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  “Well, well!” Her husband raised his eyebrows. “One way or another, Sam seems to loom large in our lives.”

  “In business matters only. So you’ve no need to be jealous.”

  “All right. But does Sam know about this decision—that you’re hitching to his star?”

  “Of course not. Lilian Hawthorne does, though. We’ve discussed it confidentially and Lilian approves.”

  “It seems to me,” Andrew said, “there’s been some womanly plotting going on.”

  “And why not?” For a moment the inner steel of Celia flashed. “Someday all that may not be needed. But right now the corporate business world is like a private men’s club. So a woman must use whatever means she can to become a member and get ahead.”

  Andrew was silent, considering, then he said, “Until now I hadn’t thought about it a lot; I guess most men don’t. But what you say makes sense. So okay, Celia, while you’re making your way to the top—and I truly believe you just might—I’ll be behind you, all the way.”

  His wife leaned over in her seat and kissed him. “I knew that all along. It’s one of the reasons I married you.”

  They felt the airplane’s engines moderate in tempo and the “Fasten Seat Belts” sign came on. Through windows on the port side the lights of Manhattan shimmered in early evening darkness. “In a few minutes,” a stewardess announced, “we will be landing at Idlewild International Airport.”

  Again Celia reached for Andrew’s hand.

  “And we’ll be starting our life together,” she said. “How can we miss?”

  5

  On returning to their separate jobs, Andrew and Celia discovered they had each, in differing ways, achieved celebrity status.

  Like many important medical developments, the news about Andrew’s successful use of Lotromycin took time to circulate but now, some six weeks after Mary Rowe’s remarkable recovery, it had been picked up by the national press.

  Morristown’s tiny Daily Record had carried the story first under a heading:

  Local Medic Uses Wonder Drug

  Patient’s “Miracle” Recovery

  The Newark Star-Ledger, which clearly scanned the local papers in its bailiwick, repeated the item which, in turn, came to the attention of science writers at the New York Times and Time. When Andrew returned he discovered that urgent phone messages had been left for him to call both publications, which he did. Still more publicity resulted, with Time, the more romantically inclined, adding to its report the fact of Andrew and Celia’s marriage.

  As well as all this, the New England Journal of Medicine informed Andrew that, subject to certain revisions, his article on Lotromycin would be published in due course. The suggested revisions were minor and Andrew agreed to them at once.

  “I don’t mind admitting I’m consumed with envy,” Dr. Noah Townsend observed when Andrew told him about the New England Journal. Then Andrew’s senior partner added, “But I console myself with the luster it’s already bringing to our practice.”

  Later, Townsend’s wife Hilda, attractive in her early fifties, confided to Andrew, “Noah won’t tell you this, but he’s so proud of you that nowadays he’s thinking of you like a son—the son we’d both have liked but never had.”

  Celia, while receiving less personal publicity, found her status at Felding-Roth changed in not-so-subtle ways.

  Previously she had been an anachronism, to some a source of curiosity and amusement—the firm’s sole saleswoman who, despite an initial and unexpected accomplishment in Nebraska, still had to prove herself over the long term. Not any more. Her handling of Lotromycin, and the continuing publicity which delighted Felding-Roth, had put both the drug and Celia squarely on the road to success.

  Within the company her name was now well known to top executives, including Felding-Roth’s president, Eli Camperdown, who sent for Celia a day after her return to work.

  Mr. Camperdown, a lanky, cadaverous industry veteran in his mid-sixties, who always dressed impeccably and was never seen without a red rose in his buttonhole, received Celia in his ornate office suite on the eleventh floor—executive country—of the Felding-Roth building in Boonton. He attended to the amenities first.

  “My congratulations on your marriage, Mrs. Jordan. I hope you’ll be happy.” He added with a smile, “I also trust that from now on your husband will prescribe nothing but Felding-Roth products.”

  Celia thanked him and decided the remark about Andrew was merely facetious, so let it go without pointing up her husband’s independence where drugs and medicine were concerned.

  “You have become something of a legend, young lady,” the president continued. “Living proof that an outstanding woman, occasionally, can be every bit as good as a man.”

  “I hope, sir,” Celia said sweetly, “that someday you won’t feel the need for that ‘occasionally.’ I believe you’ll see many more women in this business, and some may be even better than the men.”

  For a moment Camperdown seemed taken aback and frowned. Then, recovering his geniality, he said, “I suppose stranger things have happened. We’ll see. We’ll see.”

  They continued talking, Camperdown asking questions of Celia about her merchandising experiences. He seemed impressed by her informed, straightforward answers. Then, pulling a watch from a vest pocket, the president glanced at it and announced, “I’m about to hold a meeting here, Mrs. Jordan. It concerns a new drug we intend to market soon after Lotromycin. Perhaps you’d care to stay.”

  When she agreed that she would, the president called in a half-dozen male staff members who had been waiting outside in a secretary’s office. After introductions they all moved to a conference area of the office suite, seating themselves around a table with Camperdown at the head.

  The newcomers included the director of research, Dr. Vincent Lord, a recently recruited, youngish scientist; an elderly vice president of sales who was shortly to retire; and four others, including Sam Hawthorne. With the exception of Sam—the only one Celia had met previously—the others regarded her with frank curiosity.

  The new drug under consideration, Camperdown explained for Celia’s benefit, was not a product developed by Felding-Roth, but had been obtained under license from a West German company, Chemie-Grünenthal.

  “It is a sedative, one of the safest ever discovered,” the president declared, “and it produces a normal, refreshing sleep without unpleasant morning-after grogginess.” The product had no significant side effects, he continued, and was so safe it could be given to small children. The sedative was already on sale, and popular, in almost every major country except the United States. Now, Felding-Roth was fortunate in having the American rights.

  The name of the drug, Mr. Camperdown added, was Thalidomide.

  Despite Thalidomide’s proven safety record, trials of the drug on humans were required in the United States before its sale would be approved by the Food and Drug Administration. “In the circumstances, with all that first-rate foreign data,” Camperdown grumbled, “it’s a silly, bureaucratic requirement, but we have to live with it.”

  A discussion followed about where and how the U.S. trials of Thalidomide would be carried out. The director of research, Dr. Lord, favored recruitment of fifty or so physicians in private practice who would give the drug to patients, then report results which Felding-Roth would submit to FDA. “There should be a mix of general practitioners, internists, psychiatrists, and obstetricians,” he declared.

  The vice president of sales demanded, “How long will all that rigmarole take?”

  “Probably three months.”

  “Could you make it two? We need this product on the market.”

  “I think so.”

  Someone else, though, expressed concern about the trials being so widespread. Wouldn’t they be simpler and reporting be faster in a concentrated environment such as a hospital?

  After several minutes of discussion Camperdown interjected with a smile, “Perhaps our young lady guest has some
thoughts on the subject.”

  “Yes, I have,” Celia said.

  All heads turned toward her.

  She spoke carefully, aware that her presence here was unusual, even privileged; therefore it would be foolish to spoil the opportunity by seeming too assured or brash.

  “One thing that could be worrisome,” Celia said, “is the suggestion that obstetricians prescribe this drug. This means pregnant women would be taking it, and it’s usually advised that pregnancy is not a time for experimenting in any way.”

  Dr. Lord interrupted testily. “In this case that doesn’t apply. Thalidomide has been widely used in Europe and elsewhere, and those taking it have included pregnant women.”

  “Just the same,” Sam Hawthorne put in quietly, “Mrs. Jordan has a point.”

  Celia continued, “A question which might be asked is this: Who are the people who have the most trouble sleeping, and therefore need a sleeping pill? Well, based on my experience in detailing—visiting hospitals and institutions, as well as doctors—I’d say old people, especially geriatric patients.”

  She had the group’s attention. Several around the table nodded agreement at the last remark. Dr. Lord, his face set stiffly, did not.

  “So what I’d recommend,” Celia said, “is that our testing of Thalidomide be done in one or two old people’s homes. If it’s of any use, I know of two of them—one in Lincoln, Nebraska, the other outside Plainfield in this state. Both are well run and efficient, and would keep good records. In both places I’ve met the doctors in charge and would be glad to contact them.”

  When Celia had finished there was an uncertain silence. Eli Camperdown broke it. The Felding-Roth president sounded surprised.

  “I don’t know what the rest of you think, but what Mrs. Jordan has just suggested sounds to me like very good sense.”

  Having been shown the way, others added their agreement, though Dr. Lord remained silent. Celia immediately sensed an antagonism between herself and the director of research which would persist into the future.

  Soon after, a decision was made that Celia would telephone her institutional acquaintances next day and, if they seemed cooperative, the Research Department would take it from there.

  As the meeting broke up, Celia left first, amid smiles and friendly handshakes.

  A week or so later, having done what was asked, Celia learned through Sam Hawthorne that trials of Thalidomide at both of the old people’s homes would soon be under way.

  At the time, it seemed the end of a minor incident.

  Amid the pressures of their professional lives Andrew and Celia found time to look at houses for sale. One, which Celia found and liked, was at Convent Station, a residential suburb in Morris township, where homes were spaced widely apart and lawns and trees proliferated. As she pointed out when she called Andrew, the house was only two miles from his office and even closer to St. Bede’s Hospital. “That’s important,” Celia declared, “because I don’t want you to have to drive a long way, especially when you have night calls and may be tired.”

  The location would mean a ten-mile commute for Celia on the days she went to Felding-Roth at Boonton, but since most of her sales calls were in other parts of New Jersey, the distance was not important.

  But the house, which was a large, unoccupied, neglected, white-frame colonial, shocked Andrew when he saw it. He protested, “Celia, this broken-down old barn isn’t for us! Even if we patched it up, which looks impossible, what would we do with five bedrooms?”

  “There’d be one for us,” his wife explained patiently, “then one each for the children, and after they’re born we’ll want live-in help, so that’s one more.” The fifth bedroom, she added, would be for guests. “My mother will be coming to us occasionally, and maybe yours.”

  Celia also envisaged “a downstairs study-den which the two of us can share, and be together when we bring work home.”

  Though he had no intention of agreeing to such a wildly impractical idea, Andrew laughed. “You certainly look ahead.”

  “What neither of us will want,” Celia argued, “is the interruption and nuisance of changing homes every few years just because we need more space and didn’t plan for it.” She looked around her, surveying the cobwebbed, dirt-encrusted lower floor of the house through which they had walked on a Sunday afternoon in January, with pale sunshine glinting through grimy windows. “This place needs scouring, painting, organizing, but it can be beautiful—the kind of home we won’t want to leave unless we have to.”

  “I’m leaving right now,” Andrew said, “because what this place needs most is a bulldozer.” He added, with rare impatience. “You’ve been right about a lot of things, but not this time.”

  Celia seemed undeterred. Putting her arms around Andrew, she stood on tiptoes to kiss him. “I still think I’m right. Let’s go home and talk about it.”

  Later that night, reluctantly, Andrew gave in and next day Celia negotiated the purchase at a bargain price and arranged a mortgage. The down payment created no difficulty. Both she and Andrew had saved money from their earnings over the preceding few years and their combined current incomes were strong.

  They moved in near the end of April, and almost at once Andrew conceded he had been wrong about the house. “I already like it,” he said on their first day; “I may even get to love it.” The renovation had cost less than he expected and results were impressive, even beautiful.

  It was a happy time for them both, not least because Celia was, by now, five months pregnant.

  6

  The birth of Celia and Andrew’s first child occurred—as Andrew was apt to tell his hospital colleagues—“precisely according to Celia’s schedule.”

  It happened in August 1958, nine months and one week after their marriage, and the child was a girl, healthy, weighing seven and a half pounds. She was a contented baby who cried hardly at all. They named her Lisa.

  During her pregnancy Celia had been firm about birth procedures, which caused an early clash with her obstetrician, Dr. Paul Keating, a fellow staff member of Andrew’s at St. Bede’s Hospital. Keating, a fussy, middle-aged man who inclined to pomposity, told Andrew at one point, “Your wife is really quite impossible.”

  “I know what you mean,” Andrew sympathized, “but it sure makes life interesting. The funny thing is, what’s impossible for some people becomes possible for Celia.”

  A day or two earlier Celia had informed Dr. Keating, “I’ve been studying natural childbirth and have begun the exercises which go with it.” When the obstetrician smiled indulgently she added, “I’ll want to participate actively in labor and be fully aware at the moment of birth. That means no anesthesia. Also, I want no episiotomy.”

  Keating’s smile changed to a frown. “My dear Mrs. Jordan, both those decisions must be taken by your obstetrician during delivery.”

  “I disagree,” Celia said quietly and calmly. “If I concede that, I’m likely to be overruled at a moment when I’m not at my best.”

  “What if there’s an emergency?”

  “That’s entirely different. If it happened, obviously you’d have to exercise judgment and do what was needed. But afterward you would have to satisfy me, and also Andrew, that an emergency had existed.”

  Dr. Keating grunted noncommittally, then said, “Concerning an episiotomy. You may not realize that cutting the perineum with surgical scissors just before birth prevents a tear when the baby’s head emerges—a tear that is painful and heals less easily than a clean surgical cut.”

  “Oh, I do realize that,” Celia said. “And I’m sure you’re equally aware of the increasing number of doctors and nurse-midwives who disagree with that view.”

  Ignoring the obstetrician’s growing disapproval, Celia added, “There are plenty of recorded cases where natural tears have healed quickly, whereas episiotomies have not, and have produced infections or months of postpartum pain, or both.”

  Dr. Keating regarded her dourly. “You seem to know all the a
nswers.”

  “Not at all,” Celia assured him. “It’s just that it’s my body and my baby.”

  “Speaking of your body,” the obstetrician said, “I’ll point out that although it is not the purpose of an episiotomy, the sewing up afterward does maintain vaginal tightness.”

  “Yes,” Celia acknowledged, “I’m aware that vaginal tightness is for the pleasure of my future sex partner. Well, doctor, I don’t want any complaints from my husband about a loose vagina, so after my baby is born I’ll do exercises to tighten the pelvic muscles.”

  Soon after, by mutual consent, Celia changed obstetricians and became the patient of Dr. Eunice Nashman, who was older than Dr. Keating but young enough in mind to share many of Celia’s ideas.

  Subsequent to Lisa’s birth Eunice Nashman confided to Andrew, “Your wife is a remarkable woman. There were moments when she was in great pain and I asked if she wanted to change her mind about anesthesia.”

  Andrew, who had intended to be present at the birth but was called away by a medical emergency involving one of his own patients, asked curiously, “What did she say?”

  Dr. Nashman answered, “She just said, ‘No, but someone please hold me.’ So one of the nurses put her arms around your wife and comforted her, and that was all she needed.

  “Then, when your daughter was born, we didn’t take the baby away, as usually happens, but just left her lying with Celia, and the two of them together were so at peace it was beautiful to see.”

  As she had said she would, Celia took a year off from work to give her attention and love to Lisa. She also used the time to continue organizing their Convent Station house, which proved to be everything she had foreseen and promised. “I do love it,” Andrew observed glowingly one day.

  At the same time Celia kept in touch with Felding-Roth. Sam Hawthorne had moved upward to become assistant national sales manager and had promised Celia a job when she was ready to return.

  The year was a good one for Felding-Roth Pharmaceuticals, Inc. A few months after the publicity concerning Dr. Andrew Jordan’s dramatic use of Lotromycin, the U.S. Food and Drug Administration approved the drug for marketing. Lotromycin went on to become successful and praised worldwide, and one of the more profitable products in Felding-Roth’s history. Celia’s own contribution to the Lotromycin launch caused executives of the company to endorse Sam Hawthorne’s willingness to have her return.