Authors: Gary Braver
GRAY MATTER (23 page)
“
J
ulian’s just finishing up at school, but I think I can get us a visit.” Sheila once sold a house to the Bloomfield Prep admissions officer. “This way, you can see him in action.”
J
ulian’s just finishing up at school, but I think I can get us a visit.” Sheila once sold a house to the Bloomfield Prep admissions officer. “This way, you can see him in action.”
It was Friday afternoon, and Rachel had picked up Sheila for a three o’clock meeting with Vanessa Watts who lived up the coast a few miles. As they drove along, Rachel kept asking herself why she was doing this when her instincts told her it made no sense, that there were too many unknowns. But she had promised herself to remain open-minded.
The Wattses’ house sat atop a rolling green lawn that looked like a green broadloom carpet. It was a white clapboard-sided Colonial of understated elegance, surrounded by mature foliage that made the place look as if it had naturally grown out of the ground decades ago. Even the row of pine trees along the drive looked just the right size and had been planted in just the right place. Along the front was a low dry stone wall and tidy beds of flowers and decorative grasses. The place bespoke a world that was perfect and good.
Vanessa greeted them at the door. In her forties, she was a tall woman with short golden hair, no makeup and a mobile toothy mouth. She was dressed in chinos, a green golf shirt with the collar up, and white running shoes. She looked very Cambridgey. According to Sheila, she was a professor of English at Middlesex University, and her book on George Orwell was apparently getting considerable attention.
She led them into the living room, a large cheerful space furnished in white—stuffed chairs, sofa, and wall-to-wall carpeting. The carpeting made
Rachel conscious of her shoes. It was hard to believe people lived in the house, especially two teenagers. The only colors breaking up the antiseptic effect were two paintings and a shiny black baby grand in one corner. On the key guard of the piano was a Franz Liszt music sheet.
Rachel conscious of her shoes. It was hard to believe people lived in the house, especially two teenagers. The only colors breaking up the antiseptic effect were two paintings and a shiny black baby grand in one corner. On the key guard of the piano was a Franz Liszt music sheet.
“Who plays?” Rachel asked, trying to make conversation.
“Right now only Julian. Lisa, my daughter, is a violinist, Brad doesn’t play, and what I do doesn’t sound like music.”
“He must be very talented,” Rachel said. “Liszt is very difficult.”
“He’s getting better,” Vanessa said.
Rachel sensed a note of studied coyness in her response. The kid was probably a musical prodigy. Because Dylan loved to sing and was good at it, Rachel had arranged for him to take piano lessons last year. Unfortunately, he lasted only four sessions. His music teacher called in desperation one day for Rachel to pick him up. It just wasn’t working—Dylan was out of control. As much as she had worked to get him to focus on finger exercises, he would not cooperate. And the more she tried, the more frustrated he became. When he finally went into a full-fledged temper tantrum pounding the keys with his fist, Mrs. Crawford called Rachel, and that was it for piano. “Some younger children have problems with drills. But they grow out of it. Maybe next year.” Then as an afterthought she added, “But he’s an adorable little guy, though. Sings beautifully.”
“An adorable little guy, though”: slow, but adorable.
“Here he is,” Sheila said, sounding like a proud aunt. She handed Rachel a framed photograph of Julian.
Wearing scholarly looking rimless glasses and dressed in a blue and white school baseball uniform, a bright gold
B
on his hat, the thin-faced boy was smiling widely and holding up his index finger. Probably, Rachel thought, to let the world know he was an alpha child—one of the chosen elite who would become a permanent resident on honor rolls, who would score 1600 on his SATs, who would get early admission to Princeton, who would grow up to be Zeus.
B
on his hat, the thin-faced boy was smiling widely and holding up his index finger. Probably, Rachel thought, to let the world know he was an alpha child—one of the chosen elite who would become a permanent resident on honor rolls, who would score 1600 on his SATs, who would get early admission to Princeton, who would grow up to be Zeus.
“Would you like some coffee or tea?” Vanessa asked.
Rachel could feel her face flush for entertaining such petty jealousy. She hadn’t even met Julian and already she resented the kid. “Coffee would be fine, thank you.”
“Me, too,” Sheila said.
Over the fireplace hung a large photograph of the family—Vanessa and Brad in the background, Julian and his sister, Lisa, a high school junior. They were a handsome family poised on the bow of a windjammer pulling into some tropical harbor. Another photograph showed Julian with his Bloomfield Prep soccer team.
Sheila moved to the corner and punched her cell phone to call her office. “Shoot! The battery’s dead.”
Vanessa nodded to the other side of the house. “You can use the one in Brad’s studio. He’s at the office, of course. You know where it is.”
“Thanks,” Sheila said, and left the room.
When they were alone, Rachel asked Vanessa, “What does your husband do?”
“He’s a commercial architect.”
“Very nice.”
“Except I see him once a month. He works long hours and travels a lot. What about you and your husband?”
“At the moment, I’m just bringing up my son. I used to be a college textbook editor. But I gave that up when Dylan was born,” Rachel said. “My husband has a small recruitment company.”
Vanessa nodded. “How do you like Hawthorne?”
“So far we’re enjoying it.” Rachel tried to force an expression to fit her words.
“Yeah, it has a lot going for it, if you’re the right kind of people.” She kept her voice low so Sheila wouldn’t hear. “I know you’re supposed to be true to your town and all, but it’s become claustrophobic—which, I guess, is the nature of small towns: Everybody knows everybody else’s business.” Vanessa looked as if she didn’t want to elaborate for the newcomer. “Let’s just say the place has its pressure points. We’re thinking of moving.”
“You are?”
“Mmmm, to a place where we won’t have—” She cut off and put her finger to her mouth as Sheila returned. “Get through okay?”
“Yeah, and I wish I hadn’t. The P and S fell through on the Rotella place. We were supposed to have an exclusive, and some
unnamed party
bid eighty thousand over the asking price.” Sheila shrugged. “That’s the name of the game in this business.” She flopped into her chair. “You win some, you lose some. But it’s one hell of a way to end the week.”
unnamed party
bid eighty thousand over the asking price.” Sheila shrugged. “That’s the name of the game in this business.” She flopped into her chair. “You win some, you lose some. But it’s one hell of a way to end the week.”
Sheila’s expression said that the commission loss was going to hurt. Vanessa went to the kitchen and returned with a tray of coffee and cookies. “So, you’re interested in the enhancement procedure for your son.”
“I’m thinking about it.”
Vanessa nodded and straightened out a picture on the wall. “What’s his name—your son?”
“Dylan.”
“Well, it worked wonders with ours, the way it has for Lucinda.” She said that as if she were talking about a new acne cream.
“Absolutely,” Sheila added.
“How exactly?”
“Well … I guess for the lack of a better expression, he’s a hell of a lot
smarter
. He picks things up much faster. He’s quicker in his response to ideas. His memory is greater. And he’s focussed. Oh, boy! Is he ever! When he sets his mind to doing something, he’s … well, like a magnifying glass.” She appeared to catch herself.
smarter
. He picks things up much faster. He’s quicker in his response to ideas. His memory is greater. And he’s focussed. Oh, boy! Is he ever! When he sets his mind to doing something, he’s … well, like a magnifying glass.” She appeared to catch herself.
“And how was he before the procedure?”
“It’s been some years, of course, but, frankly, Julian could best be described by what he
couldn’t
do. It’s like night and day. Don’t get me wrong. I mean, he was a happy little boy, but he was miles behind the other kids. I could show you some of his early testing and teachers’ reports. They were pitiful. I mean, he couldn’t
read
, he couldn’t
add
, he got totally confused by the simplest
directions
. His teachers said that he was not working to his capacity. But the sad thing is that he
was.”
couldn’t
do. It’s like night and day. Don’t get me wrong. I mean, he was a happy little boy, but he was miles behind the other kids. I could show you some of his early testing and teachers’ reports. They were pitiful. I mean, he couldn’t
read
, he couldn’t
add
, he got totally confused by the simplest
directions
. His teachers said that he was not working to his capacity. But the sad thing is that he
was.”
As Rachel listened, she thought she heard something forced in the woman’s explanation—as if she were trying to convince herself instead of Rachel.
Vanessa fell silent for a moment. Suddenly she flicked her head, and made a bright smile. “Last term he got all As. What can I say? What they did was nothing short of a miracle. Really!” Again she shifted. “So, what’s he like, your son … Darren?”
“Dylan.” Rachel didn’t like making public statements about his problems. “He’s a sweet little boy—active, friendly, considerate.”
As she spoke, Vanessa looked at her with a flat expression as if to say:
“They all are, so get to the important stuff.”
“They all are, so get to the important stuff.”
“He has some language-processing problems.” And she elaborated a bit.
“Sounds familiar,” Vanessa said when Rachel was finished. “We tried
everything: one-on-one tutoring, special classes, and, of course, all the hot meds. But you can’t blame their brains, nor can you fill them up with Ritalin. Yes, they can get special support, blah blah blah, but the bottom line is that they’re handicapped, and will always be. Sure, some of them can be happy and have quote-unquote productive lives. But let’s face it, just how productive can you be if your IQ is seventy-five? What I’m saying is, if it’s important to you to have a smart kid, then this might be for you.”
everything: one-on-one tutoring, special classes, and, of course, all the hot meds. But you can’t blame their brains, nor can you fill them up with Ritalin. Yes, they can get special support, blah blah blah, but the bottom line is that they’re handicapped, and will always be. Sure, some of them can be happy and have quote-unquote productive lives. But let’s face it, just how productive can you be if your IQ is seventy-five? What I’m saying is, if it’s important to you to have a smart kid, then this might be for you.”
“Looking back, are you happy you had it done?” Rachel asked. “Any regrets?”
Vanessa made a fast glance at Sheila who took the cue. “The alternative was bringing up a backward child. What can I say?”
“I know I sound rather hardheaded,” Vanessa continued, “but before the procedure—when he was six—he still could barely recognize letters or numbers. And his memory was hopeless: He couldn’t remember basic family facts, like our street address, his own birthday, or his father’s first name. It was very distressing.”
Rachel nodded as her mind slipped into a disturbing recollection from last week. Dylan had just finished watching a video of
Pinocchio
—a movie he had seen half a dozen times. When she asked him to retell the story for her, he could barely recall the names of the characters—Jiminy Cricket was “the green boy,” and Figaro was “the cat”—or simple words like
whale
. Nor could he put key plot events in proper sequence. After a few moments, he simply gave up in frustration.
Pinocchio
—a movie he had seen half a dozen times. When she asked him to retell the story for her, he could barely recall the names of the characters—Jiminy Cricket was “the green boy,” and Figaro was “the cat”—or simple words like
whale
. Nor could he put key plot events in proper sequence. After a few moments, he simply gave up in frustration.
“Now he’s getting terrific grades and winning science fairs,” Vanessa continued. “He’s a different person.”
“Have you noticed any personality or behavior changes?”
“Of course!” Vanessa declared. “You don’t become a genius overnight and not undergo personality changes. Tasks that used to intimidate he now takes to like a fish to water—or maybe
shark
is closer. I can’t tell you how confident he is—and driven to excel. And he loves school, we’re happy to say—believe me! The same with Lucinda, right?”
shark
is closer. I can’t tell you how confident he is—and driven to excel. And he loves school, we’re happy to say—believe me! The same with Lucinda, right?”
“Absolutely,” Sheila shot back without missing a beat. “She can be a Miss Smarty Pants at times, but that’s more of a maturity problem.”
Their enthusiasm bordered on salesmanship, Rachel thought. “About the procedure: It’s an operation of some sort, I understand.”
“Well, I’m sure as Sheila told you we can’t go into those details, not until you move to the next stage. It’s silly, but those are the conditions. We don’t
make the rules, but you can understand—revolutionary procedures need to be guarded.”
make the rules, but you can understand—revolutionary procedures need to be guarded.”
“Sure, but we’re talking about an invasive procedure of the brain, so you can understand my concern.”
“Of course.”
“What I’m wondering about are the side effects—pain, impairment of functions, personality change, anything like that.”
“He had a minor headache for a couple days but that was it, and no impairment of functions. Except for his cognitive abilities, he’s a typical fourteen-year-old boy who plays video games and does boy things.” She looked to Sheila. “Right?”
“Absolutely.”
“If you don’t mind, I’d like to meet Julian someday.”
“I have no problem with that, but he’s still at school,” Vanessa said. “But, you know, you can tell a lot about a kid from his room. Would you like a look?”
“Sure.”
Rachel got up and walked over to the wall of photographs. “Are you interested in photography?”
“I do a little.”
A large framed black-and-white shot showed a ragged mountain range backlit by the sun sending shafts of light through heavy clouds with a deep foreground of thousands of brilliant wildflowers. “This really is a great photograph. The composition and lighting are amazing. In fact, it looks like an Ansel Adams.”
“It is. Well, actually, the original is. That’s a painting.”
“A painting! It can’t be.”
Vanessa turned the picture around and unfolded a book photo that was stuck behind the canvas. “This is a copy of the original Adams.” The photo was an exact miniature of the painting. “He copied it from this.”
“Who?”
“Julian.”
“But how did he do it? I can’t see any brush marks.”
Vanessa made a dry chuckle. “With a
lot
of patience.” Vanessa didn’t elaborate.
lot
of patience.” Vanessa didn’t elaborate.
Rachel couldn’t separate herself from the picture. She moved from side to side to study it from different angles, barely able to detect surface texture. It was so indistinguishable from the photograph that she wondered if the boy
had done it with some fancy computer-art software—scanning the photo then printing up an enlarged version. “That’s remarkable.” Einstein, Van Cliburn, and Maxfield Parrish rolled into one. “Was Julian artistic before?”
had done it with some fancy computer-art software—scanning the photo then printing up an enlarged version. “That’s remarkable.” Einstein, Van Cliburn, and Maxfield Parrish rolled into one. “Was Julian artistic before?”
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