Gray Matter

grabbed the man’s arm to stop him when he heard snick snick.

Billy’s hands went free. He looked over his shoulder and saw the long barrel of the man’s pistol.

Just as he realized the extension was a silencer, Billy saw a flash of light go off in his face.

It was the last light he would ever see.

9

“Daddy, will you read to me?”

Wearing pajamas with big cartoon spaceships all over them, Dylan opened the door to Martin’s office, a converted bedroom on the second floor.

Martin was at his laptop looking over the dossiers of recruits, most of them senior-level information technology experts. “Hey, you little monkey,” he said with a glance.

“I’m not a monkey,” Dylan protested.

“Just kidding,” Martin said. “I’ll be right with you.” He finished what he was doing and followed Dylan to his room where he climbed into bed with a book called Elmo the Christmas Cat. It was part of a series of books about the adventures of an inimitable black-and-white cat.

“That’s a Christmas story,” Martin said, stretching himself beside his son. “Isn’t it a little early?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, it’s only June, and Christmas is in December, which is six months from now.”

“But I want Elmo the Christmas Cat.”

Martin wasn’t sure Dylan got what he meant. He had a little trouble with time abstractions. “Okay, but do you remember the months of the year?”

“Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, Threesday, Foursday, Fivesday …”

“Wednesday, Thursday, Friday,” Martin corrected. “No, those are days of the week. I mean months of the year.” Feeling a little frustrated, Martin pointed to the large kid’s calendar on the wall. “You know, ‘January, February, March …’” Martin began to sing.

They had been trying to get him to learn the days of the weeks and months of the year for a while. The odd thing was Dylan could memorize things if they were set to music, which was how he could sing the alphabet correctly and why he knew the lyrics of a couple of dozen show tunes. Yet he could not recite things straight. So they had made up little jingles for the days of the week and months of the year, but at the moment he was more interested in Elmo.

Martin opened up the book and began to read, wondering when the boy would be able to do this himself.

After a couple pages, Dylan noticed the small dark blood scab on Martin’s cheek. “You cut yourself. How come?”

“Just from shaving.”

Dylan touched it gently with his finger. “Does it hurt?”

“Nah.”

“Want a kiss to make it feel better?”

“Sure.”

“Maybe I’ll be a doctor someday.” Dylan kissed the scratch. Then he lay back on his bolster.

“Maybe.” Martin read to him, thinking about his work. When he was finished, he turned out the light. “You know, hon, I’m not going to be home tomorrow night.”

“How come?”

“Well, I’ve got to be in Boston tomorrow.” He had a late conference in town and it made sense to stay over at a hotel.

“I hate Boston. You always go there.”

“I promise I won’t go back for a long time. But tomorrow you’ll have to take care of Mom, okay?”

“Tomorrow we go to the zoo.”

“You are?” Martin had forgotten that Rachel and Sheila MacPhearson were chaperoning Dells kids on a field trip to Franklin Park.

“Uh-huh. But you know what?”

“What?”

“Mom’s sad.”

“She is? Why do you say that?”

“Because I saw her crying.”

Jesus, it was getting worse, he thought. When he came home a little after seven, she said that dinner was on the stove, then announced that she wanted to lie down because she had a headache. In fact, she had been lying down for nearly two hours now. The light was out in their bedroom and the door was closed, which meant that she was probably asleep.

“Well, I’ll check in on her. I bet she was just tired.”

“Dad, do you like me?”

“Of course I like you. I love you. Why do you ask that?”

Dylan shrugged. “Lucinda doesn’t like me.”

“Sure she does. And if she doesn’t, something’s definitely wrong with her.”

“Something’s definitely wrong with her,” he repeated, and closed his eyes.

Martin had read someplace that it takes the average adult about eight minutes to fall asleep. Dylan was out in less than a minute, no doubt dreaming of some outsized cat in a Santa outfit coming down the chimney.

Martin got up and crossed the hall to their bedroom. The interior was dark, and Rachel was asleep on her side of the huge king-sized bed. Her sweatshirt was still on, but she had taken her slacks off and draped them over the footboard. The thought of her lying there in her panties produced a giddy sensation in his genitals.

He sat on the edge of the bed and she opened her eyes a slit.

“Are you in there?”

She nodded.

“How’s the head?”

She nodded to say that it was okay.

“Well, I hate to wake you but it’s nine o’clock. I thought you might want to change into your PJs.”

She nodded, and closed her eyes again.

“You know what you could use? A few pages of Elmo the Christmas Cat.”

She did not smile, or even open her eyes. She just shook her head ever so slightly.

“Swann’s Way might be more your style.”

Still nothing.

“I know,” he said and stretched himself alongside of her and put his leg across hers. “How about Mighty Marty’s Happy Beef Injection? Been known to cure PMS just like that.” He gave her a little pelvic grind.

“Sorry,” she whispered.

It was as if she had turned to wood. But in the scant light he could see tears pooling in her eyes. Martin pulled back. “Hey, girl, what’s the problem?”

She shook her head slightly.

“Rachel, I’ve known you for nearly ten years. I know when something is eating away at you. And something is, and it’s beginning to scare me. Really. I’m beginning to wonder if you have some awful disease you’re not telling me about.” Martin rubbed her shoulder. “Come on, Rache, what’s going on?”

She took his hand and muttered something he couldn’t get.

“What?” he said, and gently coaxed her face out of the pillow.

“I’m scared.”

Martin felt a cold shock pass through him. She has cancer. “About what?” He snapped on the light.