Authors: Gary Braver
GRAY MATTER (2 page)
But in a flash-glimpse down the long corridor of time, she saw how hard life was going to be for him, especially being brought up in a community that thrived on merit.
“Was it something I said?” Sheila asked, noticing tears pool in Rachel’s eyes.
“No, of course not.” Rachel paused to compose herself as Brendan delivered the coffees then moved off to adjust the dinnerware at a nearby table.
She took a sip. “It’s Dylan. He’s fine … just fine … healthwise, thank God. It’s just that he’s got some learning disabilities.”
“He has?”
Rachel had known Sheila for only a few months, but she felt comfortable confiding in her. It was Sheila who had helped them get settled in town. Besides, all of Rachel’s old friends were fifty miles or more from here; and her mother lived in Phoenix, and her brother Jack, in San Diego. “He’s having difficulty reading,” she said. “He tries, but he has problems connecting written words to sounds.”
“Give him a break! He’s only six years old. Some kids start later than others.”
“I guess, but he’s a bit behind.” The reality was that the other kids in his class were miles beyond him. She and Martin had hoped to get him into Beaver Hill, a well-respected private elementary school where Lucinda was enrolled, but he didn’t pass the entrance tests. So they enrolled him at Marsden Public Elementary. Only a month into the school year, and his teacher had alerted Rachel to his language difficulties and problems following simple instructions.
“Have you tried those phonics books and tapes?” Sheila asked.
“We’ve got all of them—books, tapes, videos. You name it. We even have a language therapist. He’s got some kind of blockage or whatever. He doesn’t get it.”
“But he will. All kids do. He’s just a late bloomer. In ten years he’ll probably be a published author like Vanessa Watts’s son, Julian. Didn’t talk until
he was four, and at age thirteen he wrote a book about mazes. I don’t know anything about them, but I guess there’s a whole bunch of maze freaks out there. Whatever, he got it published and had all this press.”
he was four, and at age thirteen he wrote a book about mazes. I don’t know anything about them, but I guess there’s a whole bunch of maze freaks out there. Whatever, he got it published and had all this press.”
Rachel nodded but felt little consolation.
“You know, you could have him evaluated to see what his skills and problems are.”
“We did all that already.” She had even arranged an MRI scan the other day, although she did not mention that to Sheila. In fact, she hadn’t even told Martin.
“I see.”
Rachel could sense Sheila’s curiosity, wondering how he had tested. But Rachel would not betray him. Although Rachel questioned the validity of IQ tests, there was something terribly definitive about them—like fingerprints or Universal Product Codes. Once the number was out, a person was forever ranked.
Hi, my name is Dylan Whitman and I’m an 83, seventeen points below the national average.
Hi, my name is Dylan Whitman and I’m an 83, seventeen points below the national average.
“I know I’m being foolish,” Rachel said, struggling to maintain composure. “It’s not like he has some terrible disease, for God’s sake.”
“That’s right, and you keep telling yourself that. Test scores aren’t everything.”
Easy for you to say with your little whiz kid in there,
Rachel thought sourly.
Rachel thought sourly.
Sheila was right, of course—and were they still living in Rockville, she wouldn’t have been so aware. But this was a town of trophy houses and trophy kids—a town where the rewards for intelligence were in-your-face conspicuous. Hawthorne was an upscale middle-class community of professional people, all smart and well educated. To make matters worse, Dylan was now surrounded by high-pedigree children, bred for success by ambitious parents who knew just how clever their kids were and where they stood against the competition: which kids were the earliest readers, who got what on the SATs, who ranked where in their class, who got into the hot schools.
Suddenly Rachel missed Rockville with its aluminum-sided Capes and pitching nets, tire swings, and kids who played street hockey until they glowed. Where the only scores that mattered were how the Sox, Bruins, and Celtics did, not your verbal and math; where the pickup trucks sported Harley-Davidson logos and bumper stickers that said KISS MY BASS and SAVE THE ALES unlike all the high-end vehicles outside with stethoscopes hanging from the rearview mirrors and windows emblazoned with shields from
Bloomfield Preparatory Academy, Harvard, and Draper Labs, and Nantucket residency permits.
Bloomfield Preparatory Academy, Harvard, and Draper Labs, and Nantucket residency permits.
She looked out the window onto the splendidly manicured course with its two pools and tennis courts and showplace clubhouse. She felt out of place. The Dells was one of the most exclusive country clubs in New England; and now that Martin’s company had taken off they could afford the privileged life for their son. How ironic it seemed, given their expectations and presumptions. Rachel and Martin had both graduated from college so Dylan’s limitations were as much of a surprise as they were distressing. Even worse, they made her feel that the perimeters of their lives had been irrevocably altered.
You did this to him
, whispered a voice in her head.
, whispered a voice in her head.
No! NO!
And she shook it away.
And she shook it away.
Outside a green Dells CC truck pulled up with two greenskeepers. The men got out. They were dressed in jeans and the green and white DCC pullovers. One of them said something that made the other man break up. As she sipped her cappuccino and watched them unload a lawnmower, Rachel could not help but think how she was glimpsing her son’s destiny—a life of pickup trucks, lawnmowers, and subsistence wages.
“I guess I just didn’t do enough,” Rachel said.
“Like what?” Sheila said.
“Like when he was a baby. I guess I didn’t give him a rich enough environment. But I tried. I read all the zero-to-three books about brain growth and early childhood development. I talked and sang to him, I read him stories when he was two months old—all that stuff.” They had bought him Jump-Start Toddlers and other computer games, Baby Bach, Baby Shakespeare and Baby Einstein toys. When he took a nap, she played classical music. From his infancy, she read him poetry because the books said how babies learn through repetition, and that repeated rhymes, like music at an early age, are supposed to increase the spatial-temporal reasoning powers. She breast-fed him because of a
Newsweek
story on how breast-fed babies scored higher on intelligence tests than those formula-fed—as silly as that had seemed.
Newsweek
story on how breast-fed babies scored higher on intelligence tests than those formula-fed—as silly as that had seemed.
Newsweek.
The very thought of the magazine made her stomach grind.
The very thought of the magazine made her stomach grind.
No! Just a coincidence,
she told herself.
Not true.
she told herself.
Not true.
Tears flooded Rachel’s eyes. “And now it’s too late. He turned six last month.”
Sheila laid her hand on Rachel’s. “Pardon my French, but those first-three-years books are bullshit. All they do is put a guilt trip on parents. I bet
if you took twins at birth and played Mozart and read Shakespeare around the clock to one for three years and raised the other normally you wouldn’t see a goddamn difference when they were six. You didn’t fail, Rachel, believe me.”
if you took twins at birth and played Mozart and read Shakespeare around the clock to one for three years and raised the other normally you wouldn’t see a goddamn difference when they were six. You didn’t fail, Rachel, believe me.”
Rachel wiped her eyes and smiled weakly. “Something went wrong.”
“Nothing went wrong.”
Something terribly wrong.
Rachel nodded and looked away to change the subject. They were having two different conversations. Sheila did not understand.
Through the window, Lucinda was explaining something to the girl next to her. Sheila took the hint. “By the way, Lucinda’s having a birthday party a week from Saturday. It’s going to be an all-girl thing—her idea. But, in any case, I’m getting her a kitten.”
“Oh, how sweet.”
“It’ll be her first pet. I think kids need pets—don’t you? Something to, you know, love unconditionally?”
“Yes, of course. Dylan has gerbils and he’s crazy about them.”
At a nearby table, Brendan was arranging the dinnerware. To distract herself, Rachel watched him without thought. He was putting out dinnerware, all the time muttering to himself just below audibility—his mouth moving, braces flashing, his eye twitching. He looked possessed. “The poor kid’s a basket case,” she whispered to Sheila, thinking that it could be worse. At least Dylan was a happy child.
“I guess,” Sheila said vaguely. She checked her watch. There was another hour and a half of day care, so Sheila was going to go to her office in the interim, while Rachel would sit outside with a book until Dylan was out.
As they left the building, Rachel’s cell phone chirped in her handbag. The call was from Dr. Rose’s office. The secretary said that Dylan’s MRI results were back. “He’d like to make an appointment to see you and discuss them.”
Rachel felt a shock to her chest.
Discuss them?
“Is everything all right?”
Discuss them?
“Is everything all right?”
“I’m sure, but he can see you tomorrow at ten.”
“Can I speak with him?”
“I’m sorry, he’s out of the office on an emergency and probably won’t be back for the rest of the day. Is ten tomorrow good for you?”
“Yes, ten’s fine,” she gasped and clicked off.
Oh, my God.
I
t was only three-thirty when Martin Whitman left the office. He had canceled two meetings and let all the calls and e-mails go unanswered because he wanted to buy some flowers on the way home as a prelude to taking Rachel to dinner at the Blue Heron—a chichi restaurant perched majestically on the cliffs overhanging Magnolia Harbor. Wine-dark sea, sunset dinner, candlelight, and a bottle of Veuve Clicquot. Just the kind of romance-shock they needed.
t was only three-thirty when Martin Whitman left the office. He had canceled two meetings and let all the calls and e-mails go unanswered because he wanted to buy some flowers on the way home as a prelude to taking Rachel to dinner at the Blue Heron—a chichi restaurant perched majestically on the cliffs overhanging Magnolia Harbor. Wine-dark sea, sunset dinner, candlelight, and a bottle of Veuve Clicquot. Just the kind of romance-shock they needed.
Because something wasn’t right. Martin couldn’t put his finger on it, but for the last few weeks Rachel had lapsed into a black funk. She was distracted much of the time—moody, as if plagued by a low-level anxiety. She would become petulant when he questioned her and lose patience with Dylan when he misspoke or had trouble doing things. Without warning, she’d tear up, then withdraw. He hadn’t seen her like this since her hysterectomy which, three years ago, had left her in a dark malaise, like a slow-acting poison.
His first thought was that something was wrong with her—that her doctor had discovered a lump in her breast. But, surely, she would have told him. Then he wondered if there was another man—that while he spent up to fourteen hours a day at the office, Rachel had found somebody else. She was attractive, witty, warm, and easy to be with. But there had never been any reason to suspect her of cheating. Not until her recent shutdown—sex, of course, being a foolproof barometer. Overnight she had lost all interest in intimacy, going to bed early and falling asleep by the time he slipped beside her. When he brought it up, she said that it was just a phase she was going through—that it would pass. But so far it hadn’t.
Perhaps it was the move to Hawthorne. But she seemed to have adjusted well, making new friends and joining the Dells. They had a great house, and Dylan was a happy and healthy kid. He had some learning problems, but he was probably a late bloomer as Martin had been.
No, it was something else, he told himself. Maybe she needed to go back to work. For six years she had been an English editor of college textbooks at a Boston publishing house. She enjoyed it and had done well. Now she was housebound. More space was what she needed—and to get back into life.
Martin pulled the black Miata down Massachusetts Avenue and onto Memorial Drive heading north to Route 93, which would connect him to Interstate 95. Across the Charles River, a thick underbelly of clouds made a rolling black canopy over Boston, lightning flickering through it like stroboscopes. The forecast was for afternoon showers that would clear out by evening.
This particular strip of Memorial from Massachusetts Avenue to the Sonesta was his favorite sector of Cambridge—even more than scenic Brattle Street with its august six-generational mansions or funky Central Square, or even Harvard Square which, unfortunately, had lost its renegade soul to mall franchises—the Abercrappies and Au Bon Pain in the Asses. Across the river lay Boston in red brick stacked up against Beacon Hill and surmounted by the gold dome of the State House. On the left were the grand old trophy buildings of MIT—interconnecting classical structures in limestone that emanated from the Great Dome, designed after the Pantheon of Rome, and forged with the names of the greatest minds of history. He loved the area.
By the time he reached 95 North, the rain was heavy and remained so until he reached the Hawthorne exit. Just outside of Barton, a couple towns southwest of Hawthorne, the rain stopped and the clouds gave way to blue. The streets were puddled, but it would be a clear night after all. Dining under the stars.
Barton was a working-class town, the kind of place that tenaciously held on to reminders of its fisher-family heritage. The houses were mostly modest Capes and ranches, a few trailer homes that had intended to move elsewhere but had burrowed in. The center was a strip of fishing-tackle shops, a small used-car dealership, a marine-engine-repair place, doughnut and pizza shops, a dog-clipping service, and Ed’s Lawnmower and TV Repair.
Halfway down Main Street, Martin shot through a puddle that was a lot
deeper than it appeared. Instantly, he knew he was in trouble. Water had flashed up under the hood and doused the wires. Thinking fast, he turned into the lot of Angie’s Diner and rolled into a parking space just as the car stalled out. He tried starting it, but the engine didn’t turn over. There was no point calling Triple A since jumping the battery wouldn’t do any good. In half an hour the wires would dry out and he’d be on his way. And a wedge of apple pie and a coffee would go down well.
deeper than it appeared. Instantly, he knew he was in trouble. Water had flashed up under the hood and doused the wires. Thinking fast, he turned into the lot of Angie’s Diner and rolled into a parking space just as the car stalled out. He tried starting it, but the engine didn’t turn over. There was no point calling Triple A since jumping the battery wouldn’t do any good. In half an hour the wires would dry out and he’d be on his way. And a wedge of apple pie and a coffee would go down well.
Angie’s Diner was the epicenter of Barton—a greasy spoon with homemade panache whose brash owner was part of its no-nonsense charm. Martin headed across the lot, which consisted of pickup trucks and some battered SUVs, and a Barton Fire Department car, probably from an off-duty firefighter heading home.
The place was half-full, some people in booths, a few at the counter including the fireman, a middle-aged guy still in uniform. Martin took a seat at the elbow of the counter at the far end, giving him a full view of the booths against the front windows and the staff working the counter. He liked the blue-collar ambiance. The booth radio boxes, red Naugahyde spin-top stools, the gleaming stainless steel and Formica-the place was a 1960 tableau.
In a booth across from him sat a pretty teenage girl and an older guy with bushy hair, talking intensely over cake and coffee. In the next booth, another kid in a baggie black pullover and ponytail thumbed through a book of cartoons while picking on a garden salad. He was probably an art student somewhere.
Martin ordered pie and coffee and opened his copy of Wired. He was partway through an article when he noticed the ponytail kid shift around in his seat. At first Martin thought he was trying to get more comfortable, until it became clear he was craning for a better view of the couple, whose conversation had taken a turn for the worse. The bushy-hair guy was quietly protesting something, while the girl, a cute blonde in a black tank top, coolly pressed her case.
Meanwhile, Ponytail slid left and right for a better view. At one point, he got up to go to the toilet—or pretended to—and walked by them without taking his eyes off the girl. When she looked up expectantly, he marched off. A few minutes later he returned still staring intensely at her. She caught his eye and he scooted into his booth. The girl whispered something to her companion, and they got up and left as Ponytail tracked them through the window to their car.
Martin went back to his magazine, thinking that maybe Ponytail was Blondie’s former suitor. Whatever, a few moments later, a small commotion arose when the boy asked for pancakes and the waitress said that they were no longer doing breakfast.
“Can you m-m-make a special order?”
“I’ll ask Angie,” the girl said and went into the back.
A moment later Angie came out. She was a short blocky woman about forty-five with a wide impassive face and a large head of red frizz held in place by jumbo white clips. She was not smiling. “We stop serving breakfast at eleven,” she declared.
“You can’t m-m-make a s-s-special order?”
“No, we can’t.”
The kid dropped his face into the menu pretending to find an alternative, but it was clear there was nothing else he was interested in.
“You want more time?”
He shook his head. “I r-r-really wanted p-pancakes.”
Martin began to feel bad for the kid. Not only was he getting the cold shoulder from the proprietor, but also he was a stutterer. Martin had stuttered painfully in grade school.
“Then come back in the morning.” She yanked the menu out of his hand. “We open at s-s-six.” She winked at the fireman at the counter and started away.
“What’s the big deal?” he asked good-naturedly. “Cup of mix, some milk, and a pan. It’s not like he asked for a turkey dinner from scratch.”
“Freddie, do I tell you how to put out fires? Huh? Right! So don’t tell me how to run my diner.”
“Take you two minutes, Angie. Give the kid a break,” Freddie said in a low voice.
Then he added, “Looks like he just woke up anyway.”
Angie glowered at Freddie, then appeared to soften. She turned to the kid. “It’s gonna have to be plain,” she hollered. “No blues or strawberries. They’re back in the freezer.”
“That’s f-fine,” the kid said in a thin voice, and returned to the cartoons.
Martin watched the kid. The book was a large hardbound tome of Walt Disney animations, and he was flipping through the pages rapidly as if trying to find something.
A few minutes later, Angie delivered the pancakes and a small rack of
syrups. Out of the corner of his eye, Martin noticed the kid remove the tops of the syrups and sniff each one. He was not casually taking in the aromas but deeply inhaling and processing the scents like a professional perfume tester. Dissatisfied, he then poured a little of each into his coffee spoon and continued smelling then testing each with his tongue. It was bizarre.
syrups. Out of the corner of his eye, Martin noticed the kid remove the tops of the syrups and sniff each one. He was not casually taking in the aromas but deeply inhaling and processing the scents like a professional perfume tester. Dissatisfied, he then poured a little of each into his coffee spoon and continued smelling then testing each with his tongue. It was bizarre.
This went on until Angie took notice and marched up to the kid’s booth, her large red face preceding her like a fire truck. “You got a problem here?”
The kid looked up, startled. “Oh, no. N-no problem.”
“So what are you doing with the syrups?”
“Well, I’m just trying to find the … I’m just w-w-wondering if … Do you have any others … other syrups?”
“You got five different syrups right there. What else do you want, tartar sauce?”
“Do you have any ma-ma-ma-maple syrup?”
She pulled one out of the rack and turned the top toward him. “Whaddya think
this
is?”
this
is?”
“Well, I meant, you know …
real
maple syrup?” He sniffed the small carafe. “This is actually corn syrup with water and artificial f-f-flavors. Also, c-caramel coloring. I mean real
m-maple
syrup, one h-hundred percent, no additives.”
real
maple syrup?” He sniffed the small carafe. “This is actually corn syrup with water and artificial f-f-flavors. Also, c-caramel coloring. I mean real
m-maple
syrup, one h-hundred percent, no additives.”
Angie took a deep breath and let it out very slowly, working to steady herself, aware that the whole place was watching and wondering if she were going to blow. “No, I’m sorry, sir,” she said in a mock-apologetic whine. “We don’t have
real
m-m-maple syrup, so I’m afraid you’re gonna have to settle for the cheap imitation shit.” She spun around and huffed away.
real
m-m-maple syrup, so I’m afraid you’re gonna have to settle for the cheap imitation shit.” She spun around and huffed away.
The kid looked around to notice everybody staring at him. He put his hand to his brow and began nibbling on his pancakes, pretending to lose himself in the cartoons. He only ate a mouthful, occasionally sniffing the different syrups when Angie wasn’t looking.
He was clearly disturbed, Martin told himself, and operating on another level of reality. Every so often he would snap his head around as if picking up a stray scent like an animal. When he got up to go to the toilet, Martin could see that he was a tall overweight kid with a boyish face and a confused lumbering manner. He loped his way as Angie stood behind the counter wiping coffee mugs and watching him with that flat red face. On his return, he rounded the far end of the counter when something stopped him in his tracks: Blondie’s half-eaten cake in the next booth. In disbelief, Martin watched the
kid slip onto the seat and lower his face to the dish, sniffing like a dog screening leftovers on the dinner table.
kid slip onto the seat and lower his face to the dish, sniffing like a dog screening leftovers on the dinner table.
“Shit!” Angie muttered as she rolled past Martin toward the kid. “You gonna eat my garbage now, huh?”
The kid straightened up, and the whole place held its breath. “What kind of cake is this?” His face was intense, his pupils dilated. The earlier deferential manner had hardened into some weird purpose.
She pulled the dish away and walked around the counter and dumped it into a bin without a word.
“I said, what kind of cake is that?” The kid rose from the booth. His eyes were fixed on the woman.
The fireman at the counter sat straight up. Everybody in the place was now looking at the big bear-bodied boy pressing Angie for an answer. She seemed taken aback by his intensity. “Butter almond cake.”
“Butter almond cake,” he said as if taking an oath. “Like real almonds?”
“Yeah,
real
almonds and
real
almond extract,” she said sarcastically.
real
almonds and
real
almond extract,” she said sarcastically.
“Do you have any more?”
Angie looked over her shoulder. “Yeah, one piece.”
The kid’s eye clapped on the display case where the cakes sat. “I’ll have it.”
“What about your pancakes over there?”
“I’m finished. I want some butter almond.”
“You want it with a fork, or you gonna inhale it?”
“A fork,” he said. “And a knife.”
The kid returned to his booth, not taking his eyes off Angie as she got the cake, walked to his booth, and clanked the dish down in front of him with a fork and knife. Then she left, moving her mouth in wordless anger.
Like rays in a magnifying class, all lines of awareness had focused on the kid, who appeared to be in a trance, looking at the cake as if it were a strange and wondrous specimen.
Carefully he scraped off the white icing, then with the knife slit the cake down the middle and butterflied it open as if he were performing surgery. With a little gulping “ahhh” he lowered his face to the splayed-open piece until his nose appeared to disappear into it. From where he was sitting, Martin could hear the kid inhaling deeply and letting out little moans and gasps, then inhaling deeply again and again. Then, incredibly, he closed his eyes tightly and testing the cake with the tip of his tongue he whispered: “Almond, almond, almond …” Then with little gasps: “Almost … almost …”
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