GRAY MATTER (22 page)

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Authors: Gary Braver

BOOK: GRAY MATTER
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“You know,” Sheila said as they walked outside, “there was this poll I read about the other day. You know, one of those factoid things you see on CNN? Well, they did a national survey of a few thousand people. They asked
a simple question: ‘If there was one thing that you could change about yourself what would it be?’ The choices were to be better looking, younger, taller, nicer, less selfish, more outgoing et cetera. Even wealthier. You know what over eighty percent of the respondents said they wished?”
“What?”
“They said they wished they were
smarter.
”
Sheila walked away to greet Lucinda who stood like a statue waiting. Behind her Dylan burst out of the door with the others. “Hi, honey,” Rachel said as she stooped to catch Dylan. He gave her a big hug.
“Mom, you know what?”
“What?”
“I know all the days of the week.”
“You do?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Monday, Tuesday, Wegsday, Fursday, Somesday.”
In the distance, Lucinda walked toward the green Jaguar holding Sheila’s hand in her left and a laptop in her right.
“
D
-d-did they love each other?”
“Of course they loved each other,” Richard growled. “What the hell kind of a question is that? They were crazy about each other.”
“I was j-just wondering.”
“You must remember them.”
“Kind of.”
“And if they were alive today, they’d want your ass back in school.”
They had been through this countless times since he quit last year, and Richard looked for every opportunity to nag him about it.
Brendan continued driving without comment, hoping that Richard would just run out of steam. They were coming back from Richard’s men’s club where he’d spend the afternoons playing cards with some of the other Barton old-timers.
“Why don’t you go back in the fall, for cryin’ out loud?” he asked. “You’re not going to get anywhere waiting tables. You’re too damn smart for that. I don’t want to see you waste your life.”
“I d-d-don’t like school.”
“You didn’t give it a try. I almost never saw you crack open a book, except all that poetry stuff.”
Brendan didn’t respond.
“You finish school, go to college, and get yourself a degree like all the other kids. Your parents did. Jeez, if they were still alive they’d kill me for letting you quit. You should do it for their sake, for cryin’ out loud.”
“M-maybe.” Brendan’s mother had been a defense lawyer and his father was a librarian. And, as Richard often reminded him, they were “education-minded” people.
“Otherwise, you’re gonna end up like me, working with your hands and killing yourself for every buck you make.” He held up his hands, now knobbed and bent with arthritis.
“But you liked being a plumber.”
Richard humpfed. “Yeah, I did. But tell that to my joints and lower lumbar.” He rolled his head the way he did when the arthritis in his neck flared up. Richard once said that he had lived most of his life without pain—it had been saved for the end.
Brendan turned down Main Street of Barton. To the right was Angie’s Diner. For a second, he felt his head throb. “Was she pretty?”
“Who?”
“My m-mother.”
“How could you not remember? She was beautiful.” There was a catch in his voice. Richard was Brendan’s mother’s father. “She looked like her mother.”
Brendan gave him a side-glance. Richard was crying. He had not seen Richard cry since his wife, Betty, died some years ago. He envied Richard, because Brendan could not recall ever crying. Maybe it was the medication his doctor had him on. Or maybe he was just dead. “I remember her,” he said.
“You should with your memory, for cryin’ out loud.”
But the truth was that Brendan only recalled his parents during the last few years of their lives. Before that—before he was seven—he drew a near blank, including nothing of his earlier years; yet he could recite most of what he had read or seen and could recall great sweeps of recent experiences in uncannily vivid details. It was as if his life before age seven didn’t exist.
“I w-w-wish I’d known them better.”
Richard nodded and wiped his eyes.
I wish I could cry like you,
Brendan thought.
If I took your medicine away and let you die, would I cry like that? Would I?
(God! Do I have to think murder to feel human?)
They rode in silence for a few minutes. Then Brendan asked, “When you were in the war, did you ever kill anyone?”
Richard gave him his wincing scowl. “Why the hell you want to know that?”
“I’m just w-w-wondering.” Richard once told him he had spent weeks in Okinawa.
“Yeah, I killed some people. Why, you thinking of killing somebody?”
“I’m just w-w-wondering how it made you feel afterward.”
“They were Japs, and it was war. It was what I was supposed to do.”
“Later on, after the war, did it b-b-bother you when you thought about it? That they were human beings you’d killed?”
“No, because I didn’t think about it. Just as they didn’t think of all my twenty-year-old buddies they killed as
human
beings.”
Richard’s voice cracked again. “Jeez, can we change the subject?”
The thrum of the wheels filled the silence. Then Brendan asked, “Were you scared of dying?”
“Of course I was scared. We all were. What do you think? We were kids, for cryin’ out loud. We had our whole lives ahead of us.”
“What about now?”
Richard humpfed. “I’m seventy-nine, Brendy. That’s a lot of mileage. I’m ready to get off the bus, but I’m not scared. Not at all. Why you asking?”
“Just curious.”
Richard humpfed. “But there’s a few things I want to see get done before I go. Like seeing you getting your ass back in school and going to college. Don’t give me that look. You’re a talented kid—I just don’t want to see you waste your life. That’s the promise I made to your mom, and that’s what I want to take to my grave with me.”
Brendan’s eye fell on the Christopher medal on the dashboard. “D-do you believe in God?”
“What are you doing, writing my obituary or something?”
“J-j-just curious.”
“Yeah, I believe in God.” Richard winced and rolled his head again. Then he chuckled. “But I’m not sure He believes in me.”
Brendan turned down their street, thinking that he might actually miss Richard.
Richard wiped his nose on his handkerchief as they approached the house. “You know, there are a couple boxes of their stuff downstairs in the cellar you might want to go through,” Richard said. “A lot of old papers and things. Maybe even some old photographs. I don’t know what’s in there. Your grandmother had packed them away, but you might want to look. It’ll be good for you.”
Brendan pulled the truck into the driveway and helped Richard into the house. While the old man settled in his La-Z Boy with the newspaper, Brendan went down to the cellar.
The place was a mess. Beside the workbench was an old lawnmower engine on a mount which Brendan had taken apart to rewire. He liked working with machines. Just for the challenge of it, he would disassemble clocks or old motors until he had a heap of parts, then reassemble them from memory. He never missed.
He moved to the very back of the cellar and opened the small storage room which sat under a window through which, in years past, a chute would be lowered to fill the area with coal. Now it was stacked with boxes and old storage chests.
On top lay Richard’s shotgun in its imitation-leather sheath. They had used it for skeet shooting when Brendan was younger. He zipped it open and studied the weapon. It was a Remington classic twelve-gauge pump action piece with contoured vent rib barrels and twin bead sights. It had been fashioned of polished blue steel and American walnut. The wood had lost most of its gloss and the barrel badly needed polishing. But it was still a handsome weapon. As he felt the heft, scenes of skeet and trap shooting with Richard flickered though Brendan’s mind. And the nights when he contemplated blowing his own head off.
He put the gun away and went through the boxes.
Many contained baby effects—clothes, shoes, a set of Beatrix Potter baby dishes and cups. There were also some of Brendan’s early school- and artwork. The drawings were very primitive, stick-figured people and houses barely recognizable. The schoolwork was also unimpressive. He recalled none of it.
After several minutes, he located a carton with papers and photographs. His mother apparently was something of a photographer because she had put together albums chronicling Brendan from his earliest days as an infant up to five years of age. The photographs mostly in color, a few black-and-whites, were arranged chronologically and dated. Brendan spent nearly an hour going through them page by page.
Although he recognized himself and his parents from other photographs upstairs, it was like looking at somebody else’s history. None of the locales, toddler clothes, toys, or even images of his parents seemed to connect to him—none triggered a cascade of recollection. Nor a nostalgic glugging of his throat.
Behind the other storage boxes was a metal strongbox—the only metal container
and the only one that was sealed with a lock. The box was heavy and not just from the metal. He had no idea where the key was, of course; but that was no problem since the lock was cheap hardware-store fare. He got some wires and a jackknife from the workbench and popped it open in a matter of moments.
The contents were mostly papers in folders and manila envelopes. There were various medical reports and letters.
One particular folder caught his attention. Inside was a generic medical form for Children’s Hospital Office of Neurology. It had been filled out just after his ninth birthday but for some reason never submitted. The front listed Brendan’s name, address, date of birth, et cetera. On the reverse side was a long checklist of various ailments including several lines at the bottom asking simply for “Other.” The form had been filled out and signed at the bottom by his mother. Brendan stared at the list. She had checked off several boxes including
Headaches, Sleep disorders, Depression, Nightmares,
and
Mood swings
. In the margin she had written in: “hears voices” and “verbal outbursts—Tourette syndrome?”
In the spaces at the bottom she had penned “Tried to kill himself.”
He remembered that vividly. He had seen a show on television where some guy committed suicide by sitting in his car in an enclosed garage with the engine running. He had tried that and recalled getting his father’s car keys, going out to the car, closing the door with the remote control attached to the sun visor, turning it on, then sitting and waiting. He even recalled getting sleepy. The next thing he remembered was waking up in the emergency room at Newton Wellesley Hospital.
After that they had upped his meds. He remembered because it was around Thanksgiving. Then a few weeks later, his parents were killed. Then he moved in with his grandparents and they found him a pediatrician who just continued the meds. Soon Brendan began to better mask his problems, internalizing them, developing strategies to keep the demons in low profile.
He continued through the papers.
What caught his attention immediately was a large accordion folder. On the tab, somebody had written BRENDAN. There was a date from when he was five years old. He unfastened the string close and opened it.
Inside was another large envelope containing several black sheets. He removed one and raised it to the light. And for a long moment he looked at the images.
They were X rays of his brain.
“
Y
ou told her about Julian Watts?”
“They want to meet another child and the parents. They won’t consider it otherwise.”
“That’s not the point, Sheila,” Lucius Malenko said. “You were not to say anything until you cleared it with me first.”
“But she insisted.”
“You were not sanctioned to reveal names. Do you understand?”
“I’m sorry, Doctor,” she pleaded, “but, you know, he’s a real showcase genius, he’s perfect. And she knows Vanessa.”
“You do not make the decisions, is that clear?” The scalpel-edge of his words cut into her brain.
“Yes, I’m really sorry,” Sheila whimpered into the phone. For several seconds all she could hear was the sound of an open line. While she waited for his response, her insides tightened.
“They’ll have to observe him at school to keep things anonymous,” he said.
“Of course. No other way.”
“You’ll have to arrange that.”
“I can do that, no problem,” Sheila said, feeling her organs settle in place again.
“No private interviews with him.”
“No, of course not. I promise.”
“I’ll handle the parents,” Malenko said. “In the meantime, you will say nothing, you will do nothing. Is that understood?”
“Yes, absolutely.”
Sheila was in her office in the loft on the third floor of her house. Being so high up, she had a commanding view of their backyard. In a few days, the area would be decorated for Lucinda’s birthday party. Sheila had invited ten girls from school, from DellKids, and the neighborhood. At the moment, Lucinda was downstairs playing with her birthday kitten. Sheila could hear her talking to it over the songs on her CD player.
Two days ago, Sheila had given Lucinda the kitten so that she could get used to it before all the kids showed up for the party. It was Lucinda’s first pet—a beautiful little orange and white longhaired twelve-week-old thing with big round blue eyes. Sheila had gotten it from the Salem Animal Shelter. Lucinda had taken to it immediately. Sheila’s mind tripped back:
“She’s so pretty, Mommy,” she had said. “But aren’t cats sneaky?”
“No, they’re not sneaky, hon.”
The kitten sat curled in a basket with a cushion in it, which was how Sheila had presented it to Lucinda.
“What shall we call her?”
“Whatever you like. I’m sure you can think of a clever name.”
Lucinda knelt down beside the basket, and the kitten seemed to cower slightly. It was clearly shy of people. “It has big white paws,” she said. “How about Mittens?”
The kitten looked up at them and made a faint mewing. “That’s a nice name,” Sheila said.
Lucinda’s eyes raked Sheila’s face. Then her expression hardened. “You don’t like the name!”
“Yes I do, honey. Mittens is an adorable name. Just like in the nursery rhyme.”
“No, you don’t like it. I can tell from your expression.”
There was no pretending with Lucinda. She had developed a frustratingly keen instinct for catching her. “I love it,” Sheila insisted. But in truth, she had expected a more imaginative, more creative name from her—and not some trite kiddy moniker from her books. But how do you say that to Lucinda?
“No you don’t,” she said in a scathing voice. “You think it’s a dumb name. You do, you do.”
“No I don’t. Mittens is a lovely name.”
“You’re a dirty rotten liar.”
Although Sheila should have been used to her daughter’s occasional lapses, she was always taken aback. “Don’t talk to me that way, young lady.”
“Then don’t lie to me,
old lady
. You hate the name. Admit it! ADMIT IT!”
Lucinda’s icy blue stare stuck Sheila like a paralyzing needle. “I
don’t
hate the name.”
“You do. You do,” she screamed. “I hate you. I hate you. I hope you get cancer and die.” Lucinda then snatched up the kitten from the basket and stormed out of the room. “Stupid bitch!”
As Lucinda headed for her room, Sheila heard Lucinda cry out, “Ouch! Don’t do that, you dummy!” Before Lucinda banged her door closed, the kitten let out a long sharp cry.
Was it worth it?
a voice deep in Sheila’s mind whispered.
“Perhaps you can arrange a school tour,” Malenko said, snapping her back to the moment.
“Yes, of course. I know one of the admissions officers.” It would have to be soon since school was nearly out.
“Good.”
There was another pause on the phone, which tugged at Sheila. She had sold hundreds of homes over the years. She had haggled over prices, P&S agreements, split hairs, gone back and forth with buyers and sellers. She was used to talking turkey about price. But with Lucius Malenko, she always felt as if her will were extinguished. “And if they agree … you know, go all the way, then …”
“You’ll get your finder’s fee, Sheila.”
“That’s great, thanks.” Sheila felt a cool rush of relief. He had promised her five percent commission. Five percent didn’t sound like much, but it would help. Harry had been a top electrical engineer, but clueless when it came to financial planning, leaving her only a pittance in death benefits. Given the considerable debt they had gotten into with Lucinda’s enhancement and the weakening real estate market, Sheila was in dire financial straits. So when she had approached Dr. Malenko about Rachel Whitman, he had agreed that if things worked, she would get a commission—a finder’s fee. She only wished there were something in writing. But this was not that kind of contract.
While they continued to talk, Sheila heard something from down below.
A kind of muffled whirring sound. It was hard to determine because Lucinda’s CD player was blasting a sound track from
101 Dalmatians.
Like all large old houses, this had several different sounds—the hot-water heater, refrigerator, the dishwasher, the washing machine and drier, the water rushing in the pipes, the air-conditioning system—so she wasn’t able to determine what she was hearing under the music.
“By the way,” Sheila said, “I think the husband, Martin, is very interested.”
“So it seems,” Malenko said.
The blender, Sheila thought. Lucinda was using the blender. She liked to make milk shakes with ice cream, milk, and fruit, and Sheila had bought a quart of strawberries yesterday for that purpose. And although Lucinda was only seven, Sheila had shown her how to use the device safely. Besides, the blades could only be activated with the top fastened.
“I will contact Vanessa and get back to you,” Malenko said. “Then we’ll talk about a visit. The sooner the better.”
“Yes, of course,” Sheila said.
“And, once again, you will say nothing until you hear from me.”
“Absolutely.”
Malenko hung up, and Sheila put the phone down, her heart still racing. She had blabbed and felt stupid, and Malenko all but said that. If he wanted to, he could cut her off immediately.
From below, the music was now resonating throughout the house. She didn’t know if the kitchen windows were open, but Sheila’s first concern was not the neighbors but Lucinda’s ears. She could permanently damage her hearing.
Sheila opened the door of her office and headed down. “Lucinda,” she called out. “Is everything okay?”
But the music drowned her out.
“Lucinda?” Sheila rounded the second-floor landing. When she reached the stairs, the music suddenly stopped dead, and a gaping silence filled the house, the only sound being Sheila’s shoes as she came down the stairs.
Before she got to the bottom, she heard Lucinda cry out from the kitchen: “Mommy, Mommy.”
Sheila’s heart nearly stopped. “What is it?” she cried, as she hustled down the hall to the kitchen.
“Mittens ran away.”
“What?”
“I went outside and couldn’t find her,” Lucinda said, grabbing her mother’s hand and pulling her to the back door.
“How did she get out?”
As she opened it, Sheila noticed her hand. There were thin scratches just above the wrist.
“Your hand is bleeding. What happened?”
Through gulping sobs Lucinda said, “I was unloading the dishwasher to get Mittens’ dish when I scratched it on a stupid fork. Then her face hardened. “It’s your fault. You know you’re not supposed to put the forks tines-up but tines-down. You know that, MOMMY.”
“I’m sorry, honey,” Sheila mumbled.
“I had the back door closed, but when Joe the mailman threw in the mail, he left it open and she got out.” Her face crumbled. “He’s a stupid old man, Mommy. I hate him.” And she ran outside.
Sheila followed her, a low-grade humming filling her head. Before she stepped outside, she looked back in the kitchen. She was right: On the counter sat half a bowl of strawberries, and the blender containing the bright red drink. The smell of strawberries laced the air. Everything looked normal—except for the empty cat basket.
“Here, Mittens. Here, Mittens,” Lucinda cried, running across the backyard and making kissing sounds. “Come home, please. Mittens, come home.”
Sheila felt oddly distracted as she watched her daughter go through the motions of finding her kitten. “Did you see which way she ran?”
“Yes, this way. I think she was chasing after a bird.”
“Well, I’m sure she’ll come home.”
Lucinda dragged Sheila into the woods, and they looked and called for the kitten. But after several minutes, Lucinda tired of the search and headed back to the backyard and flopped down on her swing. She stuck her lower lip out. “She’s never going to come home.”
Sheila squatted down beside her. She had splashed some berry juice on her T-shirt. “Yes she will,” Sheila said. “She’s probably out there under a bush watching us right now. She’ll be back.”
But something told her that was not so.
Lucinda looked up at Sheila, her eyes like marbles and her face set the
way it got when she was reading Sheila’s manner. Suddenly she broke into a smile and spread her arms. “I love you, Mommy.”
Sheila embraced her. “I love you, too.”
Lucinda then got up and took her mother’s hand and headed back to the house. “You know, I miss her already,” she said, and licked the back of her other hand. “She was such a nice kitty.”
“But she may still come back.”
“I know, but if she doesn’t can we get another one?”
“Sure.”
“And without claws?”

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