Mutation

VJ picked up the saddlebags he’d parked on the chair next to the phone and headed up the back stairs. The old wooden risers creaked under his seventy-four-pound frame. VJ went directly to the second-floor den. It was a cozy room paneled in mahogany. Sitting down at his father’s computer, he booted up the machine. He listened intently for a moment to make sure his parents were still talking in the kitchen and then went through an involved procedure to call up a file he’d named STATUS. The screen blinked, then filled with data.

Zipping open each saddlebag in turn, VJ stared at the contents and made some rapid calculations, then entered a series of numbers into the computer. It took him only a few moments.

After completing the entry, VJ exited from STATUS, zipped up the saddlebags, and called up Pac-Man. A smile spread across his face as the yellow ball moved through the maze, gobbling up its prey.

Marsha shook the water from her hands, then dried them on the towel hanging from the refrigerator handle. She couldn’t get her growing concern for VJ out of her mind. He wasn’t a difficult child; there certainly weren’t any complaints from teachers at school, yet tough as it was to put her finger on it, Marsha was increasingly certain something was wrong. It was time she brought it up. Picking up Kissa, their Russian Blue cat who’d been doing figure eights around her legs, Marsha walked into the family room where Victor was sprawled on the gingham couch, perusing the latest journals as was his habit after work.

“Can I talk to you for a moment?” Marsha asked.

Victor lowered his magazine cautiously, peering at Marsha over the tops of his reading glasses. At forty-three, he was a slightly built, wiry man with dark wavy, academically unkempt hair and sharp features. He’d been a reasonably good squash player in college and still played three times a week.

Chimera, Inc., had its own squash courts, thanks to Victor.

“I’m worried about VJ,” Marsha said as she sat down on the wing chair next to the couch, still petting Kissa, who was momentarily content to remain on her lap.

“Oh?” said Victor, somewhat surprised. “Something wrong?”

“Not exactly,” Marsha admitted. “It’s a number of little things. Like it bothers me that he has so few friends. A few moments ago when he said he’d been with this Richie boy, I was so pleased, like it was an accomplishment. But now he says he doesn’t want to spend any time with him over his spring break. A child VJ’s age needs to be with other kids.

It’s an important part of normal latency development.”

Victor gave Marsha one of his looks. She knew he hated this kind of psychological discussion, even if psychiatry was her field. He didn’t have the patience for it. Besides, talk of any problems related to VJ’s development had always seemed to fuel anxieties Victor preferred not to fire. He sighed, but didn’t speak.

“Doesn’t it worry you?” Marsha persisted when it was apparent Victor wasn’t about to say anything. She stroked the cat, who took the attention as if it were a burden.

Victor shook his head. “Nope. I think VJ is one of the best-adapted kids I’ve ever met. What’s for dinner?”

“Victor!” Marsha said sharply. “This is important.”

“All right, all right!” Victor said, closing his magazine.

“I mean, he gets along fine with adults,” Marsha continued, “but he never seems to spend time with kids his own age.”

“He’s with kids his own age at school,” Victor said.

“I know,” Marsha admitted. “But that’s so highly structured.”

“To tell the truth,” Victor said, knowing he was being deliberately cruel, but given his own anxiety about VJ—anxiety very different from his wife’s—he couldn’t bear to stay on the subject, “I think you’re just being neurotic.

VJ’s a great kid. There’s nothing wrong with him. I think you’re still reacting to David’s death.” He winced inwardly as he said this, but there was no getting around it: the best defense was an offense.

The comment hit Marsha like an open-hand slap. Emotion bubbled up instantly. Blinking back tears, she forced herself to continue. “There are other things besides his apparent lack of friends. He never seems to need anyone or anything.

When we bought Kissa we told VJ it was to be his cat, but he’s never given her a second glance. And since you’ve brought up David’s death, do you think it normal that VJ has never mentioned his name? When we told him about David he acted as if we’d been talking about a stranger.”

“Marsha, he was only five years old. I think you’re the one who’s disturbed. Five years is a long time to grieve.

Maybe you should see a psychiatrist.”

Marsha bit her lip. Victor was usually such a kind man, but any time she wanted to discuss VJ, he just cut her off.

“Well, I just wanted to tell you what was on my mind,” she said, getting up. It was time to go back into the kitchen and finish dinner. Hearing the familiar sounds of Pac-Man from the upstairs den, she felt slightly reassured.

Victor got up, stretched, and followed her into the kitchen.

2

March 19, 1989