GRAY MATTER (35 page)

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Authors: Gary Braver

BOOK: GRAY MATTER
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“Lilly!” Her mother, calling from far away.
She opened her eyes.
“Needle.”
So many needles.
“Lilly, tell me your name.”
“Libum.”
“What’s that?”
“Lib.”
“Needle.”
Lilly could barely hear her mother calling her. She wanted to call back and tell her mom that she could not stop and that she had to come and bring her back before it was too late—but the strange thing was she could not answer her.
“Lilly? Are you okay? Tell me your name, Lilly.”
Lilly opened her eyes.
The woman’s face was right above her. And behind her on the television monitor was a picture of a little girl. She could see it clearly and she could hear her words.
“Your name, Lilly. Tell me your name.”
She had no idea.
S
aturday was a stunningly beautiful day. The air was light and sultry, the sky was a delft-blue with cumulus puffs rolling overhead, and a full face of the moon hung above like a silver wafer. The mid-morning sun lit up the Charles Tracey baseball field with stereoscopic clarity. The red clay diamond, etched into the brilliant expanse of green, seemed to blaze as if lit from within. In the distance, beyond the trees, spread the Atlantic like a vast sheet of amethyst all the way to the horizon where it merged with the sky into a seamless blue vault.
The teams were gathered along the sidelines—Dylan and his mates in their bright blue Beacons T-shirts and caps, and the Lobsters, of course, in red. It was the first day of actual intramural T-ball, and Dylan was beside himself with excitement. Last weekend and on a couple afternoons, they had practiced hitting, fielding, and running the bases. Now was the “Great Big Game,” as he had called it. All week long he had been talking about it.
“I’m gonna hit a big one for the ole Mama Rache,”
he had promised.
The ole Mama Rache.
She didn’t know where he got that from, but she loved it.
From the little grandstand along the first base line, she and Martin watched the coaches try to calm the kids for instructions. For the first time in weeks, Rachel let herself relax into the moment—a moment that she would give her life to hold on to forever.
When they were ready, the Beacons took to the field. Luckily Dylan started and was sent to left field because the coach said that he had a strong arm.
Dylan waved at Rachel and Martin as he trotted off with his glove, looking back to the coach who signaled where to stand.
The first Lobster got up to the plate holding a fat plastic bat almost as big as he was. Laughing to himself, one of the coaches brought him a smaller one and showed him how to choke up. The head coach served as pitcher, gently lobbing the balls underhand to the batter. The first boy struck out. The second sent a dribble to the third baseman who overthrew as the batter made it to first, and the crowd in the opposing grandstand cheered him on. In a less than ten minutes, the sides retired and the Beacons came in. Rachel and Martin didn’t know where Dylan was in the lineup, but the inning was over with the fifth batter. And Dylan was sent back to left field.
Rachel was thoroughly enjoying the game and letting the sun soothe her spirit. Yet, observing the other parents even at this level of play, she could sense a competitive tension—one that she imagined would evolve into one of those sharp-edged things as the years progressed. While she could not imagine Hawthorne Little League parents coming to fisticuffs, something just below the surface made her uncomfortable. A nearby couple appeared to take it hard when their son struck out or when a batter from the opposing team scored. The woman two rows below cried
“Oh, shit!”
when her Clayton was tagged running home. And downbench from them people were keeping a running tally as if this were the Red Sox and Yankees.
At the bottom of the second inning, Rachel spotted Sheila MacPhearson approaching the grandstand, and her stomach tightened. Rachel didn’t want to talk to Sheila. She didn’t want to be distracted from the pleasure of watching her son. She did not want to share the moment with anybody other than Martin.
Sheila waved and climbed up toward them. “I saw the blue uniforms,” she said, settling next to Martin. “So I knew you guys would be here. There he is,” she chortled, fluttering her hand in Dylan’s direction even though he was looking the other way. “He looks adorable. I love the blue on him,” she said as if she were a favorite aunt.
“Aren’t you working today?” Rachel asked.
“I will be,” she said and checked her watch. “So what’s the score?”
“Seven to three, Beacons,” Martin said.
Rachel looked at him. He too had been keeping score. Like it mattered!
“Good for them,” Sheila said. “I hope they whip their butts.”
“How are sales?” Martin asked.
Sheila rocked her head.
“Mezzo mezzo.
With the economy, things are slow even with price drops. People don’t have the money they used to. It’s gotten tough.”
Rachel nudged Martin. Dylan moved up to the plate. He tapped his sneakers with the bat like the pros and took a few practice swings. Rachel’s heart flooded with love.
“You’re a hitter, Dylan,” Martin called.
“GO DYL-AN!” Sheila shouted.
Rachel felt her insides clench. All she wanted was for him to feel good about himself, and that meant just one little hit, even if he popped out or got tagged. Just for him to feel the ball crack against the bat.
The first ball went by him almost without his notice. They weren’t counting balls and strikes. Dylan let four perfect pitches go by. When the fifth one passed him and he still hadn’t taken a swing, Rachel began to wonder if he was scared or wasn’t sure what to do. The coaches kept up a constant litany:
“Come on, Big D!”
“You’re a hitter, Dylan.”
“Nice easy swing.”
“Keep your eye on the ball.”
“Is he okay?” Sheila asked.
Before Rachel could answer, Dylan smashed the next pitch.
Instantly she was on her feet, jumping up and down and cheering as the ball shot past the second baseman on a fly and toward center. The outfielder missed the catch and took off after it. By the time he got the ball, Dylan was bounding toward third base while the coaches waved him on and the crowd cheered.
Rachel was so excited she heard herself hooting. The second baseman threw the ball to the shortstop, backed by the kid from third. But the throw was high, and while the coaches shouted for Dylan to slow down as he rounded third, that he’d be safe, he didn’t stop but made a dramatic slide home in a cloud of dust just as he had seen on TV. Instantly, the coaches and Beacons were all over him with pats and high fives.
Rachel’s heart was pounding, and her eyes were wet. “Way to go, Dylan!”
Beaming at them, Dylan waved, then he pointed his finger at her.
“A big one for the ole Mama Rache.”
Thank you, God.
Now she didn’t care what happened for the rest of the game.
When the shouting died, Martin leaned to Sheila. “How’s Brad doing?”
“Well as can be expected, what with a double death.” Then she pressed into a conspiratorial huddle with Rachel. “I don’t know him well, but I think he’s in shock. He went to his sister’s in Oregon.” She then shook her head. “She
was a driven woman. And sometimes under pressure you do careless things. It’s not like she was a dummy and couldn’t write her own book. But there’s a lot of pressure to produce, and she fell to temptation. What can I say?”
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.
M
artian 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.

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