Vox(50)

“We only have one other one,” I say, looking toward the first MRI room.

Instead of responding, Poe starts a slow tour around the lab, opening drawers and cabinets. He makes no sound, as Lin said, and it occurs to me that, if Lin hadn’t been here while Lorenzo and I were making out to the tune of a thrumming machine, I’d be joining Julia King on a podium, listening to Reverend Carl recite his morality tracts. We never would have heard Poe enter, not until it was too late.

By the look on his face, this possibility has occurred to Lorenzo as well.

“Morgan wants to see you in his office,” Poe says, addressing me. “Now.”

I leave Sharon Ray’s number with Lorenzo and Lin, telling them to set something up for Monday morning. With any luck, we’ll be ready over the weekend, and I want Mrs. Ray in here as soon as possible. If I can give her a voice again, Sharon and Del might be more receptive to the favor I plan on asking.

In the elevator, Poe sticks his key card into a slot and presses the button for the fifth floor. It’s the first time I noticed the slot, and I assume only the floors with our offices and the lab are accessible without a key. The doors open, and Poe extends a hand.

“This way,” he says.

The fifth-floor corridor is plush, more like a five-star hotel than a government science building. My shoes make no sound on the thick carpet—blue, naturally. As we walk, I read the names on the doors. General So-and-So, Admiral So-and-So, Dr. So-and-So. All men’s names. A few of them stare out at me through semi-open doors. One scowls.

Morgan is at his desk when Poe knocks. He calls “Enter!” in a small voice he’s trying to make big. I want to tell him it doesn’t work.

“Where were you this morning?” he says without looking up from whatever he’s reading.

“I had a family issue. A neighbor was supposed to look after my daughter, and—”

He cuts me off, closing the fat binder on his desk, moving a blank notepad on top of it so the label is obscured. Then he sits back with his hands behind his head, elbows pointing out. Maybe he thinks he looks bigger this way, more powerful.

“See,” he says, “this is why the old way didn’t work. There’s always something. Always some sick kid or a school play or menstrual cramps or maternity leave. Always a problem.”

I open my mouth, but not to speak. It just falls open in disbelief.

Morgan hasn’t finished. He picks up a pen and jabs the air with it. “You need to get it in your head, Jean. You women aren’t dependable. The system doesn’t work the way it was. Take the fifties. Everything was fine. Everyone had a nice house and a car in the garage and food on the table. And things still ran smoothly! We didn’t need women in the workforce. You’ll see, once you get over all this anger. You’ll see it’s going to be better. Better for your kids.” He stops stabbing. “Anyway, let’s not argue about it. You be a good girl and get in here at nine from now on, and I won’t report this.”

“I have Fridays off,” I say. “It’s in my contract.” I need every bit of concentration to keep my voice steady and my hands still.

“Well, I changed your contract,” he says, tapping a folder on his desk. He still hasn’t asked me to sit down. “Before you signed it. And we’re moving up the deadline to the third week of June.”

“Why?”

Now he’s talking like a teacher to a small child. “Jean, Jean, Jean. You don’t need to know.”

“Fine, Morgan. Whatever. By the way, we’ll be working over the weekend and running a trial on our first subject this Monday or Tuesday.” I take a seat in the chair facing him.

He looks shocked.

“Surprised?”

“Well, yes. I didn’t think—”

“You didn’t think what, Morgan? That Lorenzo, Lin, and I could actually make this work? Come on. You were in the department with us. You know Lin’s a rock star.” I don’t say, You probably had to lower the chair in her office so your feet could touch the ground. It wouldn’t do to piss him off, not when I need something.

He studies me with those beady eyes, bright and alert, like a terrier’s. No. That’s not quite right. Terriers are clever little things. “That’s just terrific, Jean. Really terrific.” He stands up, an indication the visit is over. “I knew we could do it.”

I don’t correct him. Instead, I drop my purse. When I lean over to get it, I can read the label on the side of the binder Morgan covered up. It’s upside down, but the two words are clear, blue block letters on a white field.

The side of the binder reads PROJECT WERNICKE.





FORTY-TWO




Poe, whose job seems to entail everything from site security officer to babysitter to office escort, is waiting outside Morgan’s office to take me back down to the lab, and I follow him along the corridor of generals and admirals and doctors, along the blue carpet, to the elevator bank. Inside, he uses his key card again.

I didn’t need the card to access the lab floor, so it must be the only way to leave floor five. Of course it is, I think. They would want to know who’s leaving, and at what time.

Or they’d want to be able to block anyone from leaving.

On the way down, I think about the binder I saw in Morgan’s office. Altogether, my files plus Lorenzo’s and Lin’s would fill several binders. We had reference materials, statistics, experimental designs, grant applications, progress reports—everything, the entire academic kitchen plus sink. The Institutional Review Board documents—all the paperwork and disclosures and subject consent forms we collected to assure the university we wouldn’t be running another Tuskegee syphilis scandal on unsuspecting prisoners—would fill a file cabinet on their own.