GRAY MATTER (11 page)

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Authors: Gary Braver

BOOK: GRAY MATTER
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“
Numero uno,”
as her father said.
“Numero uno.”
“
Never
settle for second best,”
Kingman DaFoe once told her years ago. And he had reminded her ever since:
“Who remembers vice presidents? Who remembers silver-medal Olympians? Who remembers Oscar nominees? You’ve got number-one stuff, Nicole, so go for it!”
Daddy’s words were like mantras. And ever since she had entered Bloomfield ten years ago, they were scored on her soul right down to the DNA level.
Nicole DaFoe had a grade point of 3.92, and Amy Tran had a 3.93. She knew this because she got Michael to check the transcripts. If Michael gave Amy a grade of B in his U.S. History course, she would drop to 3.91, leaving Nicole in first place. Which meant the Andrew Dale Laurent Fellowship was hers. And everybody would know.
“Michael, I’m asking you to do this for me.”
“I’ll think about it,” he said, and headed for the window.
She pulled him back. “Michael, promise me.”
“Nicole, I think your obsession with grades is a problem.”
“Say you’ll do it.”
“This is bad enough, but now you’re asking me to compromise professional ethics and downgrade another kid so you can get an award.”
“It’s not just the award.”
“That’s what bothers me. See you Monday and get that paper in.” He pulled his arm free and slipped out the window.
In a moment, he was climbing down the drainpipe as he had done before.
“Fuck your professional ethics,” she whispered. “And fuck you, Mr. Kaminsky.”
When he was out of sight, she looked back in the room—at the bookcase on the far wall. She walked to it and reached up to the second shelf and moved aside some books to reveal the small wireless video camera. She rewound it, pressed Play, and watched the whole scene from the moment Michael climbed through her window.
Then she looked at the photos on the wall. The shot of the Biology Club on a field trip. There was Amy Tran with the flat grinning face, the greasy black hair and chipped tooth, the stupid slitted eyes, the breathy simpering voice and ugly ching-chong accent that charmed the teachers who thought it wonderful how she took extra English courses and worked around the clock because she was a poor and underprivileged foreigner.
Nicole hissed to herself and gouged out Amy’s eyes with a razor knife.
Nobody remembers seconds.
“
H
ey, look at the tiger,” Dylan hooted. On the far side of a small water hole was a long-legged cat pacing back and forth, his eyes fixed someplace in the far distance.
“That’s not a tiger, it’s a cheetah,” declared Lucinda, pointing to the sign in front of Dylan.
A couple of the kids giggled at Dylan’s mistake.
“C-H-E-E-T-A-H,” Lucinda said. “Can’t you read?”
“I can read,” Dylan said weakly.
“No you can’t,” Lucinda said. “You can’t read anything.”
“Besides, tigers have stripes,” said Lucinda’s friend Courtney.
Lucinda shook her head at him in disgust. “You must be taking stupid pills.”
Sheila and Rachel were maybe ten feet behind them, but Rachel heard the comment and instantly saw red. From the look on Dylan’s face, he was clearly wounded. Rachel’s body lurched, but she caught herself, exerting every fiber of self-control not to fly at Lucinda and smash her fat little self satisfied face.
“Lucinda!” Sheila cried and grabbed her daughter by the arm. “I don’t want to hear that kind of talk from you ever!” she growled, wagging her finger in her face. “Do you understand me, young lady? Do you? DO YOU?”
Lucinda’s face froze in shock at her mother’s reaction.
“You do not talk to other people that way,” Sheila continued. “I want you to apologize to Dylan right now.” Sheila steered her toward him.
Rachel half-expected Lucinda to begin crying at the humiliation, but instead she turned her face to Dylan. “Sor-reee,” she sang out.
Dylan shrugged. “That’s okay.”
But Sheila wouldn’t let go. She had taken Lucinda’s arm and pulled her aside. “Say it like you mean it,” she snapped.
“That’s fine,” Rachel said, wanting to stop her from dragging out the incident.
But Sheila persisted. “Say it
properly.
”
“I’m sorry,” Lucinda said in a flat voice.
Sheila started to insist her daughter affect a tone of remorse, when Rachel cut her off. “We accept your apology, right?” she asked Dylan.
“Sure,” he muttered. He was beginning to squirm from the attention. He also wanted to get back to the others enjoying the cheetah. Then in all innocence he added: “I
am
stupid.”
“No you’re not,” Rachel said. “You’re
not
… Don’t even use that word.”
He and Lucinda moved to the group of kids.
“I’m really sorry about that,” Sheila said. “Really. That was uncalled for.”
Rachel nodded and looked away, wishing that Sheila would drop the subject. Her overreaction was making it worse—as if Lucinda had called a paraplegic a “crip.” Because he was young, Dylan would repair. But on a subconscious level he must have absorbed something of the message. How many times must you be told you’re a dummy before you internalize it?
The rest of the morning passed without other incidents.
Later, on the bus, Rachel could hear Lucinda challenge the other kids to an impromptu spelling bee, then an arithmetic contest—mostly who could add or subtract numbers in their heads. She was clearly the Dells power kid, always pontificating, always needing to show how clever she was, how much more she knew than the others. And even though most kids were too young to rank each other, Lucinda had already established the mind-set that Dylan was at the bottom of the hierarchy: the one to pick on—the class dope.
Throughout the ride, Rachel tried to keep up conversation with Sheila, but her mind was aswirl with emotion. By the time the bus arrived back at the Dells, she had put away the anger, resentment, and envy, leaving her with an overwhelming sense of sadness not unlike grief.
When she got home, Rachel found a voice message from Martin saying he would be getting home late that night and would have dinner in town. So she dropped Dylan off with her sitter who was free and headed to an afternoon exercise class at Kingsbury Club just outside of Hawthorne. It would feel good to throw herself into some mindless technomusic aerobics just to work off the stress.
The place, a large structure tastefully designed and nestled between an open field and conservation area, was a full-service fitness center with tennis courts, full-length pool, a workout gym with all the latest in exercise equipment. Shortly after she had joined, she convinced Sheila to do the same.
The parking lot was more than half-full at that time of day. When she did not spot Sheila’s green Jaguar, she felt relieved. She didn’t want to see her. She didn’t want to talk to her.
Her aerobics class had about twenty women, some of whom she was friendly with. But she did not feel friendly this afternoon, so she skipped the two o’clock class and headed for the treadmills.
About fifteen minutes into her workout, Rachel spotted Sheila through the windows to the lobby. Before Rachel could duck out of view, Sheila waved at her. In a few minutes Sheila showed up wearing a black warm-up suit with white stripes.
“Mind if I join you?” she asked, getting on the adjacent machine.
“I’m only on for another ten minutes,” Rachel said.
“That’s fine. I’m here for a quick hit. I’ve got a place to show at three.”
Rachel clicked up her speed a couple of tenths until she was at a full power walk. Meanwhile, Sheila got herself into a stiff gait. They kept that up silently for several minutes until Rachel dropped her speed to cool off and coast to a finish. Sheila did the same.
“Sorry about this morning,” Sheila said, after catching her breath.
“No problem.” Rachel got off the machine and mopped her face. She guzzled down some water from her bottle and started to head for the free weights, hoping Sheila would stay on her machine. But she got off, not having even worked up the slightest sweat. A quick hit that was hardly worth the effort.
They were in the main fitness room, a large chamber with nobody within
earshot of them. So, on an impulse, Rachel announced, “I’m thinking of taking Dylan out of DellKids.”
“God, I hope not because of what happened.”
“No. It’s not Lucinda’s fault. We’re going to look for a more appropriate place for him. There’s a group in Bolton, and I hear the woman’s got an opening.”
Sheila nodded. “Have you spoken to Miss Jean?”
“No, but I will. And it’s not her fault, either. She’s been great with him. All of the DellKids staffers have.” Rachel expected Sheila to go on to deny the obvious, to be a good friend and conjure up all sorts of rationalizations and consolations.
But instead she nodded. “Lots of kids have learning disabilities.”
“I’m also thinking of finding a private school for him. I’m not sure Marsden Elementary has the best resources, especially with the budget cut. He’s going to need a more nurturing place with better special ed teachers.”
Sheila’s mood shifted slightly. Her cheery interest had faded into more serious speculation. “There are many good special schools,” Sheila said. “Chapman in Spring River is supposed to be excellent. There’s also the Taylor-Blessington in Wilton. Of course, there are several boarding schools out of state, if you want to go that route,” Sheila continued.
Suddenly Rachel wanted to end the conversation, and not just because the topic pained her. Something in Sheila’s interest struck her as suspicious. Maybe it was just raw envy, but Rachel resented Sheila’s solicitousness. She resented how Sheila could stand there smug in the certitude that her little brat had a lifetime ticket to ride while recommending for Dylan schools for intellectually handicapped kids. Besides, how the hell did she know so many special schools? “Can we change the topic, please?”
Sheila put her hand on Rachel’s. For a long moment she locked eyes with Rachel until she began to feel uncomfortable. “It really bothers you,” Sheila said, her face glowing with sincerity.
“What does?”
“His … disability.”
Rachel was nonplussed by Sheila’s obtuseness.
Of course it bothers me. How in hell could it not bother me?
“Sheila, why are you asking me this?”
“Because we’re friends, because you’re like me—the kind of mother who would do anything for your kid, right? Anything to make life better for them.”
Rachel did not know how to respond. She could not tell if Sheila was eliciting a genuine answer or just talking. “I’m sorry, but I don’t know what you’re getting at.”
“Now you’re getting edgy.”
“Yes, I’m getting edgy. I appreciate your concern, but I just don’t want to talk about it anymore. It’s a private matter. You can understand that.”
Sheila nodded. “What if I told you there may be something you could do for him?”
The intensity on Sheila’s face held Rachel’s attention. “Like what?”
“Something I heard about that you might want to look into, that’s all.”
“I’m listening.”
“You once told me that Dylan was born pigeon-toed.”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“Well, you took corrective measures, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Well … ?”
“Well
what?”
“Well, you had the problem fixed, right?”
“So?”
Sheila leaned forward and lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Well, I heard about a special procedure that’s …
corrective.”
The word hovered between them like a dark bird. For a second Rachel felt as if the room had shifted. “But that was medical.”
“I’m talking about one that, well … that
does
work.”
“Works
how?”
Sheila tapped the side of her head. “Improves a child’s cognitive functions—you know, memory, language, logic … intelligence.”
Intelligence
. Rachel couldn’t tell if Sheila was being vague on purpose or if she didn’t know what she was talking about. “I’m listening.”
“Well, they’ve got special procedures for children with learning disabilities and brain dysfunctions.”
“Nobody said my son has a brain dysfunction.”
“Of course not, but … Look, I’m no specialist. They can explain it better.”
“Who’s
they?”
“The people in charge. Doctors.”
Sheila was being irritatingly coy.
“Look, if we can get our kids’ teeth and noses and boobs fixed, why not their IQs?”
Rachel looked at her in disbelief. “Sheila, how can they do that? And what’s the name of the group? Who are they?”
Suddenly Sheila’s face flushed as if she had gone too far. “Look, let me get you some names and numbers then you can go from there.”
“But how come I haven’t heard about them?”
“You’re the new kid on the block. What can I say?”
For fifteen years Sheila had been working at New Century Realtors, the hottest franchise in the area. As office manager she was the undeclared mayor of Hawthorne. She knew everybody and their business. She was probably referring to one of those specialized instructional approaches that promised to raise your kid’s test results by a couple points, like those SAT prep courses.
Sheila glanced at her watch. “Oops. Gotta run.”
Before Rachel knew it, Sheila grabbed her water bottle and towel and gave Rachel an air kiss. “I’ll check for you and get back. See you at the game Saturday. Thorndyke Field at ten.” She meant the weekly soccer games for the town kids.
Rachel watched Sheila hustle across the room. She had a place to show across town in half an hour, surely not enough time to shower and change. In fact, she wasn’t even sweaty. So why did she even bother to work out?
It was another fitful night for Rachel. She woke up several times in a cold sweat, her heart racing and mind tormented by the thought that she had traded her son’s brain for good sex.
At one point she almost shook Martin awake and told him everything. But that would only have made things worse. No, this was her doing, and the punishment was hers to suffer alone. Besides, Martin would never forgive her. Never. And she could not blame him.
Sometime in the middle of the night, she decided she would call Dr. Stanley Chu in the morning. According to the
Newsweek
piece, he was the man who had headed up the research on TNT mutagenics. Maybe he could
help. Maybe if he knew the nature of the damage he could figure out a treatment—some
corrective
measure, to use Sheila’s word.
By the time she got out of bed the next morning, the man had become an obsession. She waited until Martin took Dylan to day care. Then about nine-thirty she called information and got the main number of Yale School of Medicine, which gave her the extension of Dr. Stanley Chu. Trembling as if there were a shaft of ice at the core of her body, she dialed. A woman answered. “Neurology.”
“Yes, Dr. Stanley Chu, please.”

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