The liquid inside might as well be poison.
Sam believed that it was wines like the San Nicolò that had killed her husband.
As Anton’s consultancy business had expanded, as Sam’s practice had grown, they were able to afford better things. Five-star hotels. First-class flights. Suites. Private tours. Fine dining. One of Anton’s lifelong passions was wine. He loved enjoying a glass at lunch, another glass, perhaps two, with dinner. The dry reds were his particular favorite. Occasionally, when Sam wasn’t around, he would accompany the drink with a cigar.
Anton’s doctors pointed to fate and perhaps the cigars, but Sam thought the high levels of tannin in the wines had killed him.
Esophageal cancer.
Less than two percent of all cancers were of this kind.
Tannin, a naturally occurring astringent, lends certain plants a defense against insects and predators. The chemical compound can be found in many fruits, berries and legumes. There are several real-world applications for tannoids. Vegetable and synthetic tannins are employed in leather-making. The pharmaceutical world frequently uses tannate salts in the production of antihistamines and antitussive medications.
In red wine, tannin acts as a structural component, a reaction from the skin of the grape making contact with the pips. Wines with higher levels of tannins age better than ones with lower levels, thus the more mature, the more expensive, the bottle, the higher the concentration of tannins.
Tannin also occurs naturally in tea, but the coagulating power can be neutralized by the proteins found in milk.
To Sam’s thinking, proteins and tannins were at the crux of Anton’s illness; particularly histatins, which are salivary proteins secreted by glands in the back of the tongue. The fluid contains antimicrobial and antifungal properties, but also plays a key role in wound closure.
This last function is perhaps the most vital. Cancer, after all, is the result of abnormal cell growth. If histatins don’t protect and repair the tissues lining the esophagus, then the DNA of the cells can become altered, and abnormal growth can begin.
Tannins are known to suppress the production of histatins in the mouth.
Every toast Anton made, every salut, had contributed to the malignancy growing inside the tissues lining his esophagus, spreading to his lymph nodes and finally into his organs.
At least that was Sam’s theory. As she had watched her beautiful, vibrant husband wither away over the course of two long years, she had clung to what appeared to be a tangible explanation—an x that had caused y. Anton had tested negative for oral HPV, a viral infection linked to roughly seventy percent of cancers of the head and neck. He was only an occasional smoker. He was not an alcoholic. There was no history of cancer in his immediate family.
Ergo, tannins.
To accept that fate had played any role in his sickness, that lightning had struck Sam not twice but three times, was beyond her intellectual and emotional capacity.
Fosco pressed his head into Sam’s arm. He had been Anton’s cat. There was likely some sort of Pavlovian reaction to the scent of the wine.
Sam gently set him aside as she moved to the edge of the couch. She poured a glass of wine that she would not drink for her husband that she could not see.
Then, she did what she had been avoiding since three this afternoon.
She turned on the television.
The woman who Sam would always think of as Miss Heller was standing outside the front entrance to the Dickerson County Hospital. Understandably, she looked devastated. Her long blondish gray hair was untamed, tendrils blowing wild in the wind. Her eyes were bloodshot. The thin line of her lips was almost the same color as her skin.
She said, “The tragedy of today cannot be erased by the death of another young woman.” She stopped. Her lips pressed together. Sam heard cameras clicking, reporters clearing their throats. Mrs. Pinkman’s voice remained strong. “I pray for the Alexander family. I pray for my husband’s soul. For my own salvation.” Again, she pressed together her lips. Tears glistened in her eyes. “But I also pray for the Wilson family. Because they have suffered today as much as any of us have suffered.” She looked directly into the camera, shoulders squared. “I forgive Kelly Wilson. I absolve her of this horrible tragedy. As Matthew says, ‘for if you forgive other people who have sinned against you, your heavenly Father will also forgive you your sins.’”
The woman turned and walked back into the hospital. Guards blocked the doors to keep reporters from following her.
Sam let out a breath that had been held deep inside her chest.
The anchor came back onscreen. He was sitting at a desk with a panel of self-styled experts. Their words floated over Sam’s head as she pulled Fosco back into her lap.
A British friend of Sam’s had claimed that England had lost its stiff upper lip the day that Princess Diana had died. Overnight, a culture given to wry comments in lieu of emotion had turned into a weepy mess. The friend called this phenomenon yet another unwelcome Americanization—the Brits were constantly complaining about America, even as they greedily consumed American products and culture—and said that the public outpouring of grief over Diana’s death had forever altered the way that his people could acceptably respond to tragedy.
There was probably some truth to his theory, even the part about blaming America, but Sam believed the worst result of these seemingly unrelenting national tragedies was that a formula for recovery had emerged. The Boston Marathon attacks. San Bernardino. The Pulse Nightclub.
People were outraged. They were glued to their televisions, to their web pages, to their Facebook feeds. They vocally expressed sorrow, horror, fury, pain. They cried for change. They raised money. They demanded action.
And then they went back to their lives until the next one happened again.
Sam’s eyes flicked back to the television. The news anchor said, “We’re going to show the video from before. For viewers who are just tuning in, this is a re-enactment of the events that took place this morning in Pikeville, which is roughly two hours north of Atlanta.”
Sam watched the crude drawings awkwardly move across the screen—more of a simulation than a re-enactment.
The anchor began, “At approximately six fifty-five this morning, the alleged shooter, Kelly Rene Wilson, walked into the hallway.”
Sam watched the figure move to the center of the hallway.
A door opened. An old woman ducked as two bullets were fired.
Sam closed her eyes, but she listened.
Mr. Pinkman is shot. Lucy Alexander is shot. Two more figures enter the frame. Neither is identified by name. One male, the other female. The woman runs to Lucy Alexander. The man struggles with Kelly Wilson for the gun.
Sam opened her eyes. There was a bead of sweat on her forehead. She had gripped her hands so tightly that half-moon indentations cut into her palms.
Her cell phone started to ring. From the kitchen. Inside her purse.
Sam did not
move. She watched the television. The anchor was interviewing a bald man whose bow tie indicated he was likely involved in the psychiatric profession.
He said, “Generally, you find that these types of shooters are loners. They feel alienated, unloved. Often, they are bullied.”
Her phone stopped ringing.
Bow Tie continued, “The fact that the murderer in this instance is a woman—”
Sam turned off the television. The room faded to pitch-black, but she was used to maneuvering through the darkness. She checked to make sure Fosco was sleeping beside her. She tentatively reached out for the wine bottle and glass and took them into the kitchen, where the contents of both went down the sink.
Sam checked her phone. The call had come from an unknown number. Likely a telesalesman, though she’d had her number added to the do-not-call registry. Sam used her thumb to navigate the screens and block the number.
The phone vibrated in her hand, announcing a new email. She looked at the time. Hong Kong was open for business. If there was one constant in Sam’s life, it was the steady, unrelenting volume of work to be done.
She didn’t want to commit to retrieving her reading glasses unless there was an urgent message. She squinted, skimming down the list of new mails.
She left them all unopened.
Sam put the phone on the counter. She went about her nightly routine. She made sure all of Fosco’s water bowls were full. She turned off the lights, pressed the appropriate buttons to close the blinds, checked to make certain that the alarm had been set.
She went into the bathroom and brushed her teeth. She took her nightly regimen of pills. In the closet, she changed into her pajamas. There was a very good novel on her bedside table, but Sam was eager to rest, to put the day behind her, to wake up tomorrow with a fresh perspective.
She climbed into bed. Fosco appeared from nowhere. He took his place on the pillow next to her head. She took off her glasses. She turned off the light. She closed her eyes.