Gray Matter

by Gary Braver

  Malenko came around his desk. “Let me assure you that I am not going to abandon you like some old-time back-alley abortionist who plies his trade then drops off the planet. We are in this together for your son’s betterment. Enhancement does not end with the operation. Dylan will come in for regularly scheduled examinations like any other patient. Because of the special nature of the procedure, there are very special postoperative treatments to be certain all is going well.”

  “And if it’s not?”

  “I have done enough of these to be ready for any contingencies.” He extended his hand. “Believe me.”

  Rachel took it, thinking that she wanted to believe him with all her heart.

  “I understand your concerns, and you probably will think of many more questions. So call me early next week, and we can talk more about this.”

  “I’ll be out of town next week,” Rachel said. “My mother is going to the hospital.”

  “Well, when you get back. The sooner, the better. There are considerable preparations to be made. I’m also leaving the country in three weeks.”

  “Where exactly do you perform the procedure?”

  “At an offsite facility.”

  He wasn’t going to specify.

  “A regular medical facility, fully equipped and staffed?”

  “Yes, of course. In fact,” he said, opening one of his desk drawers, “here’s what it looks like.”

  He handed her three color blowups of an operating room. It looked like the standard ORs she had seen—operating tables, lights, electronic equipment, and what appeared to be brain-scan monitors. “These are for stereotaxic viewing of the procedure.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “Meaning we can view the interior structure of his brain in three-dimension on monitors while we are performing the operation. The real-time coordinate imaging guides us with the probes. It’s standard operating procedure in neurosurgery in the best of institutions including Mass General.”

  Rachel nodded. She didn’t know anything about the equipment, but the photographs were impressive. In one, Malenko wore scrubs. No other people were in any of them, of course. She handed them back. “What about the rest of the staff?”

  “For obvious reasons, I cannot tell you who they are,” he said. “But working with me will be the best there is, I assure you.”

  “Practicing neurosurgeons?”

  “Practicing neurosurgeons, anesthesiologists, scrub nurses, circulation nurses—the full complement.”

  Rachel nodded, questions jamming her mind. “The other day you mentioned the cocktail of ingredients that you’d be using,” Rachel began, unable to actually say the words injecting into my son’s brain.

  “Yes. I won’t bore you with details, but the whole field of implantation is very intricate and complicated. But we use a mixture of certain chemical stimulants, protein growth factors, and dissociated tissue cells which will on their own genetic program create new axonal structures where deficient.”

  Rachel nodded with guarded satisfaction. “We will be able to visit him, of course?”

  “After the procedure is completed.” He opened the door. “Call me when you get back. Should you decide this is for you, then we’ll answer the rest of your questions.”

  “Say we did this,” Martin said. “Just how long would it be before we see results?”

  “In about three to six months you will begin to see improvement in his cognitive behavior. Because the process is progressive, it should continue for another six to nine months until it plateaus.”

  “Which means in about a year and a half he will …” Martin trailed off.

  “He will have an IQ of one hundred forty or more,” Malenko said.

  “Oh, wow,” Martin said. His eyes filled up.

  It was nearly noon, and Malenko led them out.

  As they stepped into the hall, Rachel happened to notice another folder on the reception desk, apparently that of another patient. Rachel couldn’t help but glance at the name printed in black Magic Marker on the outside. BERNARDI.

  Even as they walked back to their car behind the Porsche, Rachel did not connect the name. Her mind was too scattered with thoughts about Dylan, enhancement, and her mother to notice. And now there was a damn time constraint to consider. If they were going to put him through this, it had to be done soon.

  That was absurd. How does one make a snap decision about subjecting one’s child to a secret brain operation to raise his intelligence and alter him and his life forever?

  When the Whitmans left, Malenko went downstairs into the basement where he had set up a gym with weights, treadmill, StairMaster, and a speed bag.

  He had never done competition boxing for obvious reasons, though he would have loved to. He knew as a young man he had had it in him to be a fine boxer—the strength, the timing, the aggression, and the deep-seated need to pound another’s face. But that wouldn’t be, so he worked out on the inflated black leather bladder, taking pleasure in the satisfyingly hypnotic rhythm and imagined enemies.

  He changed into his sweats and pulled on the gloves while standing in front of a wall mirror. Maybe it was something the Whitman woman had said. Maybe it was what stared back at him in the mirror—that dead outsized pupil of his left eye. The heat of rage had grown cold over the years, but he could still hear those little bully bastards cawing in their stupid peasant dialect. In a flick, the bag was their faces, and he pounded it to a rhythmic blur while his mind slipped back.

  Kiev, the Ukraine. It was the day after his eleventh birthday, and he was in Martyr’s Park playground near the Cathedral of St. Sophia trying out his new kite. The bullyboys from the church school were kicking a soccer ball on the nearby field. Young Lucius was like catnip to them.

  It began, as usual, with taunts—this time, the bright pink and yellow stripes of his kite—girl colors, homosexual colors. Then they moved to his short stature. Then to his nose—“eagle beak” they had called him. Then inevitably to his mother’s Jewishness. In a matter of moments, word exchanges became blows, and young Lucius Malenko found himself on the ground being punched and kicked. Like the rest of the peasant rabble of the village, these boys harbored a contempt for Jews not because Jews had different rituals or an arcane tongue or because their Sabbath was on Saturday, or even because they were “Christ-killers.” It was because the Malenkos were smart and successful—the source of the unstated resentment that the boys’ parents had passed on to them. And because the locals were poor and stupid.

  In one stunning moment, while Oleg Samoilovych and Ivan Vorsk held him down to make a target of his head, Nestor Kravchuk, a fat oaf whose father worked at a foundry, kicked the soccer ball full blast into his face. The blow was so powerful that for several days Lucius could not see out of his left eye. When the vision returned, the blood sac had sunk to the anterior chamber; and given the poor medical care in Kiev, nobody noticed the minor deformation of the pupil. But over the years, the condition gave way to traumatic glaucoma that eventually impaired his vision. Eye surgery years later restored it enough for him to finish medical school and conduct his research. He had even managed to establish his stateside practice that prospered magnificently. But then the darkness began to close in, and he was forced to abandon a lucrative practice for part-time consulting.

  The ring of Malenko’s pager stopped him.

  He mopped the perspiration from his head and called in for the voice message. Sheila MacPhearson had received the video: All was set for Saturday night.

  That was good news. It would be a real surprise party. Too bad he would miss it.

  “Where are we going to get that kind of money?” Rachel asked on the way home.

  “Do you have any idea what your mother’s open-heart surgery will cost? About two hundred thousand when all is said and done. Maybe more.”

  “But insurance will pay for most of that.”

  “And thank God,” Martin said. “The point is the operation will probably keep her going for anot
her ten years. Enhancement will benefit Dylan for a lifetime. And it’s not like we don’t have the resources. We could sell some stocks and cash in mutual funds.”

  Rachel looked at him while he drove. “You’re serious.”

  “Yeah, I’m serious.” And he went on about what an investment it would be—how smart people accomplished more in a lifetime than less brainy ones, which is why so many prodigies become millionaire CEOs by the time they turn thirty.

  “There are still too many things I’m uncomfortable with.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like sending my son off to have a brain operation and not knowing where the hell he is. I want to be outside the operating room. I want to be there when they wheel him to recovery. What if something happens?”

  “But they’ve been doing this for a dozen years. Look at their success stories.”

  “But something can still go wrong. He could end up brain-dead.” The very thought sent a bolt of electricity through her.

  “That’s not going to happen.”

  “We don’t know that. Another thing, why all the secrecy if it’s so successful? Why an undisclosed location?”

  “He explained that. It’s a revolutionary thing, and he can’t get FDA approval because of all the social stuff. Like he said, think of it as abortion before Roe versus Wade.”

  “Yeah, butchers in back alleys.”

  “Aren’t you being a little dramatic?”

  “Because I don’t like it. We also don’t know anything about Malenko. He could be some kind of a quack.”

  Martin laughed. “Quacks don’t have a wall full of degrees and plaques. The guy’s a leading neurosurgeon and child development expert. Besides, look at Lucinda. She was turned into a prodigy. So was Julian Watts. So were dozens of other kids.”

  “Yeah, and Lucinda’s a bossy little bitch and Julian’s a human sewing machine who’s ground his teeth to nothing.”

  “That’s got nothing to do with enhancement. Lucinda will grow out of that, and Julian might be a little compulsive, nothing that a little Ritalin won’t solve. The point is, two slow kids got turned into geniuses, and that’s what I want for my son.”

  He had an answer for everything. And maybe he was right. Maybe deep down she wanted to be convinced. In her mind, she saw the planar cuts of the distorted ventricles of her son’s brain.

  Acid kickback.

  “What if there’s something about the procedure that’s just not right? Something not medically right. I don’t know … We don’t even know how he does it.”

  “Why should he give away trade secrets?”

  Rachel stared out the window as they drove down their street. “Maybe I’m just paranoid,” she said. “It’s just that I can’t blithely send him off to have his brain cut open. Besides, he could have a perfectly happy life the way he is.”

  “He’s operating on less than three-quarters of normal capacity.”

  “Rachel, we live in a meritocracy where an eighty IQ is a formula for losing.”

  That was just like Martin: He thought in numbers. They were the fundamental condition of his existence—how he gauged business and people. An IQ was just another way to keep score—like rank in class, sales quotas, revenue figures, stock options, salary.

  “That’s not true,” Rachel said, her eyes filling up.

  “You know what I mean. Of course, there are happy people with belowaverage intelligence. But they spend their days stocking shelves at Kmart, making eighteen thousand dollars a year and living in tiny apartments watching reruns of Forrest Gump. Frankly, I don’t want that for my son—and we have an opportunity to do something about that—and the money.”

  “But a fancy job isn’t the end-all of life.”

  “No, but it’s one hell of an advantage.”

  And in her mind Rachel heard Martin’s familiar refrain: “Life is hard, but it’s harder when you’re stupid.”

  “Think of his self-esteem,” he continued. “You know what it’s like when you meet someone with a mental handicap. You instantly dismiss him: He’s not good enough to take seriously, to do business with, to be my friend. You smile in his face and thank God he’s not you—or yours. It’s sad and cruel, but it’s reality. And I don’t want that for my son—even if it costs me a million dollars.”

  As they pulled into their driveway, Rachel suddenly realized that she was trembling. Her eyes fixed on Dylan’s soccer ball that lay on the grass beside his sandbox. While her pursuit of Sheila’s lead had never been whimsical, Rachel had deep down not considered enhancement a real possibility. It was just something in the speculation mode—an option to consider. But nothing was definite, and no irrevocable action was in place. Even their visit to Malenko Rachel had thought of as reconnaissance—a fact-finding mission. Now, in the matter of an hour, Martin was talking about cashing in investments to buy their son a new brain.

  She looked at Martin. “You’ve got this all figured out.”

  “Rachel,” Martin said, softening his voice, “before we ever heard about Lucius Malenko, we had resigned ourselves to raising a mentally challenged child. Whatever went wrong with the genetic dice, he came out impaired. Now we have a second chance—a privilege open to only a handful of kids. The implications are mind-boggling. So are the possibilities for him. A second chance to begin his life near the top.” His eyes were wet from tears. “Don’t you want to do this for him? Don’t you?”

  In a voice barely audible, she said, “I don’t know.”

  38

  Sheila stood by the kitchen window making hot chocolate for Lucinda’s party.

  Two days had passed, and the kitten was still missing. She had searched the backyard woods several times since that first day, without luck.

  After the initial shock, Lucinda did not seem to suffer the loss—which Sheila attributed to budding maturity. She had just resigned herself to such mishaps and went on with her little life. Oddly enough, she didn’t bring up a replacement kitten again. And neither did Sheila.

  Outside the huge magnolia tree had lost its blossoms, giving way to a profusion of waxy green leaves. Across the branches, Sheila had draped colored streamers, big shiny cardboard Japanese lanterns, and bright animal piñatas—which complemented her marigolds and roses—all in full bloom. Because of mature growth, their backyard was cut off from views of the neighbors, making the yard a magical sylvan grotto—so safe and secret. Lucinda’s own little green world. Storybook perfect.

  There used to be a secret passageway connecting their yard to the Sarris family next door, but some unpleasantness had estranged their children. There were two of them, snippy little brats who snitched on Lucinda.

  “Lucinda said I’m a dummy.”

  “Lucinda made me eat a bug.”

  “Lucinda put a frog in the micro.”

  Eventually the Sarrises—or Soarasses, as Lucinda called them—

  (such a devilish wit, too)

  —closed off the passage, erecting a fence and some high bushes, essentially shielding them off as if Lucinda were some kind of poisoned child.

  The bastards.

  Thankfully, they moved away. They were just a bunch of dumb secondgeneration Greeks anyway.

  The backyard scene made Sheila’s heart gulp for the beauty. It was like one of those Hallmark cards: Lucinda in her new pink dress under the magnolia and holding her own party and chattering away at her guests. Today wasn’t officially her birthday. That was last week, but only three kids of the ten invited could come. A few had colds—

  some kind of bug going around

  —another was visiting her sick grandmother in New York. Somebody had forgotten that it was ballet recital rehearsal. Another couldn’t get over because her asthma was kicking up again. One had an unscheduled riding lesson. Blah blah blah.

  Their excuses annoyed Sheila nearly to the point of complaining to the mothers. But if the kids were sick, they were sick. And to call them liars would only make things worse the next time. The only ones who showed
were Franny Alemany, Annette Bonaiuto, and MaryLou Sundilson—three cute little girls from school, but not girls she was particularly friendly with. Then again, what children make close friends at seven?

  Because it had rained, they moved inside—which was a shame, since Sheila had decked out the backyard. The magician she had hired ended up doing tricks for Lucinda and the three others who sat there like waxed fruit. Half an hour of cake and ice cream, half an hour of magic, and it was all over. The girls had to go—other commitments. Sheila could have screamed.

  But deep down she knew the reasons behind the bullshit excuses. The other kids were threatened by Lucinda: She was “bossy” and their mothers thought her “managerial.” The long and short was that Lucinda was head and shoulders above them—smarter, quicker, and more confident. So the mothers kept their boring little dolts away.

  But Lucinda didn’t mind. She had her other friends. And Rachel Whitman had sent over a gorgeous doll. It came with a little card, saying her name was Tabitha from Jackson Hole, Wyoming, and she loved animals. She was made of a durable plastic compound and was fully poseable with jointed elbows and knees and two outfits, one a red pullover under a jean jacket and beige chinos, and the other which Rachel had ordered specially—the same pink dress Lucinda was wearing today. It must have cost Rachel a small fortune.

  More amazing was the doll’s resemblance to Lucinda. Besides the pink dress and thick blond hair, the face looked like hers as a baby—the little pug nose, the huge crystalline blue eyes, the chipmunk cheeks, the cleft in the chin, and the roundness of the forehead. It was uncanny. As if Rachel had it made special from a baby photo.

  (She would have to send her a special thank-you note. To Dylan too, since it was technically from him, even though he didn’t have a clue, the poor kid.)

  Luckily, today was warm and sunny. Garden-party perfect. And that’s exactly what Miss Lucinda was doing: having a private little rain-check celebration of her own—and perfectly content, thank you. That was the thing about being so advanced: You gained strength from your disappointments and went on with your life—a surprise benefit of enhancement. Lucinda was totally resourceful. Totally comfortable in her own head.