Malenko cut in. “I can’t name names just like that. But you know what I mean—sports people, entertainers, actors, musicians, singers—people in the various trades, business people who surely would qualify.”
Martin made a cynical grunt.
“Mr. Whitman, your son is a charming and handsome little boy with a lovely voice, I understand. Who knows, he may grow up to be the next Luciano Pavarotti or Frank Sinatra.”
“Hmm,” Martin said, feeling Rachel’s eyes burning him.
To break the tension, Malenko said to Martin, “Let me ask you a question. You know something about the different programs we have, and you know your son’s potentials and limitations. Given all that, what exactly are your expectations for Dylan?”
“My expectations? I don’t follow you.”
“What would you like for Dylan?”
“I would like him to have more of a head start on life.”
“And you, Mrs. Whitman? Do you feel the same way?”
Rachel took another deep breath to steady herself. “I’m not sure I understand the question.” She could hear the deadness in her voice.
“That you would like for Dylan to have more of a head start on life?”
Still not certain she understood him, she said, “I suppose.” Tears began to fill her eyes. She felt as if she were dying inside. All she wanted to do was to go home.
“Good, because that’s what we intend to give him—the chance to live up to his abilities.”
“That’s not what I mean,” Martin said.
“Then what do you mean, sir?”
“Even if we sign him up for the best tutoring—”
“Instruction,” Malenko insisted, cutting him off. “Not tutorial. There’s a big difference.”
“Okay, instruction. Even with the best people you have, he’s got an eighty IQ. That wouldn’t be an issue if this were the eighteenth or nineteenth century. You didn’t have to be very bright to make it. But it’s the twenty-first century, and the brightest people occupy the highest-powered professions. Simple as that. The best instruction you can come up with won’t raise his capabilities.”
“No, but we may get him to work at his best. What more can you ask for? Your son is not retarded or autistic.”
“No, but he’s the low side of average. Just how far can that take him? It’s like asking him to run a race with a club foot.”
There was a humming pause for a few seconds. Rachel began to cry.
“Well, what exactly do you want of him?” she heard Malenko ask.
“I want him to be smarter.”
“But, surely, being smart isn’t the only measure of people.”
“No, but it will get you places.”
Rachel cried into her handkerchief while Martin’s and Malenko’s voices blurred like white noise. They seemed not to notice.
“Like his mom and dad.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I’m just wondering whom you are here for, Mr. Whitman: Dylan or yourself. I seem to be hearing less about what we can do for Dylan and more about reducing your dissatisfaction with your child.”
“I beg your pardon, Doctor, but I love my child very much.” Martin’s face was flushed.
“Your love is not in question, Mr. Whitman. But what I’m hearing is that you don’t have the child you wish you had—a child who would grow to share your intellectual, cultural, and aesthetic interests. A child who will be your equal someday, not an inferior.”
Martin’s eye twitched, and Rachel half-expected him to flash back at Malenko. But something in Malenko’s manner extinguished whatever impulse Martin felt. “I’m here for Dylan,” he said flatly. “I just wish he could have the opportunities other kids have.”
“What other kids?”
“Other kids in his school and play groups,” Martin said. “You know what I mean. Kids who aren’t intellectually handicapped. You’re saying that our son has a serious brain deficiency that’s crippled his verbal skills. We live in a heavily writing-dependent society, which means that he’ll be targeted as somebody who’s dumb.”
Rachel got up.
“What’s the matter?” Martin asked.
“I’m leaving. You can stay, but I’m going.” She started toward the door.
Malenko rose to his feet. “Please, please. Let’s all calm down.”
“I am calm,” she said, barely able to disguise her emotions. She began to open the door when Malenko came over to her and took her arm.
“Please, sit down. I’ll call Marie to bring in some coffee.”
“I don’t want coffee,” Rachel said. “I want to go.”
Something in Malenko’s expression gave her pause. “I think there’s more to discuss. Please.” And he beckoned for her to return to her seat.
Martin was on his feet looking at them both wide-eyed.
Rachel felt herself consent. But with tears rolling down her cheeks, and her voice trembling, she said, “I don’t want to hear any more about how my son is intellectually handicapped. Okay? Or how he’s not going to make it in life.” She glared at Martin.
“Yeah, sure,” Martin said feebly.
She took a deep breath, and in as steady a voice as she could muster, she announced, “I want to discuss an instructional program for him. Period.”
Malenko nodded, and led her back to her seat.
An uncanny silence fell on the room, as he seemed to turn something over in his head. He then picked up the phone and called the secretary to bring in three coffees.
They sat in an uneasy silence as the coffee was delivered.
Rachel sipped from her cup and stared blankly at the floor. All the swirling eddies of emotions had receded to the rear of her mind leaving her at the moment feeling dead. She could register Martin’s presence beside her and Malenko’s behind his desk. But it was as if she were occupying that quasiconscious state in dreams.
But the spell suddenly broke when Malenko clinked down his cup. “Mrs. Whitman, when you first came in here last week, you asked about special medical procedures to enhance your son’s IQ. At that time, I had said that there were no accepted strategies to accomplish that.”
Rachel looked up.
“I had assumed you were interested in standard medical practices, which to my knowledge do not exist. I had not assumed that you were interested in alternate procedures, thus, I mentioned none.”
Rachel felt her heart jog. The room seemed to shift its coordinates. “Alternative procedures?”
“Yes. There’s an experimental treatment that’s been known to have significant effects in lab animals. It appears to work by stimulating areas in the cortex and hypothalamus that affect memory and cognitive performance.”
“Lab animals?”
“Yes, maze tests with mice and more sophisticated problem-solving tasks for higher animals including monkeys. And the results are rather remarkable.”
“Has it been tried on people?” Rachel asked.
“Yes, and with remarkable results, but I must caution you that this is a purely experimental procedure akin to what’s used in the treatment of certain cerebral dysfunctions, including Parkinson’s disease. I’m talking about measures that are drastic and unconventional. Is this something you’d be interested in?”
“You mean a brain operation?”
“Yes, an invasive procedure.”
