Gray Matter

by Gary Braver

  “How long did it take you to do that?” Martin asked.

  The boy reached into his mouth and removed plastic teeth guards. “About three hours.”

  Rachel felt a small electric shock pass through her. Julian’s teeth were nearly stubs. Her first thought was that he had had some kind of accident. But they were so evenly ground down—top and bottom—and flattened off as if filed.

  Rachel tried to hide her shock and continue as if she hadn’t noticed. “I’ve never seen anything like it before, except the French pointillists.”

  “Yeah,” Martin said. “In fact, I thought you were touching up a photograph.”

  Rachel wanted to engage him more, but the teacher said he had to get back to work. Julian put the guards back in his mouth, slipped on the headphones, and went back to the canvas.

  “He’s something else,” the teacher said. “He’s got a really unique talent.” Then she lowered her voice so the other kids couldn’t hear. “He’s also one of our most gifted students.” And she saucered her eyes for emphasis. “Straight As.”

  “Does he always paint with a pen?” Martin asked.

  “Yes. It started a couple years ago when we did a unit on pointillism, and that’s now the only medium he works in. We tried to get him to move into brushes and pastels, but he prefers points. You know these dedicated artists.”

  During a moment’s silence, Rachel realized that it wasn’t music Julian was listening to but spoken audio. Except that the voice didn’t sound human. She looked at the tape recorder—an unusual-looking unit that was set on fast-forward.

  “What is that?” she mouthed to the teacher.

  “Spanish. I think it’s Don Quixote.”

  “But …”

  The teacher nodded knowingly. “Yeah, he’s trained himself to understand it on double speed. Last year he learned Italian that way.” Then she just shook her head in dismay. “What can I say? He’s something else.”

  “My God,” Rachel whispered. The fixity of his expression as he jabbed away while absorbing the high-speed prattle sent a shock through her. He looked like some alien creature in the semblance of a boy receiving coded messages from afar.

  As they started away, Rachel looked back. Julian’s mouth was moving. At first she thought he was chewing gum until she realized he was tapping his teeth guards in sequence to his hand movement. Then she realized that he wasn’t keeping pace—he was counting.

  They visited two more classes and ended up in a psychology lab. All along, Ms. Elia went on about the school and the programs and how ninety percent of the graduating class goes to college, half to the Ivy Leagues. “Four of our graduates are freshmen at Harvard this year.”

  “How nice.”

  Rachel was anxious to leave. The tour was only an hour long, but it seemed to last all morning because Martin kept asking questions. Sheila was just along for the ride and said very little.

  The psychology lab was a large open room with many windows and rows of workbenches all equipped with computers, scales, and dispensers, electronic devices with lots of wires connecting equipment. Along one wall were cages of large white rats with electrodes connected to their heads. The sophisticated setup looked more like a university research center than a lab for high schoolers.

  As Ms. Elia led the three of them into the lab, the kids looked up casually, apparently used to prospective parents’ tours. The teacher—a pleasant man, about thirty, dressed in chinos and a blue work shirt—explained the psychology program and what the students were doing. “It’s a term project on operant psychology techniques—a classic conditioned-response study in learning behavior,” he said.

  Rachel could not have cared less, but Martin was fascinated, of course.

  “At the beginning of the term, each student was given a rat, and over the weeks, they shaped the animals’ responses by rewarding them with small electrical stimulation to their brains. First they learned to press a lever, then a second lever, then a third, until they learned to tap a particular sequence of what the students decide upon—ABCD, CBAD, CBAD, or whatever.”

  “So it’s cumulative?” Martin asked.

  “Yes, and increasingly complex, which is why it’s taken an entire semester to get to this point. This is their wrap-up day. Their reports are due next week.”

  Rachel was ready to scream. But Martin asked, “What does the electricity do?”

  “It gives them a two-volt hit to the pleasure centers of their brains.” The teacher pointed to a plastic device beside the computer about the size of a tissue box. “That’s the stimulation chamber which is connected to the animal and the computer, which regulates the parameters—voltage, pulse width, frequency, et cetera. And that’s a printout of the responses.” He pointed to a scroll-paper ink-needle printer.

  At various benches, quiet buzzers and lights were going off in the cages as students hooked up their rats and were recording their responses as they tapped the levers.

  “Did you have any problems with the animal rights people?” Martin asked.

  “I’ll say, but that’s the good thing about Bloomfield. The headmaster agreed to institute an animal care-and-use committee to be in compliance with state regulations. That took some string-pulling, but we eventually got approval as long as the instructor does the implant surgery and supervises the experiments. But the kids put together all the equipment and run the experiments. It’s been great.”

  “You can understand that the kids become very attached to their animals,” Ms. Elia said. Nearly every cage had name stickers—Brad, Snowdrop, Vinnie B, Snagglepuss, Bianca, Mousse, Dr. Dawson, Rumplemints, and so on.

  “I bet,” Martin said.

  “By the way, we have another student from Hawthorne.” Ms. Elia nodded to a tall pretty blonde who was putting her rat into the test cage. Because of her height and bearing, she projected considerable presence. “Nicole DaFoe.”

  Rachel didn’t recognize the name.

  At the next bench, an Asian girl was fixing something on her printout machine before she set up her rat. Rachel heard her say she was out of paper, and the teacher said to check the supply closet in another room. The girl fidgeted with the machine then left.

  “Amy Tran. She’s one of our best,” the teacher whispered to Rachel. Then he said, “You folks have got to see this.” And he led them into the adjoining room.

  As Rachel began to follow, she happened to look back. Something about the tall blond girl held Rachel’s attention—the body language and a heightened awareness. Rachel pulled behind a partition as the others left, and through a slot, she watched. The girl looked around until she was certain the visitors had left, then while the other students busied themselves at their stations, she slipped to the nearby computer and ran her fingers across the keyboard. She then went back to her own station and flicked the start switch on her animal’s cage to run the program. The animal tapped a series of buttons until the cage light went on and the animal reared up in pleasure from the stimulation.

  A few moments later, the Asian girl returned with the scroll paper, fixed it into her machine, then got her rat whose name was Sigmund. She removed him from his box, gave him a few affectionate strokes with her finger, then put him into the test chamber. She wrote something down on her clipboard, said something that amused the blonde on the next bench, then flicked the external switch.

  Picking up the cue, Sigmund moved to the levers and began to tap through a very elaborate sequence. When it apparently finished, a cage light went on to signal the reward. The animal sniffed the air a few times then reared up with pleasure.

  Suddenly the animal stiffened and let out a high piercing scream then shot straight up into the air as if launched. There was a terrible sizzling sound, as Sigmund fell onto the cage floor, his body violently twitching and smoke rising from his head.

  Amy cried out in horror.

  Other kids ran over to her. And a moment later, the teacher reappeared. “What happened?”

  The girl was crying. “
He’s dead! He’s dead.”

  The teacher looked at the rat lying on its side, a pungent odor of cooked flesh filling the air. He went to her computer and tapped some keys. “Jesus, Amy, you had the voltage set for twenty instead of two.”

  “No, I set it for two,” Amy gasped in protest through her tears. “I know I did. I know it.”

  “Well, it says twenty.” He stepped aside to show her. He looked very upset. “Why didn’t you double-check as you were supposed to?”

  “I did.” Then too distraught to continue, the girl broke down.

  Nicole put her hand on Amy’s shoulder. “It’s okay,” she said. “We all make mistakes.” And she shot Rachel a look that sent a shard of ice through her heart.

  “I think she sabotaged her experiment.”

  “Based on what?”

  “I’m telling you, I saw her do something at the Asian girl’s keyboard.”

  “They were sharing computers,” he declared. “She probably turned on her own software. What’s the big deal?”

  There it was: his absolutist certitude, and that damning tone that said Rachel didn’t know what she was talking about—that her woman’s intuition was off again. “Martin, it’s how she looked—like she was doing something sneaky,” she said, feeling her own certainty slip. “Two minutes later, the rat dies.”

  “Coincidence,” he said. “Besides, why would she do that?”

  “I don’t know—maybe she had it in for her. Maybe she’s a bitch.”

  “And maybe the Chinese kid just screwed up.”

  “The teacher said she’s first in the class—which means she’s not the type to make simple errors. And she’s Vietnamese.”

  Martin shrugged. “Whatever. Even whiz kids make mistakes. What can I say?” Then he added, “If you were so sure, then why didn’t you say something?”

  “Because … Christ, forget it.”

  He smiled. “Like I said in the first place, you were mistaken.”

  It was that evening, and Rachel was putting her pajamas on. Martin had put Dylan to bed and was on their bed with the current issue of the MIT alumni magazine. He yawned. “Whatever, that teacher’s ass is grass with the animal-rights people. So is little Suzy Wong’s.”

  Rachel went into the bathroom to brush her teeth, and scrub away her irritation at Martin. She could still feel the freezing look in that Nicole’s eyes.

  When she stepped out, Martin said, “You must admit the little bastards are impressive. I mean, the rat-fry aside, they’re fucking smart. And that Julian is something else with the pointillism stuff. Jesus, the kid’s like a human Xerox machine.”

  “I wish we could have talked to him,” she said. “He seemed so obsessed. How do we know that’s not the result of the enhancement?”

  “Malenko said there’s no effect on the personality, just cognitive powers. Ms. Elia said he’s nearly a straight-A student.”

  “Well, I’ve got a few dozen more questions I want answered.”

  “Yeah, like how much. I’m almost afraid to ask.”

  “We’ll know soon enough.” They had their next appointment with Malenko tomorrow morning at his Cobbsville office.

  Martin turned off the light and pulled Rachel to him. “It’s been so long, I’m not sure if I remember how it’s done.”

  She was not in the mood, but said, “I’m sure it will come back to you.”

  But halfway into their lovemaking, the telephone rang. “Leave it,” Martin said.

  She would have, but she was expecting a call from her mother. She had left a message earlier to see how she was feeling.

  Rachel flicked on the light and grabbed the phone. It was her brother Jack. Their mother, Bethany, was going into the hospital in two days for open-heart surgery. She had felt weak for the last few weeks. But when she went in for a checkup the other day because of shortness of breath, the doctor discovered a slight heart murmur. They did an echocardiogram only to discover that she had been born with two aortic valve flaps not the usual three. Because it was a hitherto undetected congenital aberration, Bethany would need a replacement—a routine operation, with expectations of a full recovery since her heart was strong. But it meant that Rachel would fly to Phoenix. The operation was scheduled for four P.M. Monday.

  Martin could tell from listening what the call was about. “I want to be with her,” Rachel said when she hung up.

  Martin nodded. “Of course.”

  She would book herself on a Saturday flight. She climbed back into bed, feeling as if this were some kind of omen.

  Martin sidled up to her and began stroking her thigh again. “You haven’t lost it, have you?”

  “You and Dylan will be all right without me, won’t you?”

  “Why shouldn’t we be?”

  “I don’t know,” she said and turned out the lights.

  37

  “One million dollars?”

  “Half to be paid in cash before the procedure, the other half in two months.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding,” Martin said.

  “Did you think genius comes cheap?”

  It was Thursday, and they were back at Malenko’s Cobbsville office.

  “It’s just that, well, frankly, that’s much more than we had expected, or can afford.”

  Malenko’s eyebrows shot up. “Those are two different issues, the first more complicated and interesting than the second. I have taken the liberty of doing some research into your financial status, and I must say that you are doing fairly well. You own a house worth one point six million dollars in the current market, and your total business assets amount to six million dollars, which, by the way, is three million less than what you told the bank it was worth when you filed for a business loan last year.”

  “Where did you get that from?” Martin said. “You have no right … That’s very private information.”

  “So is what you are asking me to do for your child, Mr. Whitman.”

  A silence fell on the room.

  Malenko rolled back in his chair and peered over his glasses at them. “And because it is so private, there is another aspect to the fee—a guarantee that privacy is maintained at a premium—a security insurance, if you will. Should you decide to go through with enhancement, you will be asked to place another five hundred thousand dollars in an escrow account, half of which will be returned to you in three years, the balance in another three years, interest paid in full.”

  “What?”

  “If in that time I discover that either of you has breached the nondisclosure terms, you will lose that five hundred thousand dollars and the fee. If, however, in three years I am certain that you have not talked and that you can be trusted, I will return to you half with interest and in six years the balance should you continue to maintain confidentiality.”

  “That’s … that’s …”

  “Ridiculous may be the word you’re trying to avoid. Even so, these conditions keep lips sealed, yes?” Then Malenko clasped his hands together and leaned toward them over his desk as if sharing a good joke. “Listen to me. You came to me with the single desire to do something about your child’s intelligence. You were offered extensive programs to address his needs with the best LD staff in North America. But you were clearly more interested in a medical procedure with immediate results. You wanted Dylan to have the kinds of advantages brighter kids enjoyed. You didn’t want him to run the race with a clubfoot to use your phrase. You wanted a smarter son.

  “That left one option: enhancement—a procedure that is not sanctioned by the FDA or the medical establishment, and one that will raise the backs of ethicists, social workers, the clergy, politicians, and a lot of others. It is also a procedure that could cause a backlash against orthodox science. If we do this, you will be asking me to put my medical license on the line. That I do not do lightly. Nor at a cut rate.”

  “I hear you,” said Martin.

  Malenko’s manner softened. “Look, you come from a privileged life where people don’t hu
rt each other, where people are trustworthy. But I come from a place where people hurt each other all the time, where the system was more important than the individual. Where betrayal was rewarded. So I’ve been imprinted with a cynicism about human nature that just won’t go away. Sad, but I cannot be certain that people won’t blab. Thus, the high price tag.”

  Martin nodded.

  Rachel felt numb. They didn’t have that kind of money.

  “Once again, I remind you what this is all about: Your son’s future is in the balance. If you go through with this, Dylan will grow up with a brilliant mind that will profoundly enhance his life, his success as a thinker, his health, his happiness, and his function as a human being. It may also affect his children and his children’s children because, for no other reason, he will value the life of the mind. He will not be the boy you are now raising. If you are not comfortable with that, forget it. If you don’t like the financial conditions, forget it. If you’re not at ease with the sociological, philosophical, bioethical matters or whatever, don’t do it. If you are not comfortable with me, if you fear that I might take your money and run, then don’t do it!

  “However, you will have to trust that I won’t take your money and run. As a matter of fact, I like where I am. But if you are nagged by doubts, just say no.” Malenko stood up. They were being dismissed. “Go home and think it over.”

  Suddenly everything took on a whole different perspective to Rachel. What started out as some variation of the Hippocratic code had turned into a simple business deal, and little else. The red Porsche, the elegant walnut-burl desk, the sailboat, the summer home on the Maine coast. The man was living the good life but not from tutoring children.

  Malenko checked his watch. “Any questions?”

  “No,” Martin said.

  “Yes,” Rachel said. “If we were to agree to this, what about follow-up treatments for him? Monitoring his progress. What if something goes wrong?”

  “You come to me,” he declared. “This is my procedure, and I am the only one who can help him and the only one who is able to monitor his progress.”