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hadn’t dawned on the town fathers.
    Jean Paul got out at the regional high school at the northern end of town. His eagerness to start his day was apparent in the rapid way he said good-bye. Even at that hour a group of his friends were waiting, and they entered the school together. Jean Paul was on the J.V. basketball team and they had to practice before classes. Charles watched his younger son disappear, then pulled the car out into the street heading toward I-93 and the trip into Boston. They didn’t hit traffic until they were in Massachusetts.
    For Charles, driving had a hypnotic effect. Usually his mind trailed off into the complexities of antigens and antibodies, protein structure and formation while he operated the car by some lower, more primitive parts of his brain. But today he began to find himself sensitive to Chuck’s habitual silence, then irritated by it. Charles tried to imagine what was on his older son’s mind. But try as he could, he realized he had absolutely no idea. Snatching quick looks at the bored, expressionless face, he wondered if Chuck thought about girls. Charles realized that he didn’t even know if Chuck dated.
    â€œHow is school going?” asked Charles as casually as possible.
    â€œFine!” said Chuck, immediately on guard.
    Another silence.
    â€œYou know what you’re going to major in?”
    â€œNah. Not yet.”
    â€œYou must have some idea. Don’t you have to start planning next year’s schedule?”
    â€œNot for a while.”
    â€œWell, what course do you enjoy the most this year?”
    â€œPsychology, I guess.” Chuck looked out the passenger window. He didn’t want to talk about school. Sooner or later they’d get around to chemistry.
    â€œNot psychology,” said Charles, shaking his head.
    Chuck looked at his father’s cleanly shaven face, his broad but well-defined nose, his condescending way of speaking with his head tilted slightly back. He was always so sure of himself, quick to make judgments, and Chuck could hear thederision in his father’s voice as he pronounced the word “psychology.” Chuck worked up his courage and asked: “What’s wrong with psychology?” This was one area in which Chuck was convinced his father was not an expert.
    â€œPsychology is a waste of time,” said Charles. “It’s based on a fundamentally false principle, stimulus-response. That’s just not how the brain works. The brain is not a blank tabula rasa, it’s a dynamic system, generating ideas and even emotions often irrespective of the environment. You know what I mean?”
    â€œYeah!” Chuck looked away. He had no idea what his father was talking about, but as usual it sounded good. And it was easier to agree, which is what he did for the next fifteen minutes while Charles maintained an impassioned monologue about the defects of the behavioral approach to psychology.
    â€œHow about coming over to the lab this afternoon?” said Charles after an interval of silence. “My work has been going fabulously, and I think I’m close to a breakthrough of sorts. I’d like to share it with you.”
    â€œI can’t today,” said Chuck quickly. The last thing he wanted was to be shepherded around the institute where everyone kowtowed to Charles, the famous scientist. It always made him feel uncomfortable, especially since he didn’t understand a thing that Charles was doing. His father’s explanations always started so far above Chuck’s head that he was in constant terror of a question which could reveal the depths of his ignorance.
    â€œYou can come at any time at all, at your convenience, Chuck.” Charles had always wished he could share his enthusiasm for his research with Chuck, but Chuck had never shown any interest. Charles had thought that if the boy could see science in action, he’d be irresistibly drawn to it.
    â€œNo. I