Gray Matter

by Gary Braver

  With one eye, Rachel was watching the kids below. She wished Sheila would stop yapping, but she went on.

  “The humiliation was just too much for her, and she snapped. It’s horrible.” When Rachel looked away to watch Dylan, Sheila nudged her. “Julian was his pride and joy. And what a loss. Not just a brilliant artist, but he got a perfect score on his math PSATs, an eight hundred, and seven hundred seventy in verbal. Top sophomore at Bloomfield.”

  Rachel nodded.

  Martin, who sat to Rachel’s left, pressed closer to Sheila. “What a tragedy.”

  “No doubt he would have gotten a free ride through college even with their income. Absolutely brilliant, is all.”

  The boy’s dead and she’s talking about his damn PSATS, thought Rachel.

  “Could have been a rocket scientist.”

  I don’t bloody care what he could have been, Rachel shouted in her mind.

  “No doubt,” said Martin. “A terrible shame.”

  One of the kids hit a grounder past shortstop into left field. Dylan raced for it and scooped it up like a kid twice his age. He paused for a moment not sure where to throw it. One runner who had been on second was heading home. Rachel froze. The other runner was rounding first base with no intentions of stopping.

  Second! Rachel screamed in her head. Throw to second!

  People were yelling, cheering on the runner, cheering on Dylan. The coaches were shouting to Dylan to throw it. Throw it anywhere.

  Rachel shot to her feet and pointed. “Second!” she shouted.

  Whether or not Dylan saw or heard her, he fired the ball with all his might toward home. A giant “Whooooa” rose up from the stands. The ball bounded on the third base line in front of the runner and into the catcher’s mitt which surprised the catcher as much as the crowd. The runner fell on top of the catcher just two feet from the plate, and was called out.

  In left field, Dylan didn’t know the call until he saw Rachel bouncing on her feet and cheering. Then he started yowling and jumping up and down. Rachel knew she was no doubt overreacting, but it was a glory moment for Dylan, and she just didn’t give a damn.

  “You know,” Sheila said, when the noise died down, “Bloomfield has a terrific baseball team. They were second two years in a row in the Indy school regionals.”

  Rachel looked at her blankly. Damn her, she was stealing the moment from them. “Beg pardon?”

  “The Bloomies. Maybe … you know, in a few years …”

  Sheila was trying to be encouraging, but Rachel was offended. She wanted to say, Fuck you and the Bloomies, but she only nodded politely.

  “Anything’s possible,” Martin said.

  “Depends what’s important to you as a parent,” Sheila said.

  “I didn’t realize they were such a sports school,” Martin said.

  “Absolutely,” Sheila said, latching onto Martin’s interest. “You know what I’m saying? With his arm, he could be a superstar there. Lucinda’s going to be starting two years from September. Maybe they’ll be classmates.” And she winked at Martin.

  Martin made a promising smile. “Maybe so.”

  Then she dropped her voice. “By the way, if some Sagamore cop comes by asking about Julian, my advice is to tell him nothing.”

  “Of course,” Martin said.

  “Oops! Gotta go,” Sheila said, checking her watch.

  Rachel muttered a silent prayer of thanks.

  “By the way,” Martin said. “Would Lucinda want a couple of gerbils? Dylan’s just had a bunch of babies. About the size of a peanut.”

  Sheila’s face seemed to harden. “No, that’s all right.”

  “How did the kitten work out?” Rachel asked.

  “Ran away. The mailman left the back door open. C’est la vie. What can I say?” She slung her bag over her shoulder to go. “By the way,” she said, pressing into a huddle again. “Turn on your TV Sunday night at nine. A special edition of Who Wants to Be a Millionaire? for kids under eighteen. I’m not supposed to tell, but a boy named Lincoln Cady’s going to be a contestant.”

  “Who?”

  “Lincoln Cady. A black boy from Detroit.” She made telling wide-eyes.

  “You mean … ?” Martin began.

  Sheila nodded and winked.

  Enhanced, thought Rachel.

  Sheila stood up. “I know nothing about him, but he’s supposed to be something else.”

  “We won’t miss it,” Martin said.

  And she whispered, “And mum’s the word.” She fluttered a good-bye and climbed down the stand.

  Rachel watched her cross to the parking lot to her car, thinking that her visit was not by accident.

  49

  Martian and Dylan dropped Rachel off at the Delta terminal at Logan Airport a little before two that afternoon. They pulled up to the entrance where cars and busses were double- and triple-parked.

  “Why do I have the feeling that you’re glad I’m going?” Rachel said as Martin waved for a redcap to take her luggage.

  “Why do you say that?” He looked at her in partial dismay. Perspiration made a beaded mustache band under his nose.

  “I don’t know. You seem anxious. That’s all.”

  Martin looked at Dylan. “It’s just that we’re going to do some guybonding today, right, champ?” And he tousled his son’s hair.

  “But you know what, Mom? Me and Dad, we go the movies.”

  Rachel knelt down and hugged Dylan. “That’s a great idea.”

  “You wanna go, too?”

  “I’d love to, but I have to visit Grammy. When I come back you take me, okay?”

  Dylan nodded. “And you know what? I sing you a new song.” And he gave her a big hug.

  She held him for a long time.

  “Mom, are you crying?”

  “Only because I miss you already.”

  Dylan stared at her with a dreamy concern. Then he asked, “Mom, where are my Gummy Bears?”

  “In your backpack.” She opened the rear door of the car, and Dylan slid in and began to search through his backpack.

  Martin checked his watch. “We’ll be fine,” he said. “My love to everybody.”

  He kissed her good-bye and started to pull away toward the car, but she caught his arm. “Martin, promise me something.”

  “What?”

  “If Malenko calls again—”

  “Rachel, he’s not going to call again.”

  “But he may. He’s pushing us, and I don’t like it.”

  Martin sighed. “It’s because he has a deadline, and you know that.”

  “It’s not his son!” she snapped.

  Dylan looked up at her from inside the car, and his eyes locked on hers.

  She lowered her voice, and in a grating whisper, she said, “If he calls again, just tell him that you’re not going to discuss it until I return. Not until next week. Period.”

  Martin made a face of exasperation. “Okay, okay.”

  “Promise me.”

  “Yeah, okay.” His eyes were perfect clear orbs. “I promise.”

  Dylan climbed out of the car. He came up to Rachel and put some Gummy Bears in her hand.

  “What are these for?”

  “To make you feel better. The green ones are the best. They make you happy.”

  “You make me happy,” Rachel said and pulled him to her. “I love you, little man.” She hugged him for a brief spell, then let him get into the car. The traffic behind them was piling up.

  “Love you, too.”

  Rachel watched as Martin strapped Dylan into the front passenger seat. “Have a nice flight,” he said and walked around to the driver’s side and got in. As they pulled away, Dylan waved out his window at her. “Bye, Mom.”

  “Bye, sweetie.”

  Please, dear God, let me do the right thing.

  Around three-thirty, Rachel boarded the plane. She had booked a window seat because she liked the view of Boston, especially when the plane took the northwest corridor, which
gave her a full shot of Cape Ann and Big Kettle Harbor just under Hawthorne. But with the low cloudbank, there would be no view today.

  Because of a last-minute change of schedule, Bethany had been operated on that morning. According to her brother, the surgery went well, and her mother was on a respirator in the ICU recovery with a new biological valve made from pig tissue. Amazing what they could do in modern medicine, Rachel thought.

  Inside her seat pocket was a copy of The Miami Herald that somebody had left. The flight had originated in Atlanta where connecting Miami passengers would have boarded. Several of the stories were about Florida affairs and politics, some directed at the elderly. There were pieces about retirement portfolios and how water bans from the latest drought were affecting South Florida golf courses. How brushfires were plaguing the state. About the latest local security measures against terrorism.

  But it was the story on page 9 that caught her eye.

  “Searchers Abandon Hope of Finding Okeechobee Boy.”

  The story went on to describe the all-out efforts of police, sheriff’s deputies, scuba divers, neighbors, and other volunteers to find six-year-old Travis Valentine who was last seen nearly two weeks ago in his backyard near Little Wiggins Canal. All that was found of the boy was a shoe and his butterfly net at the water’s edge. Divers had scoured the canal for over a mile, while hundreds of volunteers had searched the woods and canal banks all the way to the next town. “‘I hate to say it but my best guess is a gator got him,’” claimed the local sheriff. According to the article, there had been more than a dozen alligator attacks of children over the last eight years. “‘They hover below the surface out of sight. A dog or a child comes by, and whamo! They can shoot out of the water like a rocket.’

  “Several large alligators have been killed over the last two weeks, but none containing the remains of the child.”

  “Just last month young Travis was among five county children who had passed a qualifying test from the University of Florida that would guarantee him a full four-year UF scholarship should he graduate high school. The program is part of the SchoolSmart campaign to encourage children to stay in school …”

  Eaten by an alligator, Rachel thought. God! How far removed their lives were from such horrors.

  50

  Oliver 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.

  51

  “But 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.