Gray Matter

environmental toxins which can affect brain development,” he said. “You know, mercury, cadmium, arsenic, lead, or any kind of radiation. As far as you recall, were you ever exposed to any such chemicals while pregnant?”

“No.”

“Chemotherapy?”

“No.”

“Did Martin use any pesticides or insecticides to excess that you know of?”

“No.”

“Or longtime exposure to carbon monoxide?”

The question jogged through her. “Do you mean did I try to kill myself?”

“That was not my question, but car exhaust is one form of the gas. Another is a faulty oil burner. Anything like that?”

Rachel shook her head. His questions were cutting closer to the quick. And she wondered if she were projecting the image of someone with a history of mental instability.

“Of course not,” the doctor said, musing over the charts. “How about alcohol or drugs?”

She had sensed the question before it hit the air. “No. I drink very little, and I certainly didn’t while carrying Dylan.”

“Then my guess is that it’s probably genetic since there’s a lot of evidence linking heredity factors to neurophysiological disorders—schizophrenia, depression, stuttering, hyperactivity, alcoholism, and so forth But, once again, I’m not the man to ask. You really have to see a pediatric neurologist.”

Silence filled the room as the doctor waited for her to respond. “Rachel, are you all right?”

She nodded ever so slightly, thinking how there was only one thing more devastating than discovering that your much-wanted child has a brain disorder: the thought that you may have caused that disorder. In a low voice, she said, “I took drugs when I was in college.”

There! It was out.

Dr. Rose rocked back in his seat. “I see. And what did you take?”

“LSD laced with TNT,” she said. “On and off for about two years.”

“And you’re wondering if that caused brain damage in your son.”

She nodded.

“From what I know, there’s no evidence that LSD is a mutagen—that it causes chromosomal damage that could affect unborn children. There were rumors aloft in the sixties, but none was ever found. But I don’t know what this TNT is.”

“It’s also known as trimethoxy-4-methyl-triphetamine, TNT to street people.” The name was etched in her brain.

Rachel tried to push back the tears as she reached into her handbag and pulled out a Newsweek article from three weeks ago. As was typical of newsmagazines its cutesy title belied the horrors: “Acid Kickback.” As if they were reporting about heartburn. She handed the sheets to the doctor.

He adjusted his reading glasses. “‘New study shows evidence linking TNT-tainted LSD and genetic defects in users’ offspring.’” Then he read the rest of the piece to himself as Rachel sat there slowly dying.

For years, she had rested easy in the knowledge that no evidence had been found that LSD was a mutagen. Then Newsweek and the wire services had picked up a recent study by a Yale research group that set off an alarm in Rachel’s soul. The chief culprit was a family of synthetics chemically described as tryptamines, the ugliest of which was TNT, a substance hundreds of times more potent than mescaline. It was what Jake Gordon had synthesized and added to his acid back in school. According to the report, the stuff was genetically toxic, entering the reproductive cells of the female users and causing alterations in the ova, resulting in deformities in children. What startled Rachel was the figure: sixty-five percent of habitual female users of TNT-laced acid gave birth to children with cancers and birth defects. Two babies in the study were born without brains.

“Did you know for certain it was laced with TNT?”

“Yes.”

If the doctor wondered why, he didn’t ask. As all acidheads knew, TNT-LACED acid heightened sexual experience. For better orgasms, Rachel’s son was now brain damaged.

“I’ve not seen the studies, so I can’t tell you if what you took caused Dylan’s problems. And ultimately it may not be possible to tell. But frankly, Rachel, I’m not sure just how useful it is to know that. You could end up consuming yourself with guilt.”

She nodded. I already am.

“Have you discussed this with Martin?”

“Yes.” She had not expected the question. Reflexively, she lied, knowing how much worse it would sound if she had kept it from him. Although Martin knew that she had taken drugs in college—something she had confessed years ago—he did not know about TNT. Maybe someday she’d tell him. But how do you admit to your husband that you may have ruined your only child?

“Well, I think the important thing is to decide on how best to help Dylan with his learning process—working with his school to get the best programs for him. I’ll be happy to give you a referral to pediatric neurologists.” He wrote some names on a notepad and handed them to her.

She thanked him and got up to leave, feeling sick to the core of her soul.

She took a long last look at the films against the light board, thinking that she would do anything to go back in time and undo what she had done.

Anything.

6

CENTRAL FLORIDA

In the open, he was a monster. In the bush, he was invisible.

Billy liked that. He liked how he moved through the woods like a ripple. The alien in Predator. He liked how he could disappear by standing still. He liked how he could melt into scrub so that neither human nor beast could detect his presence. The excitement made him sweat all the more.

What he did not like was the heat.

He slipped out from the clutch of sapling oaks and crossed the clearing. The late afternoon sun sent thick shafts of light through the woods. He wished it were cloudy and twenty degrees cooler. He wished he were doing this someplace in the cool north and not these backwater woods of central Florida where the air felt like hot glue. He wished this were a simple snick, snick, you’re dead.

The scent-free, 3-D hooded camo suit with the fake leaves sewn all over the surface was the stalker’s dream. The ultimate in concealment, short of turning into a butterfly. But the material did not breathe. Inside the hood, his face was slick and his clothes were soaked with perspiration. That made him angry. That made him want to get this over with snick snick. But that wasn’t the assignment.

Billy passed through the clearing to the shack by Little Wiggins Canal, as it was known to the locals, or Number 341 to the U.S. Geological Survey map. The structure was little more than a six-foot cube, banged together with old timbers and roofing sheets the kid’s mother picked up somewhere. The floor was an ancient piece of linoleum over dirt, and the compressed-wood door and single window were crude. The interior consisted of a child’s table and chair, some Matchbox cars, a butterfly guidebook, a Gators banner, and tacked-up pictures of the kid and his dog—rough gestures at clubhouse homeyness, Billy thought. The place was a second home to the kid, a hangout for him and his dog, a place to play fort, games, hide-and-seek with other kids. A little tyke hideaway by the canal.

It was also the last place the little tyke would remember of his old life.