Gray Matter

by Gary Braver

  In the spaces at the bottom she had penned “Tried to kill himself.”

  He remembered that vividly. He had seen a show on television where some guy committed suicide by sitting in his car in an enclosed garage with the engine running. He had tried that and recalled getting his father’s car keys, going out to the car, closing the door with the remote control attached to the sun visor, turning it on, then sitting and waiting. He even recalled getting sleepy. The next thing he remembered was waking up in the emergency room at Newton Wellesley Hospital.

  After that they had upped his meds. He remembered because it was around Thanksgiving. Then a few weeks later, his parents were killed. Then he moved in with his grandparents and they found him a pediatrician who just continued the meds. Soon Brendan began to better mask his problems, internalizing them, developing strategies to keep the demons in low profile.

  He continued through the papers.

  What caught his attention immediately was a large accordion folder. On the tab, somebody had written BRENDAN. There was a date from when he was five years old. He unfastened the string close and opened it.

  Inside was another large envelope containing several black sheets. He removed one and raised it to the light. And for a long moment he looked at the images.

  They were X rays of his brain.

  34

  “You told her about Julian Watts?”

  “They want to meet another child and the parents. They won’t consider it otherwise.”

  “That’s not the point, Sheila,” Lucius Malenko said. “You were not to say anything until you cleared it with me first.”

  “But she insisted.”

  “You were not sanctioned to reveal names. Do you understand?”

  “I’m sorry, Doctor,” she pleaded, “but, you know, he’s a real showcase genius, he’s perfect. And she knows Vanessa.”

  “You do not make the decisions, is that clear?” The scalpel-edge of his words cut into her brain.

  “Yes, I’m really sorry,” Sheila whimpered into the phone. For several seconds all she could hear was the sound of an open line. While she waited for his response, her insides tightened.

  “They’ll have to observe him at school to keep things anonymous,” he said.

  “Of course. No other way.”

  “You’ll have to arrange that.”

  “I can do that, no problem,” Sheila said, feeling her organs settle in place again.

  “No private interviews with him.”

  “No, of course not. I promise.”

  “I’ll handle the parents,” Malenko said. “In the meantime, you will say nothing, you will do nothing. Is that understood?”

  “Yes, absolutely.”

  Sheila was in her office in the loft on the third floor of her house. Being so high up, she had a commanding view of their backyard. In a few days, the area would be decorated for Lucinda’s birthday party. Sheila had invited ten girls from school, from DellKids, and the neighborhood. At the moment, Lucinda was downstairs playing with her birthday kitten. Sheila could hear her talking to it over the songs on her CD player.

  Two days ago, Sheila had given Lucinda the kitten so that she could get used to it before all the kids showed up for the party. It was Lucinda’s first pet—a beautiful little orange and white longhaired twelve-week-old thing with big round blue eyes. Sheila had gotten it from the Salem Animal Shelter. Lucinda had taken to it immediately. Sheila’s mind tripped back:

  “She’s so pretty, Mommy,” she had said. “But aren’t cats sneaky?”

  “No, they’re not sneaky, hon.”

  The kitten sat curled in a basket with a cushion in it, which was how Sheila had presented it to Lucinda.

  “What shall we call her?”

  “Whatever you like. I’m sure you can think of a clever name.”

  Lucinda knelt down beside the basket, and the kitten seemed to cower slightly. It was clearly shy of people. “It has big white paws,” she said. “How about Mittens?”

  The kitten looked up at them and made a faint mewing. “That’s a nice name,” Sheila said.

  Lucinda’s eyes raked Sheila’s face. Then her expression hardened. “You don’t like the name!”

  “Yes I do, honey. Mittens is an adorable name. Just like in the nursery rhyme.”

  “No, you don’t like it. I can tell from your expression.”

  There was no pretending with Lucinda. She had developed a frustratingly keen instinct for catching her. “I love it,” Sheila insisted. But in truth, she had expected a more imaginative, more creative name from her—and not some trite kiddy moniker from her books. But how do you say that to Lucinda?

  “No you don’t,” she said in a scathing voice. “You think it’s a dumb name. You do, you do.”

  “No I don’t. Mittens is a lovely name.”

  “You’re a dirty rotten liar.”

  Although Sheila should have been used to her daughter’s occasional lapses, she was always taken aback. “Don’t talk to me that way, young lady.”

  “Then don’t lie to me, old lady. You hate the name. Admit it! ADMIT IT!”

  Lucinda’s icy blue stare stuck Sheila like a paralyzing needle. “I don’t hate the name.”

  “You do. You do,” she screamed. “I hate you. I hate you. I hope you get cancer and die.” Lucinda then snatched up the kitten from the basket and stormed out of the room. “Stupid bitch!”

  As Lucinda headed for her room, Sheila heard Lucinda cry out, “Ouch! Don’t do that, you dummy!” Before Lucinda banged her door closed, the kitten let out a long sharp cry.

  Was it worth it? a voice deep in Sheila’s mind whispered.

  “Perhaps you can arrange a school tour,” Malenko said, snapping her back to the moment.

  “Yes, of course. I know one of the admissions officers.” It would have to be soon since school was nearly out.

  “Good.”

  There was another pause on the phone, which tugged at Sheila. She had sold hundreds of homes over the years. She had haggled over prices, P&S agreements, split hairs, gone back and forth with buyers and sellers. She was used to talking turkey about price. But with Lucius Malenko, she always felt as if her will were extinguished. “And if they agree … you know, go all the way, then …”

  “You’ll get your finder’s fee, Sheila.”

  “That’s great, thanks.” Sheila felt a cool rush of relief. He had promised her five percent commission. Five percent didn’t sound like much, but it would help. Harry had been a top electrical engineer, but clueless when it came to financial planning, leaving her only a pittance in death benefits. Given the considerable debt they had gotten into with Lucinda’s enhancement and the weakening real estate market, Sheila was in dire financial straits. So when she had approached Dr. Malenko about Rachel Whitman, he had agreed that if things worked, she would get a commission—a finder’s fee. She only wished there were something in writing. But this was not that kind of contract.

  While they continued to talk, Sheila heard something from down below. A kind of muffled whirring sound. It was hard to determine because Lucinda’s CD player was blasting a sound track from 101 Dalmatians. Like all large old houses, this had several different sounds—the hot-water heater, refrigerator, the dishwasher, the washing machine and drier, the water rushing in the pipes, the air-conditioning system—so she wasn’t able to determine what she was hearing under the music.

  “By the way,” Sheila said, “I think the husband, Martin, is very interested.”

  “So it seems,” Malenko said.

  The blender, Sheila thought. Lucinda was using the blender. She liked to make milk shakes with ice cream, milk, and fruit, and Sheila had bought a quart of strawberries yesterday for that purpose. And although Lucinda was only seven, Sheila had shown her how to use the device safely. Besides, the blades could only be activated with the top fastened.

  “I will contact Vanessa and get back to you,” Malenko said. “Then we’ll talk about a visit. The sooner the bet
ter.”

  “Yes, of course,” Sheila said.

  “And, once again, you will say nothing until you hear from me.”

  “Absolutely.”

  Malenko hung up, and Sheila put the phone down, her heart still racing. She had blabbed and felt stupid, and Malenko all but said that. If he wanted to, he could cut her off immediately.

  From below, the music was now resonating throughout the house. She didn’t know if the kitchen windows were open, but Sheila’s first concern was not the neighbors but Lucinda’s ears. She could permanently damage her hearing.

  Sheila opened the door of her office and headed down. “Lucinda,” she called out. “Is everything okay?”

  But the music drowned her out.

  “Lucinda?” Sheila rounded the second-floor landing. When she reached the stairs, the music suddenly stopped dead, and a gaping silence filled the house, the only sound being Sheila’s shoes as she came down the stairs.

  Before she got to the bottom, she heard Lucinda cry out from the kitchen: “Mommy, Mommy.”

  Sheila’s heart nearly stopped. “What is it?” she cried, as she hustled down the hall to the kitchen.

  “Mittens ran away.”

  “What?”

  “I went outside and couldn’t find her,” Lucinda said, grabbing her mother’s hand and pulling her to the back door.

  “How did she get out?”

  As she opened it, Sheila noticed her hand. There were thin scratches just above the wrist.

  “Your hand is bleeding. What happened?”

  Through gulping sobs Lucinda said, “I was unloading the dishwasher to get Mittens’ dish when I scratched it on a stupid fork. Then her face hardened. “It’s your fault. You know you’re not supposed to put the forks tines-up but tines-down. You know that, MOMMY.”

  “I’m sorry, honey,” Sheila mumbled.

  “I had the back door closed, but when Joe the mailman threw in the mail, he left it open and she got out.” Her face crumbled. “He’s a stupid old man, Mommy. I hate him.” And she ran outside.

  Sheila followed her, a low-grade humming filling her head. Before she stepped outside, she looked back in the kitchen. She was right: On the counter sat half a bowl of strawberries, and the blender containing the bright red drink. The smell of strawberries laced the air. Everything looked normal—except for the empty cat basket.

  “Here, Mittens. Here, Mittens,” Lucinda cried, running across the backyard and making kissing sounds. “Come home, please. Mittens, come home.”

  Sheila felt oddly distracted as she watched her daughter go through the motions of finding her kitten. “Did you see which way she ran?”

  “Yes, this way. I think she was chasing after a bird.”

  “Well, I’m sure she’ll come home.”

  Lucinda dragged Sheila into the woods, and they looked and called for the kitten. But after several minutes, Lucinda tired of the search and headed back to the backyard and flopped down on her swing. She stuck her lower lip out. “She’s never going to come home.”

  Sheila squatted down beside her. She had splashed some berry juice on her T-shirt. “Yes she will,” Sheila said. “She’s probably out there under a bush watching us right now. She’ll be back.”

  But something told her that was not so.

  Lucinda looked up at Sheila, her eyes like marbles and her face set the way it got when she was reading Sheila’s manner. Suddenly she broke into a smile and spread her arms. “I love you, Mommy.”

  Sheila embraced her. “I love you, too.”

  Lucinda then got up and took her mother’s hand and headed back to the house. “You know, I miss her already,” she said, and licked the back of her other hand. “She was such a nice kitty.”

  “But she may still come back.”

  “I know, but if she doesn’t can we get another one?”

  “Sure.”

  “And without claws?”

  35

  “Julian’s just finishing up at school, but I think I can get us a visit.” Sheila once sold a house to the Bloomfield Prep admissions officer. “This way, you can see him in action.”

  It was Friday afternoon, and Rachel had picked up Sheila for a three o’clock meeting with Vanessa Watts who lived up the coast a few miles. As they drove along, Rachel kept asking herself why she was doing this when her instincts told her it made no sense, that there were too many unknowns. But she had promised herself to remain open-minded.

  The Wattses’ house sat atop a rolling green lawn that looked like a green broadloom carpet. It was a white clapboard-sided Colonial of understated elegance, surrounded by mature foliage that made the place look as if it had naturally grown out of the ground decades ago. Even the row of pine trees along the drive looked just the right size and had been planted in just the right place. Along the front was a low dry stone wall and tidy beds of flowers and decorative grasses. The place bespoke a world that was perfect and good.

  Vanessa greeted them at the door. In her forties, she was a tall woman with short golden hair, no makeup and a mobile toothy mouth. She was dressed in chinos, a green golf shirt with the collar up, and white running shoes. She looked very Cambridgey. According to Sheila, she was a professor of English at Middlesex University, and her book on George Orwell was apparently getting considerable attention.

  She led them into the living room, a large cheerful space furnished in white—stuffed chairs, sofa, and wall-to-wall carpeting. The carpeting made Rachel conscious of her shoes. It was hard to believe people lived in the house, especially two teenagers. The only colors breaking up the antiseptic effect were two paintings and a shiny black baby grand in one corner. On the key guard of the piano was a Franz Liszt music sheet.

  “Who plays?” Rachel asked, trying to make conversation.

  “Right now only Julian. Lisa, my daughter, is a violinist, Brad doesn’t play, and what I do doesn’t sound like music.”

  “He must be very talented,” Rachel said. “Liszt is very difficult.”

  “He’s getting better,” Vanessa said.

  Rachel sensed a note of studied coyness in her response. The kid was probably a musical prodigy. Because Dylan loved to sing and was good at it, Rachel had arranged for him to take piano lessons last year. Unfortunately, he lasted only four sessions. His music teacher called in desperation one day for Rachel to pick him up. It just wasn’t working—Dylan was out of control. As much as she had worked to get him to focus on finger exercises, he would not cooperate. And the more she tried, the more frustrated he became. When he finally went into a full-fledged temper tantrum pounding the keys with his fist, Mrs. Crawford called Rachel, and that was it for piano. “Some younger children have problems with drills. But they grow out of it. Maybe next year.” Then as an afterthought she added, “But he’s an adorable little guy, though. Sings beautifully.”

  “An adorable little guy, though”: slow, but adorable.

  “Here he is,” Sheila said, sounding like a proud aunt. She handed Rachel a framed photograph of Julian.

  Wearing scholarly looking rimless glasses and dressed in a blue and white school baseball uniform, a bright gold B on his hat, the thin-faced boy was smiling widely and holding up his index finger. Probably, Rachel thought, to let the world know he was an alpha child—one of the chosen elite who would become a permanent resident on honor rolls, who would score 1600 on his SATs, who would get early admission to Princeton, who would grow up to be Zeus.

  “Would you like some coffee or tea?” Vanessa asked.

  Rachel could feel her face flush for entertaining such petty jealousy. She hadn’t even met Julian and already she resented the kid. “Coffee would be fine, thank you.”

  “Me, too,” Sheila said.

  Over the fireplace hung a large photograph of the family—Vanessa and Brad in the background, Julian and his sister, Lisa, a high school junior. They were a handsome family poised on the bow of a windjammer pulling into some tropical harbor. Another photograph showed Julian with his Bloom
field Prep soccer team.

  Sheila moved to the corner and punched her cell phone to call her office. “Shoot! The battery’s dead.”

  Vanessa nodded to the other side of the house. “You can use the one in Brad’s studio. He’s at the office, of course. You know where it is.”

  “Thanks,” Sheila said, and left the room.

  When they were alone, Rachel asked Vanessa, “What does your husband do?”

  “He’s a commercial architect.”

  “Very nice.”

  “Except I see him once a month. He works long hours and travels a lot. What about you and your husband?”

  “At the moment, I’m just bringing up my son. I used to be a college textbook editor. But I gave that up when Dylan was born,” Rachel said. “My husband has a small recruitment company.”

  Vanessa nodded. “How do you like Hawthorne?”

  “So far we’re enjoying it.” Rachel tried to force an expression to fit her words.

  “Yeah, it has a lot going for it, if you’re the right kind of people.” She kept her voice low so Sheila wouldn’t hear. “I know you’re supposed to be true to your town and all, but it’s become claustrophobic—which, I guess, is the nature of small towns: Everybody knows everybody else’s business.” Vanessa looked as if she didn’t want to elaborate for the newcomer. “Let’s just say the place has its pressure points. We’re thinking of moving.”

  “You are?”

  “Mmmm, to a place where we won’t have—” She cut off and put her finger to her mouth as Sheila returned. “Get through okay?”

  “Yeah, and I wish I hadn’t. The P and S fell through on the Rotella place. We were supposed to have an exclusive, and some unnamed party bid eighty thousand over the asking price.” Sheila shrugged. “That’s the name of the game in this business.” She flopped into her chair. “You win some, you lose some. But it’s one hell of a way to end the week.”

  Sheila’s expression said that the commission loss was going to hurt. Vanessa went to the kitchen and returned with a tray of coffee and cookies. “So, you’re interested in the enhancement procedure for your son.”