straightened.”
Martin wasn’t sure what she meant. “It will take time. But we’ll do the best we can and get beyond this. It’s not the end of the world. Dyslexia can be dealt with.”
“I’m thinking of taking him out of DellKids.”
“How come? What happened?” They had waited a long time and pulled strings to get him into the program, applying months before they actually had moved to town. If it weren’t for Sheila MacPhearson, they wouldn’t have succeeded.
“It’s more than dyslexia. He’s just not in the same league as the other kids, and they’re beginning to make fun of him.”
“Make fun of him?” Rachel was like a mother bear. One of the kids must have mouthed off, Martin decided.
“Maybe if you spent a little more time with him you’d notice.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“It means that you’re so damn absorbed with your work,” she said. Then she added, “And so damn self-congratulatory.”
He felt as if he’d been slapped. “Self-congratulatory?”
“You know what the hell I mean. Working in Cambridge in ‘the brainiest mail zone on the planet.’” Her voice had shifted to a mocking singsong.
Why the hell was she throwing his words back in his face? Of course he loved being in Cambridge and out of that garret behind the Hanover Mall. He now had a five-room suite on the seventh floor of an office building near the corner of Massachusetts Avenue and Memorial Drive and a view of Boston that would make a hermit ache. In addition to the extra floor space and easier commute, he was thrilled to spend most of his day surrounded by MIT, and not just because it was his alma mater. With Harvard at one end and MIT at the other end, Mass Ave was like a giant filament blazing with the greatest concentration of mind power in the world. In those other buildings were people who prepared manned missions to Mars, spliced genes, designed robotic intelligence and nanomachines, and searched for quarks, quasars, and extraterrestrial life. Yes, 02141 glowed with the greatest cerebral wattage anywhere, and SageSearch sat at ground zero. Martin felt smarter just being here. “So, what’s your point?”
“That you’re never around long enough to realize your son’s got serious language problems.”
“But he’s younger than the others, and young for his age,” Martin protested. “Besides, wasn’t the idea to put him in there where he can learn from other kids—something about a mentoring theory?”
“Maybe you should take a few hours off some afternoon and observe them. If that’s mentoring, it’s not working.”
Martin saw that coming, but let it go. “Well, if you think it’s not working, then maybe we should find another day-care place.”
Rachel didn’t respond. She seemed too preoccupied, too on the fringes. He watched her open her night table drawer, pull out the vial of sleeping tablets, and toss a couple into her mouth, washing them down with a glass of
water. “There are things we can do for him, tutors, special ed teachers,” he said, trying to make her feel better. “Even special schools if need be. We can deal with it.”
Still Rachel didn’t respond. Instead she slipped her pajamas on and got back into bed. “I wish we were back in Rockville.”
“Are you kidding? We’re living in one of the best towns on the North Shore. You should be counting your blessings. Our blessings.”
Without a word, she flicked off the light.
So that was it! he thought. Christ! He hated when she clammed up like this. “Guess it’s good night.” He hated another night going by without sex. It had been three weeks.
“G’night.” Her voice was barely audible. Then he heard her mutter something else. In a few minutes the sleeping pills would kick in and she’d be out.
As Martin went to the bathroom, he realized what she had said: I’m sorry. But by the time he returned to ask what she meant, she was asleep.
For a long moment, he stood there watching her slip
Martin wasn’t sure what she meant. “It will take time. But we’ll do the best we can and get beyond this. It’s not the end of the world. Dyslexia can be dealt with.”
“I’m thinking of taking him out of DellKids.”
“How come? What happened?” They had waited a long time and pulled strings to get him into the program, applying months before they actually had moved to town. If it weren’t for Sheila MacPhearson, they wouldn’t have succeeded.
“It’s more than dyslexia. He’s just not in the same league as the other kids, and they’re beginning to make fun of him.”
“Make fun of him?” Rachel was like a mother bear. One of the kids must have mouthed off, Martin decided.
“Maybe if you spent a little more time with him you’d notice.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“It means that you’re so damn absorbed with your work,” she said. Then she added, “And so damn self-congratulatory.”
He felt as if he’d been slapped. “Self-congratulatory?”
“You know what the hell I mean. Working in Cambridge in ‘the brainiest mail zone on the planet.’” Her voice had shifted to a mocking singsong.
Why the hell was she throwing his words back in his face? Of course he loved being in Cambridge and out of that garret behind the Hanover Mall. He now had a five-room suite on the seventh floor of an office building near the corner of Massachusetts Avenue and Memorial Drive and a view of Boston that would make a hermit ache. In addition to the extra floor space and easier commute, he was thrilled to spend most of his day surrounded by MIT, and not just because it was his alma mater. With Harvard at one end and MIT at the other end, Mass Ave was like a giant filament blazing with the greatest concentration of mind power in the world. In those other buildings were people who prepared manned missions to Mars, spliced genes, designed robotic intelligence and nanomachines, and searched for quarks, quasars, and extraterrestrial life. Yes, 02141 glowed with the greatest cerebral wattage anywhere, and SageSearch sat at ground zero. Martin felt smarter just being here. “So, what’s your point?”
“That you’re never around long enough to realize your son’s got serious language problems.”
“But he’s younger than the others, and young for his age,” Martin protested. “Besides, wasn’t the idea to put him in there where he can learn from other kids—something about a mentoring theory?”
“Maybe you should take a few hours off some afternoon and observe them. If that’s mentoring, it’s not working.”
Martin saw that coming, but let it go. “Well, if you think it’s not working, then maybe we should find another day-care place.”
Rachel didn’t respond. She seemed too preoccupied, too on the fringes. He watched her open her night table drawer, pull out the vial of sleeping tablets, and toss a couple into her mouth, washing them down with a glass of
water. “There are things we can do for him, tutors, special ed teachers,” he said, trying to make her feel better. “Even special schools if need be. We can deal with it.”
Still Rachel didn’t respond. Instead she slipped her pajamas on and got back into bed. “I wish we were back in Rockville.”
“Are you kidding? We’re living in one of the best towns on the North Shore. You should be counting your blessings. Our blessings.”
Without a word, she flicked off the light.
So that was it! he thought. Christ! He hated when she clammed up like this. “Guess it’s good night.” He hated another night going by without sex. It had been three weeks.
“G’night.” Her voice was barely audible. Then he heard her mutter something else. In a few minutes the sleeping pills would kick in and she’d be out.
As Martin went to the bathroom, he realized what she had said: I’m sorry. But by the time he returned to ask what she meant, she was asleep.
For a long moment, he stood there watching her slip
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