hunches, none of which had panned out. And he wasn’t doing his job in the town he was hired to protect.
“I apologize,” he said, and got up to leave, taking the letter with him.
“Greg, I don’t know how to say this without saying it, but maybe you should see a professional about this obsession you have for this skull case. I don’t think it’s healthy for you. I can give you some names.”
He was saying that Greg was weird: that his pursuit of this case was pathological. That he could end up like Remington Bristow, the investigator in the Philadelphia medical examiner’s office who spent thirty-six years doggedly investigating the 1957 “Boy in the Box” case, only to go to his grave without ever determining the identity of the murdered child found naked in a cardboard carton by the side of a country road—or his killer. That Greg should see a shrink.
Maybe they were right.
But it crossed Greg’s mind that working nights freed up his days. He nodded his appreciation. “I’ll be okay.”
21
By eight-thirty on Saturday morning Thorndyke Field was a mob scene. The four adjacent soccer fields had been sectioned off with orange cones as eight teams all in different-colored uniforms practiced kicking maneuvers. Along the sidelines, parents and other spectators had gathered with orange wedges and coolers full of drinks.
The parking lot was nearly filled as Rachel and Martin arrived with Dylan. The boy looked positively adorable in his crisp white uniform and new blue soccer shoes and bright red sports bag over his shoulder, the contents of which consisted of three boxes of granola bars—enough for everybody on the team (his idea)—and his Curious George doll. At this age level the teams were designated only by their colors. This morning the Whites were playing the Reds.
As they approached their corner of the field, Rachel spotted Sheila. Lucinda was on the Reds. In Hawthorne, boys and girls competed on the same teams.
Dylan looked forward to these games, and he always arrived full of enthusiasm. This morning was no different. Dylan did not start, which was fine since there were so many kids on the team.
A few minutes into the game, somebody kicked the ball point-blank into Lucinda’s midsection, sending her to the sidelines whimpering. While Rachel took some shamed-faced satisfaction in that, Dylan went over to her and handed her his Curious George. It was clear from Lucinda’s perfunctory dismissal of him that she did not comprehend the comforting gesture, or was just too grown-up to accept it. But Dylan’s untainted compassion brought tears to Rachel’s eyes. After a few seconds, Lucinda got up and joined her teammates, while Dylan returned to the sidelines.
After fifteen minutes or so, when the score was 3 to 2 in favor of the Reds, Dylan was sent onto the field.
Dylan was playing forward end. The kickoff went deep into the Reds’ line. After some back and forth, the ball came to Dylan. He quickly positioned himself but kicked it the wrong way. A fast response from one of his teammates on defense sent it back toward the Reds. Dylan rushed into the fray and got the ball. Martin yelled and pointed toward the Reds’ goalie, but again Dylan kicked it the opposite way.
Some of his teammates yelled at him, but Dylan ran after the ball and continued to run with it toward the Whites’ goalie who tried to wave him back. But he was too lost in his footwork. And before anybody could stop him, Dylan toed the ball into the net.
The Reds jumped up and down and the Whites shouted protests.
The coach came out and put his hand on Dylan’s shoulders and tried to explain to him that although he played the ball well, he had scored for the Reds. That he should run for the net with the Red goalie not the White goalie.
Dylan didn’t seem to understand at first, but when he was taken out of the game, he began to cry. Out on the field, Lucinda was consulting with her coaches, looking like a World Cup champ discussing strategies. Meanwhile Dylan squatted behind the chalk line, crying in his hands. Rachel and Martin went over to console him. “There’s nothing to cry about,” Rachel said.
“I’m a dummy. Everybody says.”
“No you’re not. And don’t say that.”
Rachel looked at Martin. She could read his expression. Several times in the last few weeks Martin had practiced passing maneuvers with Dylan, trying to get him to understand which goal was theirs, but nothing seemed to have stuck. He simply didn’t get the fundamentals of the game even though he had been playing for nearly two months. He was much better at T-ball, which started up next week. But Rachel still feared that he was developing an inferiority complex.
“Hey, Dylan,” Lucinda sang out as she pranced by after the ball. “Thanks for the free goal.”
But Rachel said nothing. Across the field she spotted Sheila in a clutch of other parents rooting on the Reds. She had no idea that Rachel was fantasizing about Lucinda falling on her face. She knew it was awful of her, but at the moment she hated that little girl.
When the game was over, Sheila caught up to Rachel on the way to the parking lot and pulled her aside as Martin and Dylan went to their car.
“Did you give them a call?” Sheila asked, meaning the Nova Children’s Center.
Rachel was still upset over the incident with Lucinda, but she did not let on. “Yes, and we have an appointment in two days.”
She had spoken to a Dr. Denise Samson and explained the nature of Dylan’s problems. The woman said to bring him in for an assessment. In addition to past test results, they needed a complete profile of his language skills, long-term/short-term memory, sequencing, abstractions/concrete tests, et cetera. They also wanted to schedule a functional MRI, which meant viewing his brain during cognitive testing.
Sheila seemed to beam at the news. “Great. You’re not going to regret it. They’re miracle workers over there.” Then she checked her watch. “Oops, gotta go. Showing a place on Magnolia Drive. Big buckaroos.” She blew Rachel a kiss, still grinning.
Rachel watched her hustle after Lucinda toward her car, wondering why she was so elated over her appointment at the Nova Children’s Center. Much more than Rachel was.
As always when Dylan went to bed, Rachel or Martin would read a book with him.
Tonight he had picked
Halfway through the book, Rachel felt her heart slump as she thought of Dylan trying to entertain the Dell kids with funny faces while they composed poetry on the computers.
She kissed his silky hair as he recited the pages, feeling the warmth of his head beneath her lips. No matter how hard he tried, he would forever feel stuck, humiliated, surpassed by other kids who would go on to bigger things. And he would never grow to appreciate the higher aspects of science, math, literature, or art. He would never know the higher pleasures of discovery or creativity.
As she listened to him recite, all she could think was that he would grow up feeling inferior—that his wonderful enthusiasm would turn in on itself as he learned what a limited space he occupied in the world.
After they finished reading, Rachel sat on the rocking chair in his room and watched her son sleep, his Curious George on the pillow beside him.
