Gray Matter

by Gary Braver

  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.”

  “Who may I ask is calling?”

  For some reason Rachel could not get herself to announce her name. “I—I’m calling about his study on birth defects.”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, I’d like to talk to him about it, please … to make an appointment if that’s possible.”

  “I’m sorry but Dr. Chu is out of town today and won’t be back until the end of the week. Is there something I can help you with?”

  “No, I’d like to speak directly with him. I can come to his office when he’s free.”

  “What is your name, please?”

  Now she couldn’t go back or she might be dismissed. “Rachel Whitman.”

  “Ms. Whitman, Dr. Chu is very busy. So if you could please give me some idea what your interest is—if you’re a student, or a researcher, or a pharmaceutical rep …”

  Before Rachel could think, she said, “I took LSD laced with TNT some years ago, and I’m concerned my child has been … affected.”

  “I see.” There was a long pause. “He’s free next Wednesday at one,” she said, then gave directions to the office in New Haven.

  When she hung up, Rachel’s eye fell on the baby picture of Dylan on the fireplace mantel. He was sitting in the bathtub covered with big puffs of bubblebath and laughing happily. He looked gorgeous.

  According to the report on Chu’s study, two-thirds of the TNT women studied had given birth to children with birth defects, and half of those suf fered damage to the brains.

  Not my baby.

  Please, dear God …

  When Rachel got off the phone, there was a message from Sheila to meet her at the Dells. She had some “important information” for her. So she drove to the club and went in the side entrance, which took her through the lounge.

  Because it was a little after ten, the room was empty. But as she passed through, she spotted Brendan LaMotte behind the large mahogany bar with a buffing cloth. But instead of polishing glasses, he appeared to be slouched low with his back to her. As she walked by, she caught him unawares, sniffing from an open bottle of liquor. Startled, he capped the bottle and pretended to be wiping it clean and lining it on the shelves.

  Rachel did not want to make a scene, so she continued through the lounge with no more than a chirpy “hello” which was her cue that being underage, he would be fired if caught.

  Sheila was waiting for her at a table. A waitress came over and took their orders and left.

  “Here you go,” Sheila said and pulled out one of her business cards. On the back she had written: “Nova Children’s Center.”

  Also, a telephone number and address: “452 Franklin Avenue, Myrtle.” That was a town between Hawthorne and Gloucester.

  “So, what is the place?”

  “A complete child-care center with therapists, child psychologists, pediatricians, development experts, neurologists, whatever. The whole shebang for kids.”

  “You mean a clinic?”

  “Well, kind of. But it’s very unique.”

  “I’ve never heard of them.” But then again she had only lived in the area for six months. “So, what makes them so unique?”

  Rachel lowered her voice. “Well, what I know is that they can help children with learning disorders and, you know, neurological problems, brain dysfunctions. Stuff like that. Some kind of enhancement procedures.”

  “Enhancement procedures?”

  “Yeah, for kids with memory and information-processing problems. Whatever.”

  Sheila was being vague again, probably not to offend Rachel with the suggestion that Dylan had a neurological disorder. “You said something about corrective procedures.”

  “That’s what I’m telling you. I’ve heard they can, you know … raise a kid’s IQ—maybe even double it.”

  “Double it! That’s not possible.”

  Sheila rolled her eyes in frustration. “Look, sweetie, I don’t know the ins and outs, so I don’t want to mislead and all. But they’ve got all kinds of programs, procedures, and stuff—I’m not sure of the details—but what I do know is that they’re very exclusive, if you know what I mean. Like they don’t take just anybody, and they’re très expensive. But you got their number, so why don’t you just call them and make an appointment and bring in all your questions, okay?”

  “How do you know so much about them?”

  “Because this is a small town and I’ve lived here for twenty years is how come. Look, give them a call, they’re supposed to be the best, and they’re in your own backyard. If Dylan’s got a problem, he can be fixed.”

  “Whom do I ask for?”

  Sheila lowered her voice to a near whisper. “Lucius Malenko.”

  “Who?”

  Sheila wrote the name on the card. “He’s one of the directors. You’re going to want to talk to him eventually, but first you’ll have to bring Dylan in to be tested so they can see what his problems are. So, call and make an appointment. You can’t lose.”

  Rachel thanked her and stared at the name. Lucius Malenko.

  “If Dylan’s got a problem, he can be fixed.”

  16

  It was a little before noon when Greg showed up at the Essex Medical Center. He would have put it off until the evening, but Nurse Cynthia Porter and the others were working the ER day shift. Instead of reporting to Lieutenant Gelford where he was heading, Greg slipped out of the barracks and headed north.

  He met Nurse Porter in a small conference room in the ER complex. With her was a radiologist, introduced as Dr. Adrian Budd, and a resident physician, Dr. Paul Doria. They were there at Nurse Porter’s request.

  Greg sat down opposite them and removed from his briefcase the photographs of the skulls, including the computer schematics with the holes marked. “There’s a pattern of evidence that may shed light on what happened to these kids,” he said, and he described the circumstances surrounding each of the remains.

  While Greg spoke, Dr. Budd and Nurse Porter listened with interest. But Dr. Doria, a mutt-faced man with a goatee, nodded impatiently in time with his “Yeah, yeah, yeah.” That annoyed Greg. When he finished, Doria glanced at his watch. “I wish we could help, but we can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Patient confidentiality,” Doria said curtly. “We can’t release the patient’s name or discuss his condition.” He made a move to get up.

  Greg looked at Cindy. “On the telephone, you said you would be able to show me the X rays so we could make comparisons.”

  “I know, but then I checked with my supervisor, and we can’t do that.” She made a woeful expression. “I’m really sorry, Officer. I just found out, or I would have saved you the trip.”

  Greg looked at them, thinking of his two-hour drive and what Gelford would say if he found out that Greg had come up here and returned emptyhanded.

  Doria took a step from the table toward the door. “The only way we could release them is through a court order or a subpoena. Sorry.”

  Budd began to inch his chair back from the table also.

  “Well, then, what can you tell me?”

  “Just that the patient had scars on his head that looked similar to those in the newspaper,” Nurse Porter said.

  “Any idea where they came from?”

  “No.”

  “Did you ask him?”

  “Yes, but he didn’t know.”

  “How could he not know?”

  Her face clouded over since Greg wasn’t going to let go. “Well, I don’t know,” she said reluctantly
. “Unless it was some kind of procedure he had at a young age.”

  “Have you ever seen scars like those before?”

  Porter glanced at the others. “Well, not really.”

  “They were very unusual,” Budd added, and Doria shot him a hard look.

  “Can you at least tell me how old he was?” Greg asked.

  Cindy looked at Doria who made a half-nod to end the discussion. “Eighteen.”

  Greg conspicuously wrote down on his pad: “Male—eighteen.”

  “White?”

  “Mmm.”

  “And what did he come into the ER for?”

  “Excuse me, Officer,” Doria cut in. “But we can’t do this.”

  “Do what?”

  “Try to get around protocol by playing twenty questions. I mean, if you had a crime and a court order, that would be different. But you don’t, and we’re not at liberty to discuss the case. Patients have their rights.”

  The others nodded.

  “Then can you tell me what kind of medical procedure these holes might have come from?” He spread out the skull photos and moved them closer to them.

  “I don’t think we can continue,” Doria announced, backing away.

  “Why not?”

  “Because you’re indirectly asking us to disclose a patient’s condition by having us diagnose these remains. And we can’t do that.”

  “But you may help solve a crime.”

  “What’s to say those holes had anything to do with a crime?” Doria asked.

  “Because nobody knows what they were for. So I’m suspicious.”

  “Well, if you think there’s a connection,” Doria said, “then get a subpoena.”

  That was a legitimate option, but it could take days, even weeks. And that would alert Lieutenant Gelford, who would go ballistic to know Greg was still pursuing this. There was another option.

  Greg stood up so he was eye to eye with Doria. “You worked on this patient, correct?”