GRAY MATTER (36 page)

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Authors: Gary Braver

BOOK: GRAY MATTER
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O
liver banked over Casco Bay and headed straight eastward on a course that would take them to the northern end of the Gulf of Maine. Until recently, he had vectored a southerly route toward Wilkinson Basin, about eighty kilometers off the coast—a quick ride out. While Jordan Basin in the gulf was farther by fifty kilometers, the floor fell down to more than two hundred and fifty meters, twice the depth—and where storm surges couldn’t reach and the currents were northeasterly toward Nova Scotia, not the other way. It was a longer flight, but less risky. And great foraging ground for bottom feeders and sharks.
The cloud ceiling was eight thousand feet, and visibility five miles. Rain was in the forecast for tomorrow, but they would have no trouble tonight. And a good thing it wasn’t Sunday, or he’d miss the quiz show.
When they were about an hour out, Oliver cut the engine speed.
Below the ocean was a vast black void. Not a ship light in sight. Nor any other planes. At a hundred feet, Phillip unlocked the door. They had rigged a chute from an old plastic playground slide and fit it across the rear seats. They also had devised a crank mechanism to open the door at high speeds.
“Approaching the mark,” Oliver said into his speakerphone.
Phillip finished his beer and got into position.
“Okay.”
Phillip began to crank open the door. The sound of the sucking air filled
the cabin. Oliver could feel the cool rush. When it was partway open, Phillip tossed out the beer can.
Oliver steadied the plane against the turbulence, keeping his eyes on the dials.
Usually they would put them to sleep, but Phillip had forgotten the phenobarbital. It made no difference anyway. She didn’t have a clue.
Lilly lay groaning under a sheet. She was naked except for the polyvinyl chord around her arms and legs and fastened to a cinder block. Her head was a scabby mess, and she struggled feebly against the ropes. Her eyes were open, but they looked dead.
“Mark,” Oliver said, checking his instruments.
At one hundred feet, he would bank fifteen degrees to the right and let gravity do the trick. The sheet would stay because that was traceable. The rope they got in Florida, and wouldn’t connect in a million years.
“Now!”
And Lilly slid out feet first.
“
B
ut how come they have to kill them?” Dylan asked.
Martin and Dylan were watching an animal show about elephants and ivory poachers when the telephone rang.
He had expected to hear Rachel’s voice, telling him how her mother was finally out of ICU and had been moved to her own room. Yesterday when she called, Bethany was still recovering and barely alert, but the doctors said that she would soon be off the respirator and moved to her own room.
“For money,” Martin said, and grabbed the portable phone.
It was Lucius Malenko.
He had called to express condolences about Vanessa Watts and Julian just as he had to Rachel yesterday. The sentiment struck Martin as a little strange since they barely knew the family. Yet it was very considerate of him.
Malenko also happened to mention that he had a friend who had graduated from MIT the same year Martin had. He didn’t recognize the name. Before they said good-bye, Malenko reminded him of the time element. “This is not like having a tonsillectomy. There are considerable preparations to attend.”
“I’m aware of that,” Martin said.
“Even more critical are the time constraints. I’m leaving the country in a couple weeks and won’t be back for a month, which means that it may be another ten weeks before we can set up another time. And, frankly, Mr. Whitman, we’re running out of time.”
“I understand, believe me.”
“I’m not sure exactly why,” Malenko added, “but your wife seems to have reservations.”
“Yes, she has.”
He didn’t say it, of course, but Rachel had a tendency to let irrational concerns grow to paralyzing proportions. It was habitual: She’d worry things to death and end up getting nothing done. When Dylan was three, a New York textbook publisher with a Lexington office called her to say they were looking for an English editor with her experience and track record. They had hoped to woo her out of retirement with a handsome salary. For days she agonized over whether to pursue the opportunity or stay home with Dylan. Martin had pushed her to go for it. It would have been good for her; she was good at it. And they could have gotten great day care for Dylan. Not to mention how they could have used the extra salary. But no! She couldn’t let go. Dylan needed her—which was a lot of bullshit guilt. So somebody else got the job, and she remained your basic hausfrau.
“We’ll work on it,” Martin said.
Before Malenko hung up, he said, “You know, it would be very nice, of course, if Dylan could follow in his father’s footsteps. Schools don’t get much better than MIT.”
“I hear you, Doctor.”
Dylan was still spread out on the couch. Martin went back to his chair. It was nine o’clock.
“Time for bed,” Martin announced.
“But I not tired,” Dylan whined. “I wanna stay up with you and watch TV.”
“Well, then how about we watch
Who Wants to Be a Millionaire?”
“I don’t like that show. It’s stupid.”
Stupid.
“Well, Daddy wants to watch it.”
“I wanna see the elephant show.”
“But the elephant show is all over.”
With the remote Martin switched channels. The camera closed in on Regis Philbin who announced the special show for teenage contestants, eighteen and under.
“You’re mean.”
Martin felt a blister of petulance rise. “I’m not mean. I just want to watch this.”
“You don’t like me,” Dylan mumbled.
Martin muted the commercial. “What did you say?”
“You don’t like me.”
“Of course I like you. I even love you.”
“How come I had the dream?”
“What dream?”
“The dream about you gave me away.”
“Gave you away? That’s silly. I wouldn’t give you away.”
Dylan looked at him. “Me take stupid pills, that’s why.”
“Don’t say that.”
“Lucinda says.”
“Well, Lucinda is wrong.”
Dylan pouted and buried his face in the pillow.
Maybe he’ll fall asleep.
Martin recalled what Malenko had said about sedatives to calm him down, to minimize the trauma, to delete all memory of the event. Ketamine, or something like that.
The commercials ended, and Philbin announced the qualifying round. The camera showed ten young people, four females and six males, at their consoles with their hand controls waiting for the question. One of the boys was black.
The question was to place four foreign capitals in order from east to west. Before Martin could register the question, the buzzer went off, and five kids had gotten the correct order, the fastest time going to Lincoln Cady—in 3.8 seconds, which was nearly two seconds faster than the next fastest answer.
While the audience applauded, Cady moved to the console across from Philbin.
He was a pudgy serious-looking boy with thick glasses. He did not seem the least bit nervous. In fact, he seemed preternaturally calm.
He and Regis Philbin chatted briefly to warm him up. The boy spoke in a soft even tone, his words enunciated precisely and deliberately. He seemed like a sixteen-year-old going on forty.
The first five questions were the usual throwaways.
In no time, Lincoln Cady had reached the $32,000 mark without having to use a single lifeline.
“Do you read a lot?”
“Yes.”
“Good for you. You have remarkable recall.”
“Thanks.”
“What do you hope to study at Cal Tech next year?”
“Computer engineering.”
Regis nodded. “You did so well on the medical questions that I’d think you’d be interested in studying medicine.”
Lincoln raised his eyebrows. “I’m more interested in machines than people.”
Regis smiled. “I have days like that, too.”
The audience laughed, and they went on to the next question, which he got, then the next.
Throughout the exchange, it struck Martin that the boy didn’t appear to blink.
The next question: “What was the occupation of Albert Einstein when he published his theory of relativity:
(a)
teacher;
(b)
mathematician;
(c)
office clerk;
(d)
student.’”
The kid deliberated a bit, but Martin was certain that he had been told to draw things out in order to heighten tension. Then he said, “Office clerk.”
“Is that your final answer.”
“Yes.”
Regis Philbin cocked his head. “You got it for a hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars.”
The audience exploded. The boy smiled and fixed his glasses calmly. There was more perfunctory chitchat then the next question.
“Who hit the first Grand Slam in World Series history?” The choices were:
(a)
Charlie Peck;
(b)
Eddie Collins;
(c)
Frank Baker; and
(d)
Elmer Smith.
Martin had no idea what the answer was, and Lincoln Cady said he did not know sports and would have to call a friend, a classmate at his school named Robert. Philbin called, Cady read the question, and the young male voice at the other end said, “Elmer Smith.” Cady offered that for his final answer, and Philbin congratulated him for reaching the $250,000 mark.
After the applause and more small talk, they moved to the half-million-dollar question. When Philbin asked him what he was planning to do with whatever money he won, Cady said he would give it to his parents to help pay
off some debts, then put the rest toward college. Philbin liked that, and the audience approved.
The next question lit the screen: “When three celestial bodies form a straight line, what is the phenomenon called?” And the answers listed were
(a)
syzygy;
(b)
string theory;
(c)
Lineation;
(d)
synapogee.
Cady still had two lifelines left, but he said he didn’t need them.
Syzygy,
thought Martin.
“Syzygy,” said Lincoln.
“Is that your final answer?”
“Yes, it is.”
“You just won yourself half a million dollars.”
“YES!” shouted Martin, and the audience went crazy.
There was a cut for a commercial break, and Martin turned off the audio, thinking how in grade school he was a stutterer. He remembered vividly all the shit—how they had called him “Muh-Muh.” The running joke was: Hey, Martin, try to answer this in under an hour: “What’s your name?” In English class when they got to poetry, they said Martin was an expert on alliterations.
He supposed it was funny, looking back. But at the time it was hell. People thought that stuttering meant you were stupid. He could still recall the raw humiliation, the mortification he felt when he couldn’t get out what he wanted to say, just a vicious staccato of syllables—
“Wha-wha-wha-wha …”
At that age, kids are brutal. Once they see a spot of blood, they will peck at it until you’re bled of self-esteem.
He was not going to put his own son through that.
Life’s hard enough … but …
(go ahead! Say it …
it’s harder when you’re stupid)
Suddenly his mind was a fugue.
He heard Rachel:
But he won’t be the same person.
Then another voice:
Maybe not, but he’s not the same person he was with pigeontoes. He’s better, more capable. Look how high he was when he slid home yesterday. Imagine his ego growing up without a mental handicap.
And Rachel again:
What about accepting him as he is?
Not if we can do better for him.
But what if he loses his interest in music and sports? Or if his personality changes?
Not going to happen. Malenko said so. Look at Lucinda. Look at all the nameless
enhanced kids in Harvard at fifteen. Look at this kid on the screen. Calm, cool, collected. Brilliant.
Martin glanced at Dylan lying on the couch, his eyes drooping. He hated that mushroom haircut. It made him look like a young Bluto. But it was what all the kids on the team sported. And Dylan wanted to be like them.
We can change that for him. A chance of lifetime.
It was time for the million-dollar question. Philbin and the audience were charged. Lincoln Cady looked as if he might start yawning. The kid was remarkably impressive.
Cool incandescence.
“Okay, here goes. For one million dollars.”
The screen lit up with the question and the four choices: “What 1959 novella was the basis for the 1968 movie
Charly?”
The four answers given were:
(a) Odd Man Out, (b) A Case of Conscience, (c) Flowers for Algernon, (d) The Duplicated Man.
Cady nodded as he scanned the answers. He hesitated as the music played up the tension. Then, after several seconds, he said: “The answer is
(c) Flowers for Algernon
. Final answer.”
Regis Philbin looked teasingly at the camera then back to Cady. Then he beamed: “You just won yourself one
million
dollars.”
And the audience went wild. Lincoln Cady smiled thinly and shook Philbin’s hand as the applause continued and confetti rained down on the set.
Dylan had slept through the whole drama.
Martin muted the set and dialed Rachel on her cell phone. She answered on the third ring. “Did you see the show?”
“Some of it. The nurses had it on. And in case you’re interested, my mother’s doing fine.”
“Great. Give her my love. Jack, too. So, what did you think? I mean the kid—Lincoln Cady. Is he a whiz, or what? I mean, talk about photographic memory.”
“He was very impressive,” Rachel said.
“Impressive? That doesn’t come close.” Her lack of enthusiasm was so typical.
“He also looked as if someone had shot him with a tranquilizer dart.”
“What does that mean?” Martin couldn’t disguise his defensiveness.
“Just what I said. He looked stiff, robotic.”
She was purposely downplaying a spectacular performance, and Martin
was getting more irritated by the second. “How about it was just cool confidence. I mean, the kid’s a genius.”
“Martin, can we change the subject, please?”
Christ!
he thought.
“Because she’s doing so well, I’ll probably be coming home Tuesday. How’s Dylan?”
“He’s fine.” There was a pause. “Rachel, you’re aware that Dr. Malenko has got to know pretty soon.”

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