|
|
|
A Protocol to Die For by Margaret B. Davidson
Professor Wilfred Winship had failed in his recent bid for the neuroscience Chair because, in the opinion of his peers, his research was going nowhere.
"How long, Winship," had enquired Turner, the outgoing Chair, "will you continue the use of rats as subjects? I am sure we are all grateful for your decimation of the rodent population, but perhaps it is time you applied your inestimable work to the benefit of a higher species, if you perceive there is any benefit at all."
"I have been running rats on a treadmill for years."
"Precisely."
Wilfred hated Turner, not in small part because Turner knew darned well that Wilfred had published nothing in the past ten years. "Sloppy premises." "Faulty statistics." "Research not relevant." Not relevant! His painstakingly achieved results showed exactly how much dosage of sleeping pills could kill a rat of any given breed or weight. And now––now he was about to take a leap forward. He was moving on to rabbits.
It was indeed disappointing that the pharmaceutical industry had shown so little interest in his work.
If only he'd gotten the Chair's position. With that exalted title on his applications, funding would soon have followed. And why hadn't he got the Chair? Because his colleagues were jealous, that's why. And then there was the matter of Millicent. Millicent took pleasure in laughing with the other faculty wives over what she perceived as the inanity of his research.
It was really most unfortunate about his wife.
Then, in the very midst of his musings, Wilfred experienced one of those eureka moments that every scientist lives for. It was an epiphany that transcended the rigors of all that had gone before––those tedious hours of weighing subjects, recording those weights in ledgers, and hundreds of hours wasted playing Doodle-Hop on the internet while waiting for a subject to flop off the treadmill, thus signaling its demise.
Professor Wilfred Winship hopped in glee. He was going to skip rabbits.
Late that afternoon, Wilfred opened a ledger and recorded, with meticulous care, his newly thought-out experimental protocol. Then he left for home, taking the ledger with him.
Millicent was the recipient of two sleeping pills that night, crushed in her bedtime glass of milk. The next night she received three, and the next four.
Wilfred wondered whether he would miss his wife, but he thought not. What he did regret was that he wasn't going to be able to share his results with anybody at all. However, he consoled himself, he would write an academic paper on the new direction his experimentation had taken, and he would arrange for it to be published posthumously. Oh how his colleagues would rue their derision. How they would regret not having taken the time to pick his superior brain when they'd had the chance. Yes, better recognition after death than no recognition at all.
The strange thing was, though, he himself was feeling rather under the weather these days.
One morning, a week later, Wilfred was barely able to get out of bed. Meanwhile, Millicent, who was now up to ten pills per night, appeared as spry as ever. Wilfred, thinking he was in need of a vacation, decided to skip phases two and three of his protocol, and proceed directly to phase four. The sooner he got his work out of the way, the sooner he could apply for a sabbatical.
Wilfred crushed thirty pills that night, and stirred them into his wife's milk. Then he poured another glass for himself and took them both into the bedroom. After completing his nightly ablutions he climbed into bed, noting that Millicent was asleep already. He drank his milk and opened a book.
The problem was he couldn't seem to concentrate. No, that wasn't exactly it. The problem was that his head was swimming and the rows of print before his eyes were blurring into one single line that wove back and forth across the page. Panicked, he turned to shake his wife awake, but found she was already sitting up in bed.
"Millicent, call 911!"
"Why, whatever's the matter, dear?"
"Can't you see I'm sick?" Wilfred gasped.
"Oh, you're not sick, dear. Just a little sleepy is all."
"But—"
"It's really rather simple, you see. Turner wants me to marry him, and I've always fancied having more prestige among the wives. Being married to the Chair would give me that. The problem I perceived, though, was how was I to realize my ambition without the scandal of divorce? But, then, you kindly provided the answer. I found your silly little ledger, you see––oh, you've gone to sleep, haven't you dear?"
"Yes, Inspector, he was most depressed about his research. He felt it was going nowhere, you see…."
THE END Margaret B. Davidson © 2007 |
