Gray Matter

by Gary Braver

  “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.

  “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.”

  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.”

  “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.”

  “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.

  “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?”

  “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.”

  “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.

  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?”

  “Not really. He had my tin ear and did mostly stick drawings. He really blossomed after enhancement.”

  She led them upstairs to a large landing off which were the master bedroom, a bathroom, and two other rooms. One door had flower decals and a porcelain plaque saying LISA. Across the other door was a yellow and black sign: DO NOT ENTER—TRESPASSERS WILL BE EXECUTED.

  “I must warn you, he’s something of a neatness freak. If you pick something up, please put it back where you found it.” She opened the door.

  The immediate impression was how much stuff there was. The second impression was its preternatural orderliness. One whole wall had floor-toceiling shelves of books—all upright and lined up by size. Another wall was full of space posters—all the same size, all squared with optical precision—one, a shot of the earth, rising over the lunar horizon; another of the Atlantis shuttle. Against the far wall was a huge wall unit containing a television and electronic sound equipment. Beside it was a draftsman’s work board with pens, razor knives, and other tools—all lined up neatly. There was a single bed tightly made with three decorative pillows arranged so precisely that the points lined up. The place looked as if a fus
sy old woman rather than a fourteen-year-old boy occupied it.

  But that was just more sour grapes, Rachel chided herself. Dylan’s room was in a state of perpetual disaster—clothes and toys all over the place. Any straightening out was Rachel’s doing, because he could not catch on to a system of order. Once she had rationalized that the chaos was the result of his being a late starter or immaturity or maybe a male thing—that he had an overactive guy-sloppiness gland. Now she suspected it reflected some haywire brain circuitry.

  “If for nothing else, this was worth the fee,” Vanessa said.

  Rachel wanted to ask about that, but the subject was off-limits. She smiled, but thought that the excessive neatness was creepy.

  Beside the bed sat a large desk with a computer with an oversized monitor and printer—probably used for his cyberart. The screen saver was a continuously changing maze with red balls trying to make their way through the shifting network. It looked like graphics designed to drive the observer mad.

  Above the computer hung a framed document announcing that Julian Watts, age eleven, had won first prize in his age group in a regional science fair. The title of his project: “How Different Types of Music Affect the Ability of Mice to Run Mazes.”

  On a corner table sat a large flat surface with a maze. Near it was a cage with some mice. “Very impressive,” Rachel said.

  “You wouldn’t think so at three in the morning,” Vanessa said. “He played everything from Aïda to Zambian tribal chants. Around the clock.”

  “And what did he determine?”

  “That mice ran better with the longhairs than with rap. I’m not exactly sure how that affects the rest of the universe, but he had a good time.”

  On the bulletin board were Museum of Science membership announcements and a list of upcoming museum shows and movies. Also, some snapshots of Julian’s class at Bloomfield Prep. The room contained all the adolescent accouterments of a kid who was going places. Nerd perfect. The kind of room Martin would love for Dylan.

  As Rachel passed through the door, her eye caught on a curious little cartoon figure the boy had drawn and tacked over the light switch. Among all the high-tech paraphernalia it was the sole reminder that Julian was still a boy and not a grad student in astrophysics. It seemed so out of place: a happyfaced blue Dumbo.

  “I’m not sure what—” But a loud crash from below cut Vanessa off.

  They moved out to the landing. More pounding, then around the bottom of the staircase stormed a teenage girl. She looked very upset.

  “Lisa!” Vanessa said. “What happened?”

  Lisa looked up at her mother, unrestrained by the presence of the other women. “I told you it wasn’t right!” She slammed down her backpack, and stomped her way up the stairs. She wagged a paper at her mother. “I told you to let me do my own work.”

  Vanessa looked mortified by Lisa’s outburst. “Maybe we can talk about this later.”

  When the girl reached the top, she stopped nose-to-nose with Vanessa. Rachel noticed that the tips of Lisa’s fingers were all red where the nails had been chewed to the quick.

  “Thanks to you, she gave me a fucking Incomplete!” she screamed in her mother’s face. “Now I have to redo it, and the best I can get is a C.”

  Vanessa’s cheeks were burning dark red, as if she’d just been slapped. “Lisa, we can work this out, okay?”

  “‘The words are too big, the syntax is too sophisticated, the prose is too polished,’” Lisa singsonged in a voice mocking her teacher. “It wasn’t me,” she screamed. “And I’m not Julian. You get it?” She slammed the flat of her hand onto her door. “SHIT! Now I’ll never get into AP English.” Lisa burst into tears and pushed her way to her room.

  “Lisa … ?” Vanessa pleaded after her.

  “Go fuck yourself!” Lisa cried and slammed the door.

  The noise was like a gun blast. A moment later, they could hear more swearing and sobbing.

  Vanessa looked at Rachel and Sheila and made a tortured smile. “Now, where were we?”

  36

  “‘I hate the whole damn charade,’ Rachel said,” as they pulled into the parking lot of Bloomfield Prep.

  “Well, it’s the only way we’re going to meet him. He heads for camp next week,” Martin said.

  Located an hour and a half west of Boston, it was a school for wealthy whiz kids. “Pretending we’re prospective parents is just so unfair to Dylan.”

  “Maybe for the time being.”

  She looked at him. He did not appear to be joking.

  At ten-fifteen sharp, they met Sheila in the parking lot near the white Colonial that served as the admissions office. Because it was the last week of classes, regular tours were no longer given. However, Sheila knew the admissions officer, Harley Elia, so they could visit different classes including Julian’s, posing as parents seriously considering the school as an option for Dylan.

  It was a beautiful place, its brick and stone buildings nestled in fourteen acres of green hills, thick with maples, oaks, and pine that lined paths through ample grassy fields reserved for sports and play. According to Sheila, Bloomfield, which went from fourth through twelfth grade, was on a par with Exeter and Andover Academy.

  Lining the walls of the foyer in the admissions office were numerous group photographs of smiling students, some in their team outfits, some at play in the fields, some in graduation robes. Over the fireplace hung an oil painting of the founders, Stratton and Mary Bloomfield. They had started the place in a backyard barn in 1916 “to keep the minds of children alive and open, to instill a love of learning, to provide a life of fullness and rich possibility, to secure freedom of body and spirit.” Like the school, the inscription was inspiring, but it held little promise for Dylan.

  While waiting in the reception area for Ms. Elia, Rachel nearly told Martin that she wanted to leave. The place was a sanctum for gifted children, and pretending that Dylan was—or would be—a candidate for admission was self-flagellation. A tour would only heighten her resentment of other kids and sharpen the sting of what she had denied Dylan. But she held back. Martin’s interest was picking up by the minute. He was particularly taken by the catalog’s boast that fifteen percent of the last graduating class went on to MIT. Most of the rest went on to Harvard, Yale, Princeton, and the other incandescent institutions.

  After a few minutes, Ms. Elia emerged from her office. She was an attractive and smartly dressed woman in her forties with bright blond hair and a cheerful face. She embraced Sheila then led Rachel and Martin into her office where she took down information about Dylan. For a painful fifteen minutes, Rachel held forth about how sweet and sociable a child Dylan was and his love for music as the woman avidly took notes. Martin just nodded. She said nothing about his language deficiencies.

  When that was over, the woman took them on a tour, outlining the school’s history and accomplishments. Rachel said very little, but Martin engaged Ms. Elia with questions about the science curricula and computer labs. After maybe half an hour, they entered a modern redwood structure with a sign saying GRAYSON BIGGS ART STUDIO. Sheila nudged Rachel that they were heading for Julian Watts’s class. According to Sheila, he was one of only two enhanced children in the school. She would not reveal the name of the other.

  “It’s one of the more popular places,” Ms. Elia said. “Kids come here after classes and work on their projects.”

  Scattered around the large bright room were about a dozen children. Some were painting; others were in the corner at potter’s wheels. Others still were working with wood carving tools. Two teachers were moving about quietly commenting on the kids’ progress.

  The walls were covered with student work—big splotchy impressionistic paintings, simulated rock posters, odd multimedia canvasses thick with paint, fabric, glitter and other materials. Most were colorful, and a few showed some talent and inspiration.

  One drawing caught Rachel’s eye—a sepia reproduction of the campus chapel, a small stone Gothic struc
ture. Even the intricate carvings and details on the stained-glass windows were captured. If it were not stretched on a canvas, Rachel would have sworn it was an enlarged photograph. The signature at the bottom was printed in tiny block letters: JULIAN WATTS.

  While Ms. Elia chatted with Ms. Fuller, the art teacher, Sheila nudged Rachel and nodded at a bespectacled boy in a blue shirt hunched over a stretched canvas at his table. Rachel walked quietly past some children who broad-stroked gobs of paint across their canvases, moving their brushes like young orchestra conductors in training.

  By contrast, Julian sat rigidly, wearing headphones and hunched over a canvas. From a distance, he looked as if he were suffering from tremors, but up close his left hand moved with delicate robotic precision. Rachel had to repress a gasp of amazement. The boy was painting with an architect’s pen. In fact, there were several of different sizes neatly lined up. Awestruck, she and Martin watch him dab away in microscopic detail, occasionally switching instruments. He did not seem to notice their presence.

  “The assignment was a self-portrait in any medium or style,” the teacher said. “The only directive was to capture something of their personality.”

  Pinned to his easel was a black-and-white photo of Julian that appeared to have been done by himself at arm’s length. He was dressed in a black T-shirt and staring at the camera through his rimless glasses. The intensity on his face was startling—as if he were possessed. Although he had traced the oval of his face with a pencil, in the center of the canvas were two intense eyes so realistically rendered that the canvas appeared to be studying Rachel.

  The teacher tapped Julian. The boy looked up and turned off his headphones. The teacher introduced them.

  “We didn’t mean to disturb you, but that’s incredible,” Rachel said.

  The boy muttered a “Thanks.” He had an edgy shyness, and it was clear he wanted to go back to his canvas.