Suddenly Charles was aware of a sweet aromatic smell. It had been there all the time but had not penetrated his consciousness until that moment. It was vaguely familiar, but out of context. He’d smelled it before, but where?

Eager for a distraction, Charles began to sniff around. The odor was about equal in intensity in the two rooms and strongest near the floor. Sniffing repeatedly, Charles tried to place the smell in his past. Suddenly it came to him: organic chemistry lab in college! He was smelling an organic solvent like benzene, toluene, or xylene. But what was it doing in the playhouse?

Braving the cold wind, Charles went out into the knife-sharp night. With his right hand he clutched his sweater tightly around his neck. Outside the aromatic odor was diminished because of the wind, but by bending down at the side of the playhouse, Charles determined the smell was coming from the partially frozen mud around and under the structure. Making his way down to the pond’s edge, Charles scooped up some of the icy water and brought it to his nose. There was no mistaking it: the smell was coming from the pond.

He followed the gradual curve of the pond, walking along the edge of the open water to the point where it merged with the inlet from the river. Bending down again, he brought some water to his nose. The odor was stronger. Breaking into a jog, Charles followed the inlet to the juncture with the Pawtomack River. It, too, was unfrozen. Again, Charles brought a sample to his nose. The odor was even more intense. The smell was coming from the river. Standing up, shaking from the cold, Charles stared upstream. Recycle, Ltd., the plastic/rubber recycling plant was up there. Charles knew from his chemistry background that benzene was used as a solvent for both plastics and rubber.

Benzene!

A powerful thought gripped his mind: Benzene causes leukemia; in fact it causes myeloblastic leukemia! Turning his head, Charles’s eyes followed the trail of the unfrozen, open water. It led directly to the playhouse: the one spot Michelle had spent more time than any other.

Like a crazed man, Charles sprinted for the house. The uneven snow tripped him and he fell headlong, landing on his chest with his palms outstretched. He was unhurt save for a cut on his chin. Picking himself up, he ran more slowly.

When he reached the house, he thundered up the back steps and banged open the door.

Cathryn, already taut as a tightened bowstring, involuntarily shrieked as Charles hurled himself breathlessly into the kitchen. The dish she was holding slipped from her hands and shattered on the floor.

“I want a container,” gasped Charles, ignoring Cathryn’s reaction.

Gina appeared at the door to the dining room, her face reflecting terror. Chuck materialized behind her, then pushed past to gain access to the kitchen. He stepped between Charles and Cathryn. He didn’t care if his father was bigger than he was.

Charles’s breathing was labored. After a few seconds, he was able to repeat his request.

“A container?” asked Cathryn who’d regained some of her composure. “What kind of a container?”

“Glass,” said Charles. “Glass with a tight top.”

“What for?” asked Cathryn. It seemed like an absurd request.

“For pond water,” said Charles.

Jean Paul appeared beside Gina who stuck out her arm to keep him from entering the kitchen.

“Why do you want pond water?” asked Cathryn.

“Christ!” managed Charles. “Is this an interrogation?” He started for the refrigerator.

Chuck tried to step in his way, but Charles merely swept the boy out of his path. Chuck stumbled, and Cathryn grabbed his arm, keeping him from falling.

Charles turned at the commotion and saw Cathryn restraining his son. “What the hell is going on here?” he demanded.

Chuck struggled for an instant, glaring at his father.

Charles looked from one face to another. Gina and Jean Paul looked shocked; Chuck, furious; and Cathryn, frightened. But no one spoke. It was as if the scene was a freeze frame in a motion picture. Charles shook his head in disbelief and turned his attention to the refrigerator.

He pulled out a jar of apple juice and closed the door. Without a moment’s hesitation he dumped the remaining contents down the sink, rinsed the jar thoroughly, and yanked his sheepskin coat off its hook. At the door he turned to glance at his family. No one had moved. Charles had no idea what was happening but since he knew what he wanted to do, he left, closing the door on the strange scene.

Releasing her hold on Chuck, Cathryn stared blankly at the door, her mind going over the disturbing discussion she’d had with Dr. Keitzman and Dr. Wiley. She’d thought their questions about Charles’s emotions had been ridiculous, but now she wasn’t so sure. Certainly, flying out of the house in anger in the dead of winter without a coat, only to return a half hour later in great excitement, looking for a container for pond water, was curious at best.

“I’d never let him hurt you,” said Chuck. He pushed back his hair with a nervous hand.

“Hurt me?” said Cathryn, taken by surprise. “Your father’s not going to hurt me!”

“I’m afraid he’s let in the devil,” said Gina. “Once he’s done that, you can’t tell what he’s going to do.”

“Mother, please!” cried Cathryn.

“Is Charles going to have a nervous breakdown?” teased Jean Paul from the doorway.

“He’s already had one,” answered Chuck.

“That’s enough of that,” said Cathryn sternly. “I don’t want to hear any disrespect for your father. Michelle’s illness has upset him terribly.”

Cathryn directed her attention to the broken dish. Was Charles having a nervous breakdown? Cathryn decided she’d discuss the possibility with Dr. Wiley in the morning. It was a terrifying thought.

Gingerly crossing the partially frozen mud, Charles approached the water’s edge, then filled the jar. He screwed the cap on tightly before running back to the house.

Although the suddenness of his arrival surprised Cathryn, it had nowhere near the effect of his previous entrance. By the time Charles got to the refrigerator, Cathryn could react, and she reached out and grasped his arm.

“Charles, tell me what you are doing.”

“There’s benzene in the pond,” hissed Charles, shaking off her grasp. He put the jar of pond water in the refrigerator. “And you can smell it in the playhouse.”

Charles whirled back to the door. Cathryn ran after him, managing to get hold of his coat. “Charles, where are you going? What’s the matter with you?”

With unnecessary force, Charles wrenched his coat free. “I’m going to Recycle, Ltd. That’s where the goddamn benzene is coming from. I’m sure of it.”

Charles pulled the red Pinto off Main Street and stopped in front of the gate in the hurricane fence surrounding Recycle, Ltd. The gate was unlocked and opened easily. He stepped back into his car and drove into the factory’s parking area.

The evening shift couldn’t have been too large because there were only a half dozen or so beat-up cars near the entrance to the old brick mill building. To the left of the factory, the huge piles of discarded tires rose up like miniature snowcapped mountains. Between the used tires and the building were smaller heaps of plastic and vinyl debris. To the right of the factory was a rubbish-strewn, empty lot bisected by the hurricane fence that ran down to the Pawtomack River. Beyond the fence the deserted mill buildings stretched for a quarter of a mile to the north.

As soon as Charles got out of his car, he was enveloped by the same stench that had assaulted his house that morning. It amazed him that people could live to the immediate west of town, the direction of the prevailing winds. Locking the car, he started toward the entrance, an unimposing aluminum storm door. Above it,