … .But the most unusual finds in recent years were the meter-long Solakandji jellyfish, which are usually found in the Caribbean and Pacific …
JACK WAS NOT CERTAIN WHAT HE had found, but what stood out in his mind was the fact that his mother had decided to publish under her maiden name and not her married name, Najarian. Had she gotten caught up in the woman’s liberation movement? Did she decide to distinguish her professional self from her married self? Or were she and his father so estranged?
That last possibility sat festering in his brain as he left the library and headed home.
Jack knew almost nothing about his biological father or his parents’ marriage. He had also never visited his father’s grave.
So why all of a sudden was he calling ahead for the exact location? And why spend the better part of two hours driving to Cedar Lawn Cemetery in Cranston, Rhode Island?
A little late to be showing respect for the man who had sired him, he told himself.
Or do we smell the proverbial rat?
THE CEMETERY OFFICIALLY CLOSED AT SUNSET.
In his rental, Jack arrived an hour before that. The directions given to him by the administration office were perfect.
LEO K. NAJARIAN
There was no inscription. Just the incision of the Armenian cross and the dates.
What Jack knew about his father was that he had come to this country from Beirut, Lebanon, and settled in Rhode Island, where he had relatives, all dead now. That was the Armenian immigrant pattern. But apparently the two sides of his family were not close; after his mother’s death Jack had almost no contact with the few people on his father’s side.
Perhaps it was strictly a professional decision to use her maiden name. Perhaps their marriage was in trouble and she was receding from it. His aunt and uncle told him nothing about their relationship. And even if they had marital problems, what was the point of his knowing?
He looked at the headstone, his eyes filling up as he took in the name of the father he had never known. The man who was just a name and a couple of faded photographs.
For most of his life, Jack felt the absence of a real father the way amputees suffer phantom limbs. His uncle Kirk was a nice man, but too infirm and too distant to fill the void that left Jack wondering just what it would have been like to have had a real father to have done things with. “Hey, Dad, let’s play catch.”
Who were you?
Who am I?
“Sorry, Dad,” he whispered, feeling a deep, searing guilt that he had ever entertained the hideous suspicions that the man buried here was the creature in the dream—the thing in the hood with the mallet.
He put down the pot of flowers he’d bought and through the mist took in the headstone. It looked so stark. Only the years were listed: 1931—1972. No month and date—which seemed odd, since the surrounding headstones gave complete birth and death dates.
Whatever, he had come and paid his respects, and now it was time to get back to the here and now. And he limped back to his car and drove home, thinking about calling René Ballard. She had some explaining to do.
78
NICK’S FUNERAL TOOK PLACE THAT SATURDAY morning at St. Athanasius Greek Orthodox Church in Arlington, Massachusetts. René was numb with grief.
Hundreds of people had turned out, drawn from the greater medical and health-care community. She recognized several faces and joined Alice Gordon and staffers from Broadview, Morningside, and other nursing homes. In the front pews sat Nick’s wife of thirty years, Thalia, their two sons, and their grandchildren. He was always showing René his photos of them. Now they looked lost in disbelief that he was gone.
From her aisle seat at the rear of the church she watched the mourners file in, recognizing several of the trial PIs and MGH people. She also spotted GEM Tech executives and scientists. Gavin Moy, in dark glasses, and some associates seated themselves in a pew ahead of her. Jordan Carr was with them. As he passed by, he stopped and gave her a squeeze of condolence on her shoulder. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered, then filed in beside Moy. René nodded and wept quietly.
In a short time, the vast interior of the church filled up, dozens of people standing ten-deep in the rear and pressing down the outer aisles under the stained-glass windows.
The official story was that Nick had lost his balance—a combination of precarious footing, strong winds, and possibly vertigo. Rumor had it that Nick had been given to dizzy spells—and at the high elevation in early morning light he might have had a destabilizing experience for one fatal second. Park authorities had reported snow flurries during the night and early morning winds with gusts up to fifty miles an hour.