Across the Spectrum (60 page)

Rick said slowly, “Well, I hope Lauren and her
sword-swinging princess pal are kicking some serious Grundle butt.”

We remember how to laugh.

This story is my favorite story because it was inspired by my
baby Anthony, who was born with Down Syndrome. It has been adopted in several
college literature and bioethics texts because it is a serious speculation
about what could happen if people could use gene therapy to build a child more
to their satisfaction than the one born to them. My son Anthony died in 2005. I
began thinking about what this story became when the genetic counselor
discussed chromosomal abnormalities with me, saying that a cure for them was a
long way off, but other genetic illnesses would soon be cured. Every therapy
mentioned in the story is currently being developed. The story is fiction; the
feelings are real.

∞ ∞ ∞

The rain falls in sheets across the yard, another pane of
glass beyond our windows.

Would you like it warmer, Mr. Gill?

The house pings once. Twice.

“No,” I say. “It’s fine the way it is.”

Thank you very much, the house says.

Just like anybody else, the house likes to talk to somebody.
I imagined this as a great feature. I’m an ergonomic architect; I designed it.

Denny is asleep in his room. You’d think at fifteen, he’d be
too old to take a nap. But he’s wiped out after soccer.

Carolyn threw Denny’s football out today. The foam rubber
football I gave him when he was four years old.

It was old, she said. Falling apart. He didn’t want it any
more.

I thought, if he really doesn’t want the football, maybe he
could say. I tried asking.

But right then, Denny was off to soccer practice, then a
study session, then the game. Now, he’s sleeping. This is what happens when
they’re in high school.

Carolyn says I should be proud. Proud he’s such an athlete.
And a scholar.

And I guess I’m a gentleman.

The rain comes down like liquid leaded glass.

The gardeners have taken the trash all the way to the curb
once again. It’s a very long way to the end of the driveway.

I return with half of Denny’s football.

She must have taken shears to it. A lightning strike of rage
flashes. If she were home right now. . .

Your body temperature is lower than normal, Mr. Gill, the
house chimes in its chimey voice.

“I’ve been out in the rain,” I mutter.

Would you like some soft, fluffy towels? the house asks.

I want the other half of the football. I’ll glue it back
together. But I smile and grunt an assent, to which the house responds.

Outside, the rain sleets down, a thousand tiny sticks
pattering on a thousand tin drums. Nah, not drums. It’s just our solar panels.

Denny was born with HLHS. That’s an acronym for hypoplastic
left heart syndrome. Hypoplastic left heart syndrome is universally fatal, if
left untreated. Even now, there are babies that do not survive, even with
full-length clone DNA therapy administered in-utero.

When at five months of pregnancy, Carolyn went for a
high-level ultrasound that determined Denny had HLHS, it seemed like the most
natural thing in the world to try gene therapy. The doctors explained how the
heart healed itself as the baby grew.

It was raining that day.

Pouring outside while we listened to the neonatal geneticist
explain how the procedure worked. We were so lucky, she said. Before gene
therapy, babies like Denny could only survive with full heart transplants. She
told us about a doctor that had tried baboon hearts to replace broken baby
ones.

Apparently, some parents aborted babies diagnosed with HLHS.

“I’d never accept that,” I said.

“What?” Carolyn snapped, her hand over her swollen belly.
“You’d rather let my baby suffer?”

I guess I hadn’t thought of it that way.

The geneticist explained in the past, babies born with this
heart defect were simply left to die. Their hearts barely pumped blood. And
they would just fade away.

Maybe that could be less humane than an abortion.

At least that was what we discussed on the way home.

It was a miracle that we had the gene therapy, and that
Denny was born whole. And totally healthy.

It was the best moment of my life.

The rain rattles the solar panels as I sort pictures on the
computer. Denny in his baby swing. Denny playing with blocks.

I should be working. But I can’t focus on the Recreation
Center today.

There was one of him holding the fuzzy book he got from his
grandmother. She was so frightened—my mother—when I told her about Denny’s
heart problem. She didn’t understand gene therapy.

Carolyn got on the phone and explained it to her. When Denny
was born perfectly healthy, I don’t think any of us gave it much more thought.

My mother and Denny sat for hours, reading that little book.
Pat the Bunny. Her favorite—she insisted on buying it. I have it in my study,
in the right drawer of my desk.

At one past garage sale, it had been another item bound for
the dumpster. I put the half-football with Pat the Bunny.

Denny was about three when he learned to read.

I sorted those pictures, too.

They say a man’s not supposed to be interested in pictures.
Mementos. The man lives his life, and the woman saves it. Well, what they say
is true and what happens are sometimes two different things.

There was another book Denny liked. Stan the Hotdog Man. We
read it over and over.

And one day, Denny started talking about Stan. It dawned on
me that he was reading.

“Carolyn, come here!” I called.

She came running in from the kitchen, alarmed.

“Honey, I think he’s reading.”

Her face changed. “Horse manure,” she said.

“No, really,” I said.

Denny then read a whole page of Stan the Hotdog Man in his
small voice. He beamed proudly up at me.

“See?” I said.

“You’ve read it to him so many times, he’s memorized it,”
she said.

“Oh,” I said.

It was some time later when I learned that by memorizing the
book, Denny was, indeed, reading. By that time, he was in kindergarten.

I sorted some more of the pictures from later years, and
looked pensively out at the rain. Denny was still sleeping.

I think I always hoped that my son would play football.

Back before I met Carolyn, I played ball. Played all the way
through sophomore year in college. Sidelined by a knee injury. I guess I was a
pretty good running back, if a little bit underweight. The guys were all into
steroids back in those days. There was no such thing as gene augmentation. All
we had were good, old-fashioned workouts and protein shakes. And maybe a shot
in the butt for guys that were really dedicated.

Or crazy.

You could blow your heart out on steroids. They made you
break out all over. Gave you erectile dysfunction. Made you crazy.

Happened to a lot of my friends. It’s a good thing I figured
out that trap before I fell into it.

I guess I did try it a few times.

Drops of rain dappled the window.

Your heart rate has increased, Mr. Gill, the house chimed.
Your core body temperature has dropped.

“So turn up the heat,” I told the house.

I had to say something. Otherwise, it wouldn’t leave me
alone.

∞

I folded the blue ribbon neatly into my desk drawer. For
math excellence. Why they’d give a math prize to a kid in second grade was
beyond me.

When Denny hit second grade, his teacher pointed up that he
was reading like a pro, but having trouble with his figures.

“I was never too good with math,” I told her. Wasn’t that
great in reading, either, but I didn’t feel compelled to share.

“You might want to look into some tutoring,” she said.

“He’s in second grade!” I said.

Carolyn hushed me. “How far is he behind?” she asked.

“Behind?” the teacher asked. “Oh, no—he’s not behind.”

“Well, there’s no reason to worry,” I said. “He’ll pick it
up.”

“His times tables,” Carolyn said. “Next year he’s got to
learn the times tables.”

“We don’t do it that way any more, Mrs. Gill. Each child is
tested individually against his or her own standards.”

I didn’t precisely follow how there could be enough time to
set individual standards seeing as the kid had just started second grade.

“How far is he behind?” Carolyn asked again.

“He’s not behind,” the teacher said, a stubborn tone
creeping into her voice. “Denny is so bright. I’m sure you’d agree with me that
he could do better if he applied himself. That’s all I’m trying to say.”

“Maybe he just wants to play outside,” I said.

“Hush!” Carolyn said. “Gary and I both agree that Denny is
bright. And he’s got plenty of motivation.”

“Well,” the teacher said smiling. “Why don’t you try that
tutoring service, or a math buddy.”

A math buddy was like an English buddy, or a foreign
language buddy. It was a small, silver, pain-in-the-ass robot that could also
vacuum the floor. They were notorious for tripping guys foolish enough to buy
them for their kids. A guy in Cleveland broke his neck that way.

I was going to be damned if I’d get one. I would have rather
gotten Denny another football.

On the way out to the car, Carolyn looked up at me, concern
wrinkling her forehead. “He’s falling behind in math,” she whispered.

“You don’t have to whisper,” I told her. “Nobody can hear.
Besides, the teacher said he’s not behind. We can encourage him.”

“Encourage him!” Carolyn snapped. “He can do better, and he
will.”

“Well, do you think we should try a tutor?” I asked. The
thought of locking Denny inside with some greasy-haired high school math geek
made me cringe. But even that was a more appealing choice than bringing a
gibbering, tortoise-like “math buddy” into the house, so it could trip me on
the stairs and turn me into a paraplegic.

“No,” Carolyn said. “Not a tutor.”

I felt relieved.

“Have you heard about the new gene therapy?” she asked.
“It’s just like what they did for Denny’s heart defect. Only it can strengthen
a child’s brain power. I was reading all about it yesterday.”

“Oh,” I said. I had pretty favorable memories of how they’d
fixed Denny’s heart. “How does that work?”

“Maybe it’s like what they did before. Only they inject the
new genetic material into someone’s brain. Then it makes a few changes and the
person gets smarter.”

“Oh,” I said. I didn’t like the thought of anybody injecting
anything into Denny’s brain. But I’d learned it was best not to interrupt
Carolyn when she was thinking like this. Frankly, it was almost always better
just to wait things out. Half the time she forgot about this stuff and never
mentioned it again.

“If you’re concerned about your son’s logical and
mathematical abilities, I don’t think you’ve got much to worry about with
Denny,” Dr. Mandel said. “He’s a bright, normal boy.”

“But his teacher says he’s falling behind in math,” Carolyn
said. “Can’t we do something?”

“I’d recommend a math buddy,” the doctor said. “My own
daughter has one. She’s about Denny’s age. She used to hate math, and now she
loves it.”

“Doesn’t that thing get in your way?” I asked—about the math
buddy.

“Thing?” the doctor said, looking puzzled. “Oh!” he said,
chuckling. “Yeah, it did trip me up once. I fell right off the deck into the
pool.”

“There’s something I don’t like about those little robots,”
I said. “The teacher also suggested a tutor.”

“A wise choice,” the doctor said. He started to check his
personal assistant, a sure sign our time was up. I started to rise, but Carolyn
put her hand on my arm.

“Wait,” she said. “Can you explain how the procedure works,
doctor?”

He paused. I suddenly understood that he was one of those
guys who never missed a chance to wow others with his special, technical
knowledge.

“Well,” he said, smiling. “Years ago, we discovered that
viruses could be effective transports to load different types of DNA into
human—or any other type—of brains. Now we’ve identified a specific enzyme or
cocktail of enzymes that enhances almost every type of brain function. We load
the enzymes into a virus, which then transcribes the DNA, and delivers the
desired changes to what we once thought were ‘unchangeable’ brain cells. I’m
sure you’ve heard of people building up their ‘extra-sensory perception.’”

Carolyn and I nodded. We’d seen a show about wild-eyed
lunatics bending iron and starting fires at a distance the night before.

“It’s like an infection,” Dr. Mandel said. “But it’s one
that most people wouldn’t mind catching.”

“Like a cold?” Carolyn asked.

“Exactly!” Dr. Mandel said. “You do understand. Only in this
case, the subject catches the cold in their cerebral cortex, and as healing
occurs, so do changes for the better.”

“Wow,” Carolyn said.

“I’m not sure about this,” I said.

“Shhh!” she hushed.

“How old is your son?” the doctor asked.

“Seven,” Carolyn said.

“Ah, the perfect age. Look—” he said, leaning across his
shiny titanium desk—everybody who was anybody had one of those a few years
back—“it’s not cheap. But you could make your son into a math genius if you
wanted. He wouldn’t feel a thing, and a few days later, his abilities would
manifest. They’d grow day by day.”

“I don’t know,” I said. It sounded like mad scientist stuff
to me. Weren’t they trying these techniques on psychotic murderers? If this was
so safe and healthy, I figured we would have heard about it in other areas
beside criminal rehabilitation and iron-bending firestarters.

“People are doing it all the time,” Dr. Mandel said. “You
just don’t hear about it on the newslinks because improving kids’ test scores
isn’t nearly as big a story as turning a mass-murderer into Mother Teresa.”