Mutation

“That’s a tough question,” Mr. Remington said. “I don’t feel he is unhappy, but VJ doesn’t display much emotion at any time.”

Marsha frowned. The flat effect sounded schizoid. The picture was getting worse, not better.

“One of our math instructors, Raymond Cavendish,” Mr.

Remington offered, “took a particular interest in VJ. He made an enormous effort to penetrate what he called VJ’s private world.”

Marsha leaned forward. “Really? Was he successful?”

“Unfortunately, no,” Mr. Remington said. “But the reason I mentioned it was because Raymond’s goal was to get VJ

involved in extracurricular activities like sports. VJ was not very interested even though he’d shown an innate talent for basketball and soccer. But I agreed with Raymond’s opinion: VJ needs to develop other interests.”

“What initially interested Mr. Cavendish in my son?”

“Apparently he was impressed by VJ’s aptitude for math. He put VJ in a gifted class that included kids from several grades. Each was allowed to proceed at his own pace. One day when he was helping some high school kids with their algebra, he noticed VJ daydreaming. He called his name to tell him to get back to work. VJ thought he was calling on him for an answer and, to everyone’s amazement, VJ offered the solution to the high schooler’s problem.”

“That’s incredible!” Marsha said. “Would it be possible for me to talk with Mr. Cavendish?”

Mr. Remington shook his head. “I’m afraid not. Mr.

Cavendish died a couple of years ago.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Marsha said.

“It was a great loss to the school,” Mr. Remington agreed.

There was a pause in the conversation. Marsha was about to excuse herself when Mr. Remington said, “If you want my opinion, I think it would be to VJ’s benefit if he were to spend more time here in school.”

“You mean summer session?” Marsha asked.

“No, no, the regular year. Your husband writes frequent notes for VJ to spend time in his research lab. Now, I am all for alternative educational environments, but VJ needs to participate more, particularly in the extracurricular area. I think—”

“Just a second,” Marsha interrupted. “Are you telling me that VJ misses school to spend time at the lab?”

“Yes,” Mr. Remington said. “Often.”

“That’s news to me,” Marsha admitted. “I know VJ spends a lot of time at the lab, but I never knew he was missing school to do it.”

“If I were to guess,” Mr. Remington said, “I’d say that VJ

spends more time at the lab than he does here.”

“Good grief,” Marsha said.

“If you feel as I do,” Mr. Remington said, “then perhaps you should talk to your husband.”

“I will,” Marsha said, getting to her feet. “You can count on it.”

“I want you to wait in the car,” Victor said to VJ and Philip as he leaned forward and looked at Gephardt’s house through the windshield. It was a nondescript two-story building with a brick façade and fake shutters.

“Turn the key so we can at least listen to the radio,” VJ

said from the passenger seat; Philip was in the back.

Victor flipped the ignition key. The radio came back on with the raucous rock music VJ had previously selected. It sounded louder with the car engine off.

“I won’t be long,” he said, getting out of the car. He was having second thoughts about the confrontation now that he was standing on Gephardt’s property. The house was set on a fairly large lot, hidden from its neighbors by thick clusters of birches and maples. A bay window stuck out on the building’s left, probably indicating the living room. There were no lights on even though daylight was fading, but a Ford van stood idle in the driveway so Victor figured somebody might be home.

Victor leaned back inside the car. “I won’t be long.”

“You already said that,” VJ said, keeping time to the music on the dashboard with the flat of his palm.

Victor nodded, embarrassed. He straightened up and started for the house. As he walked, he wondered if he shouldn’t go home and call. But then he remembered the missing laboratory equipment, the embezzlement of some poor dead employee’s paychecks, and the brick through VJ’s window. That raised Victor’s anger and put determination in his step. As he got closer he glanced at the brick façade and wondered if the brick that had crashed into his house was a leftover from the construction of Gephardt’s. Eyeing the bay window, Victor had the urge to throw one of the cobblestones lining the walk through it. Then he stopped.

Victor blinked as if he thought his eyes were not telling the truth. He was about twenty feet away from the bay window and he could see that many of the panes were already broken, with sharp shards of glass still in place. It was as if his retribution fantasy had become instant reality.