Gray Matter

Jane felt herself grow sleepy.

“And it’s bigger,” Megan continued.

Jane folded the magazine across her lap and closed her eyes. “That’ll make Daddy happy.”

“I think it has a nose, too.”

“Uh-huh.” Jane raised her face to the sun. The gentle lapping of the wavelets made an irresistible lullaby that seemed to be in cadence with her own heartbeat. In a matter of moments, she felt herself fade into the warm sac of sunlight encasing her body.

“AND TEETH!”

Jane’s eyes snapped open.

Megan was standing just inches away. Jane let out a hectoring scream.

In Megan’s hand was a human skull.

1

THE PRESENT

HAWTHORNE, MASSACHUSETTS

Dylan was in the middle of the chorus of “Bloody Mary” when Rachel Whitman turned into the lot of the Dells Country Club. Martin, Dylan’s father, loved show tunes and Dylan had learned many by heart.

“‘Now ain’t that too damn bad?’”

“Darn,” Rachel said and pulled into the shade of a huge European elm, trying to shake the sense of grief that had gripped her for the last several days. “Too darn bad.”

“But the song says damn, Mom.”

“I know, but damn is not a polite word for six-year-old boys.”

“How come?”

“It just isn’t.” She was not in the mood to argue.

“There’s Mrs. M’Phearson Jagger,” announced Dylan.

There was a time when she found the way he said things adorable—sweet baby-talk artifacts that she’d let go by. But the specialist had said that they had to work at this together, even if it meant correcting him every time.

“You have to keep after him. He has to hear the rules in action so they’ll sink in.”

“Jag-WHAR,” she corrected. “And it’s Mrs. MacPhearson’s Jaguar.” She emphasized the s.

“Jag-WHAR, but I like Jagger better. ‘Now, ain’t that too damn bad?’” he sang.

Rachel parked next to the green Jaguar alongside of the clubhouse, a sprawling and elegant white structure that appeared to glow against the emerald fairways that rolled away to the sea.

For a moment, Rachel stared through the windshield at the dappled sunlight playing across the gold- lacquered hood. Sitting in her big shiny Maxima, dressed in her white DKNY sundress and Movado watch and Ferragamo sandals, her sculpted raven hair and discreet black glasses, she would, to the casual observer, appear to be a woman who had it all—a woman blessed by fortune, a woman of rare privilege, a woman who saw nothing but endless blue skies above her head. And Rachel Whitman did have it all—health, a successful marriage, money, a beautiful new home in one of the flossiest North Shore suburbs, and an adorable little boy. Or almost all …

It wasn’t as if they’d found a dysfunctional kidney. Just a setback that they would make the best of.

“Mom, do I have to go?”

Dylan looked up at her with those gorgeous green eyes. So full of depth.

“But you like DellKids.”

“Yeah, but I don’t like her. I don’t wanna go.” His mouth began to quiver as he fought back tears.

“Who?”

He looked out his window and took a couple deep breaths to control himself.

“You mean Miss Jean?” Rachel asked. Miss Jean was one of the day-care counselors. Her yellow VW Bug was parked nearby.

“No, Lucinda. I don’t like her.” His eyes began to fill up.

“Lucinda MacPhearson?”

“I hate her. She’s mean.”

Lucinda was Sheila’s seven-year-old daughter—and one of the twelve kids in DellKids, a day-care center located in a separate wing of the clubhouse. Since school let out last week, Dylan was attending it full-time now. Because the waiting list for full club membership was years long, Rachel and Martin had purchased a social membership which allowed them dining, pool, and tennis privileges, as well as DellKids. That was fine with Rachel who didn’t play golf.

“How is she mean?”

Dylan didn’t answer nor did he have to. Rachel knew and felt the heat of irritation rise. Lucinda was a very bright child, but she was bossy and a knowit-all. Like an intolerant schoolmarm, she would hold forth with Dylan and the other kids on operating computer games or fashioning Play-Doh. Dylan was too proud to admit how the little brat had humiliated him.

“Do you want to tell me what she said?” It crossed her mind to speak to Sheila, though it would be awkward since Sheila had sold them their house and sponsored their Dells membership.

But Dylan didn’t respond. Something out the window had caught his attention. “What’s that man doing?” he asked.

One of the waiters, a big kid in his teens, was standing half-hidden behind a tree outside the kitchen and staring through field glasses at a girl sunning herself on a poolside lounge chair. While Rachel watched, the boy suddenly slapped himself in the face.

For a moment Rachel thought she was seeing things. But he did it again—he slapped himself in the face. Then again and again—all the while peering through the field glasses at the girl by the pool.

“Why he hitted himself?”

But Rachel didn’t have an answer. Nor did she correct Dylan. Nor was she sure if she should do something. She thought about getting out of the car and approaching him, but then what? “Gee, young man, you really shouldn’t be whacking your face like that.” What if he suddenly turned on her? The kid clearly looked disturbed.

And yet, there was something bizarrely purposeful in his behavior—the way he kept studying the girl between slaps, as if waiting for a reaction from her. Or maybe punishing himself for Peeping Tom thoughts. “I don’t know,” Rachel muttered and got out.

The sound of the closing doors alerted the kid. He shot them a look as they moved toward the clubhouse, then disappeared into the kitchen, leaving Rachel and Dylan wondering what that was all about.

“Is he a crazy man, Mom?”

“I don’t know, but I think we better get inside before we’re late.”

She hustled Dylan to their entrance, hoping that the waiter would be confined to the kitchen and not wander into the day-care center.

“You know what I think?” he said as they moved inside. “I think he a dummy.”

“Don’t use that word.”