Gray Matter

n-noblesse oblige, like the Dellsies with the poor-boy scholarships.”

“Tell me another.”

“Nice perfume, by the way.”

“It’s my mother’s. It’s called Joy.”

“Ah.” And the magazine ads lit up his mind. “Jean Patou. The world’s most expensive fragrance. By the way, do you know how many flowers go into one two-ounce bottle of eau de parfum?”

“No, and I don’t care,” Nicole said.

“Six hundred and seventy-five.”

“Where do you get all this useless information from?”

Before he could answer, somebody called for him—some guy in a grotesque maroon houndstooth sport coat and baby-blue gabardine pants was waving him over for some food. “Have to g-go.”

“Even if Dylan qualifies, I don’t think they’ll send him. There was an accident in psych lab.” She did not explain but flashed him a cool, sly look and headed for the rear exit, while Brendan headed for the houndsteeth.

Rachel watched Brendan LaMotte wend his way through the guests. He was quite dashing in the tuxedo. And, for once, his hair looked washed and neatly bound behind his head. She was tempted to go over and compliment him, but he’d probably discorporate. Or worse, tell her all the ingredients of his canapes.

Rachel was grateful for the party, because it took her mind off the enhancement option, which had left her ill at ease. Holding Martin’s hand, she moved through the crowd. There must have been a hundred people in the grand ballroom, some parents and friends of the scholarship winners, others, associates of Vanessa Watts. Also a few media people, including reporters from local TV stations. At the center of the room was a large table with an ice fountain sculpted as a swan, behind which waiters served champagne and other drinks. Nearby were tables of fancy hors d’oeuvres. In one corner sat a table artfully stacked with copies of Vanessa’s book, plus life-sized displays of the cover. Also behind the podium were blowups of each of the scholarship winners, all Dells caddies. The evening was a double-header billed as Dells’ Scholars Celebration.

At the far end of the room sat a huge television monitor for a video presentation for later. Sheila was by the equipment chatting with some club staffers. When she saw Rachel she fluttered a wave.

Vanessa, who stood nearly six feet tall, was in a clutch of people chatting away. She was dressed in a striking black sheath with boat neck and capped sleeves that accentuated her long tanned arms and chest. A simple strand of pearls hugged her neck. Her golden hair had been elegantly styled with an upward flare adding to her stature. On her feet was a pair of pointy-toed black slides. She looked less like a professor of English and more like a fashion model. Rachel pulled Martin to join her.

“Congratulations,” Rachel said with genuine admiration. Vanessa was a brilliant and accomplished woman, and now the pride of Middlesex University. She had taken several years off to raise Julian, and in her spare time she worked on her book, Dark Visionary: A Literary Biography of George Orwell, which was on its way to becoming an academic and commercial success, a rare accomplishment.

Vanessa thanked Rachel and introduced them to her agent and editor. Before they moved on, Rachel mentioned how they had met Julian at Bloomfield and how impressed they were.

Vanessa nodded. “Are you still thinking of … your own son?” she asked in a low voice.

“Yes, very much,” Martin said.

Vanessa looked at Rachel for a response.

“I still have a lot of questions.”

Vanessa pulled her aside. “I’ll call you tomorrow,” she whispered. “We have to talk.” The intensity on her face was almost startling.

“Sure,” Rachel said. “Is there a problem?”

Then somebody pulled Vanessa away to meet another guest. “I’ll call,” she said, leaving Rachel wondering at the urgency.

After nearly an hour of cocktails, a representative from the club announced that the program was to begin. There were ten scholarship recipients—nonmember caddies from area high schools—each of whom would receive a four-year fifteen-thousand-dollar scholarship to the college of their choice. The announcer read off their names and called them to the podium for an envelope and a framed plaque—nine boys and one girl who would be matriculating in the fall, most of them at A-list institutions.

Rachel watched the recipients receive their accolades, smile for the cameras, and return to the hugs and kisses of proud parents. As she scanned the crowd, her eyes landed on Sheila who was studying Rachel from across the room. Sheila smiled and held her gaze, nodding knowingly. If she could have read Rachel’s mind, she would have registered cross-currents of emotions— yes, pained awareness that Dylan would never receive such a plaque and envy that she would never feel the elation of their parents.

Until two weeks ago she would have accepted such a fate. So what? Scholarship isn’t the measure of us.

But that had all changed now. And it wasn’t just the TNT story and the ragged guilt. It was Lucius Malenko. She wished she had never heard of him and his damned enhancement. She wished she had never said anything to Sheila, because all that had done was corrupt her evaluation of her own child and others. She could not go about her daily chores without thinking of people in terms of their IQs—from bank tellers to people stocking shelves at the supermarket. Who was to say that they weren’t happy, productive individuals? Who was to say that a fancy college degree and a fancy job were all there was to living a successful life? And it left her feeling ashamed of herself.

Worse, her exposure to all the little geniuses threatened her appreciation of Dylan. Now when he rummaged for a word or came up with the wrong expression, she felt an irritating impatience, hearing a snippy little voice inside saying: Lucinda or Julian wouldn’t do that. It was awful. She was beginning to resent her own child.

From across the room Sheila flashed her a thumbs-up sign.

“He can be fixed.”

(You bought this. Damaged goods. It’s yours to return.)

Rachel broke the contact and glanced at Martin. But he was grinning and returning Sheila the hand sign.

When the applause died, the host turned to the second part of the program. He made some brief congratulatory remarks about Professor Watts, the segue being a celebration of new scholars to a professional who was a model for the younger generation to emulate. He then introduced Vanessa’s editor who commented briefly on how impressed he was with the manuscript and how he knew instantly that it was an important work which would be appreciated by an audience beyond academia.

The host returned to the microphone. Before introducing Vanessa, he announced a special surprise congratulation. When the lights dimmed, the huge TV monitor was turned on. To instant applause, the screen lit up with the face of the governor of the commonwealth, who congratulated Vanessa on a fine book. Following the applause, the picture shifted to the department chairman and the president of Middlesex who also added their congratulations and best wishes. Then a group shot of her colleagues in the department all saying “Congratulations” in unison and waving and blowing kisses.

Across the room Rachel could see Vanessa beaming and thanking people.

A scrambled void filled the monitor with snow as if the tape had been roughly edited. The screen went black for a moment, and somebody said “Is that it?” when the monitor again lit up, this time on the face of a serious- looking man about forty with a VanDyke beard. Nobody seemed to recognize him. And Rachel glanced at Vanessa who looked frozen in place.

“My name is Joshua Blake, and I was a graduate student of Vanessa Watts fifteen years ago at Middlesex University. At the time I was pursuing my doctorate in English, and Professor Watts was my advisor. My thesis, which was completed in 1988 and published in monograph form two years later, was entitled In Defense of the Defensible: An Intertextual Study of the Dystopian Politics of George Orwell.

“Some weeks ago, a reviewer for The Modern Novel Quarterly sent me an advance copy of Professor Watts’s book to inform me that she had plagiarized my dissertation.”

A murmur rose up from the crowd. Rachel looked over to Vanessa who appeared stunned.