by David Zeman
In the meantime the Pinocchio Syndrome struck like lightning, plucking its victims from life like an invisible hand. This fact became part of the mythology of the disease. The victims were “chosen,” it was believed, because of some spiritual or other taint that made them vulnerable to the disease. Perhaps, it was thought, they were like weak members of a herd who are weeded out by the predator, the better to safeguard the long-term viability of the herd as a whole.
Devout believers of various faiths did not hesitate to interpret the spreading illness as a sign from God. The staring eyes of the victims, and their unresponsiveness to other people, proved that their vision was fixed on God, they were no longer “of this world.” They were preparing for their ascension into a higher sphere.
The macabre metamorphosis of the victims’ extremities as death approached was also accounted for by believers as proof of divine purpose. Muslim scholars found obscure texts in the Koran that hinted at a metamorphosis of certain men into hoofed beasts in ancient times. Not to be outdone, Bible scholars pointed to Old Testament sources suggesting that the hoofed hands and feet were God’s punishment for original sin. Talmudic scholars were not far behind. Hindus unearthed passages in the Vedas that referred ambiguously to the donkey or ass as a holy avatar of the human spirit. Similar hints could be found in the sayings of Buddha.
Indeed, the religious controversy took on unintentionally comic dimensions as believers of different faiths claimed the disease as a visitation foretold in their own scriptures. Was the malady a Christian scourge, a Muslim scourge? This question was debated endlessly.
Some splinter religious groups even brought the disease into their rituals, creating icons depicting the metamorphosis of man into a hoofed beast, and even outfitting priests with oversized hands and feet. The somewhat vaudeville aspect of these rituals was not lost on outside observers, but the practice spread nonetheless.
Many Muslims and Christians in the Arab countries had stopped fleeing the affected areas. They substituted prayer and acceptance for escape. Flight was impractical anyway, for there was nowhere to go. Neighboring countries refused to let in refugees from the illness. Immigration policies around the world had tightened due to fear of the scourge.
In America, surprisingly, the spread of the disease seemed to have stopped. Few new cases were being reported. Health authorities could not account for this reprieve, but it had a powerful effect on the public mind. The climate of panic that had existed in the fall gave way to something less desperate. Perhaps, thought many, the disease was self-limiting. Perhaps after ravaging certain areas for weeks or months, it moved on or even disappeared altogether. Many epidemics in past centuries had followed such a pattern.
People’s faith in their institutions began to return. The world was not so different from what it had been in the past. True, the continuing fear of nuclear terrorism, spawned by theCrescent Queen attack, made life difficult. But there was reason to hope that the authorities would eventually find the perpetrators of the act and prevent a recurrence.
This change of mood redounded to the advantage of the president and his administration. The selection of Michael Campbell as the new vice president seemed like a lucky charm. The president’s poll numbers rose steadily, while Colin Goss, for the first time in a year, lost ground. Americans, less terrified of the future, saw past Goss’s message of hate to the commonsense levelheadedness of the president and embraced Michael Campbell like a returning hero.
Debate over Michael’s nomination was proceeding in the Senate, with token resistance from senators loyal to Goss. But there was a pro forma quality to the sessions, and Michael’s ultimate confirmation seemed a foregone conclusion.
Michael’s selection finished the process his Senate years had started. He was now seen by voters and political pundits as another John F. Kennedy, a charismatic leader on a sure path to the presidency. His speeches were attended by thousands of excited supporters, and his television appearances garnered ratings not attained by any politician in a generation.
As for the president, he did not mind being upstaged by his nominee, for the public relations bounce from Michael’s selection was working against Colin Goss and in favor of the administration. The president enjoyed sharing the spotlight with Michael, for it was a spotlight that showed Colin Goss in ugly colors.
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JUDD CAMPBELL was thrilled for Michael. His excitement was such that he himself seemed to have a new lease on life and youth. His arthritis hurt less, his heart felt stronger, his mind seemed sharper than it had been in years.
His weekly dinners with Michael and Susan had become celebrations. The only problem was that Michael, more often than not, could not attend. He was too busy being briefed by White House and state department people about his upcoming responsibilities as vice president. Judd, of course, accepted his son’s enforced absence graciously, for it was all part of a dream come true for him.
On a windy, unseasonably warm February evening Susan came over alone for dinner. The conversation was all about Michael. Susan found Judd and Ingrid almost unnaturally excited. Ingrid looked ten years younger and seemed to have lost weight. Judd could hardly sit still. He kept jumping up from his chair to glance at the TV, tuned to CNN, on which Michael’s face seemed to appear every few minutes.
After dinner Judd excused himself and went up to his office while the two women did the dishes. He sat for a few moments looking out the window at the waves, which were high under the gusty wind. Then he got up and removed a videotape from the small safe in his office and put it into the VCR. He sat back in his orthopedic chair and turned off the desk lamp so he could see the TV image better.
The videotape had been recorded at the Olympic games.
“Campbell is swimming the anchor lap for the Americans. The switch was just a bit ragged, leaving Campbell a second or two behind the West Germans. He is swimming with powerful strokes . . .”
Judd knew every word of the announcer’s commentary by heart. That did not stop him from sitting up straighter, his adrenaline flowing.
“Michael Campbell has amazed the world this week,” the commentator continued. “After a second serious back operation that left him all but incapacitated, he came here as a dark horse, not taken seriously by most observers, and shocked the world by winning the men’s 100-meter freestyle in world-record time. Now, twenty-four hours later, he is swimming for a second gold medal. But it looks as though he’s going to have to get over a major hurdle in this race.”
Judd leaned forward. His son was a blur of angry splashes and pumping arms, his face invisible. But the long scar down his back could be seen as he churned his way madly through the water, still half a length behind the West German anchor. Judd stopped the video briefly and rewound it a few seconds. This was the moment, the moment he had watched hundreds of times.
“But I spoke too soon,”said the commentator.“Campbell seems to be gaining—no, wait, he’s tied Schuller for the lead. I can’t believe what I’m seeing. In an amazing burst of speed Campbell has caught up to the West German. With one lap to go they’re neck and neck. This is going to be a thriller . . .”
In the space of two seconds Michael had poured it on and caught the West German, a young man considered at that time to be the fastest swimmer alive. The gain had taken place just as the commentator was saying Michael was at a disadvantage.
Judd Campbell never tired of viewing that moment. It symbolized for him the essence of competition, that split second of absolute fury and commitment in which an athlete overcomes his own limitations and the power of the opponent to win.
“They’ve started the last lap. Schuller and Campbell are still tied—no, wait, it looks like Campbell has a tiny lead. Yes, they’re coming in, they’re coming in . . . Campbell wins it! The Americans have won the gold medal!”
Pandemonium reigned as the winning time was posted. The American relay team and coach held up their hands in victory and rushed to besiege Michael, their hero. T
he commentators’ voices were tumbling over each other as they exclaimed over the Americans’ incredible victory.
And now came the second moment, the one Judd lived for almost more than the first. Michael remained in the water at the finish line. His coach was leaning over to talk to him. The coach signaled for the trainer, who came quickly to his side.
“There seems to be a problem here with Michael Campbell. He’s not getting out of the pool. The American coach has approached the judge. It appears Campbell has a back spasm so painful that he can’t lift himself out of the pool.”
The American swimmers and coaches converged on Michael, and after a few moments’ consultation he was lifted from the pool by his relay teammates, who were assisted by Jürgen Schuller, the German champion whom Michael had just defeated. The picture of the four swimmers struggling to help the incapacitated gold medalist would become one of the most famous images in Olympic history, and the one that forever established Michael in the public mind as a man of almost unbelievable physical courage.
The picture hung today as a still photograph on Judd’s office wall. Judd never let a day go by without looking at it and drinking in its eloquent combination of pathos and triumph. His son looked so vulnerable as his teammates pulled him out of the water. Yet Michael was their leader, their hero. A winner to the marrow of his bones.
Judd looked out the window. Dusk was gathering over the windblown ocean. The moon was bright. On an impulse Judd decided to go out for a walk on the beach. He wanted to pursue the thoughts evoked by the video of Michael’s Olympic achievement.
At the bottom of the stairs he heard Ingrid and Susan laughing in the kitchen. He took his leather jacket from the hall closet and slipped out without telling them he was going.
The beach was somewhat narrow in front of the house, but a hundred yards down it became quite vast. The waves in that area were larger than elsewhere because of a relatively deep bottom. Judd walked along slowly, feeling the rhythm of the waves penetrate his emotions.
Thirty years ago he had chosen the beach before building the house. The real estate was expensive even then, though by today’s prices he got the land for a song. He had intended the house to be a sort of hideaway for himself and the children. Michael was only five at the time. Ingrid was ten and Stewart was an already rebellious twelve.
Michael had taken to the place immediately, running along the beach in his shorts or swimsuit, making castles in the sand, chasing sand crabs and hunting for sand dollars with his mother. Judd, walking now, reflected that it was precisely on this sand that those happy early days had been spent. He used to sit here with Michael and tell his son to count the waves coming in to shore.
“Count the waves and tell me how many there are,” he would say.
“One, two, three, four . . .” And the little boy would smile and hit his father on the arm when he realized the waves went on forever.
And it was here that the first omen of Michael’s special destiny had appeared, marking Judd himself forever.
Judd had been alone with Michael that day. Margery had taken the older children shopping in the village. Judd was sitting on the sand with a cigar in his mouth (ah, the good old days of those Italian panatellas!), squinting into the bright sun and watching Michael run back and forth along the beach.
After a while, tired of squinting, Judd sat back on his elbows and closed his eyes. The sound of the waves, punctuated by Michael’s little feet running along the sand, lulled Judd into a noonday languor.
A small cry of alarm pulled him from his reverie. What he saw horrified him. A freak wave had surged up the sand at least fifty yards ahead of the others and swooped Michael up like a predator. The event was so bizarre that Judd was taken off guard. Before he could react, the little boy had been carried off into the ocean. Michael must have swallowed some water already, for he no longer cried out. An eerie, terrible silence covered the scene. Only the rhythmic breaking of the waves was heard.
By now Judd had leaped to his feet, throwing away his cigar, and rushed into the water without removing so much as his shoes. Pumping madly with his strong arms, he fought the waves. Michael was somewhere ahead of him, invisible in a trough between the foaming crests.
Judd was too panicked even to call Michael’s name. He surged forward, slamming his arms into the waves, which seemed to rear deliberately before him, battering him backward and sapping his strength. Maddened by their stubborn interference, he fought with a physical fury he had never possessed before or since. (Indeed, it was from this day that Judd would later date his heart trouble. He never felt the same after that desperate struggle.)
At last, in the trough ahead of him, he saw Michael floating, an unconscious little body whose shorts and T-shirt clung to his white skin like rags. Judd swam through the crest of the wave and caught Michael around the neck. Pulling the boy, he swam back toward the shore. The current seemed determined to hold him back. When he finally reached the sandy bottom, unusually strong waves pummeled him from behind and sucked at his legs as though to hinder his progress. Twice he was knocked over, crashing to the wet sand on his back as he held Michael aloft.
Finally he reached safety and began giving the little boy mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. It was difficult, for his own scalded breaths were coming so short that he lacked the wind to fill the boy’s lungs. Michael looked oddly peaceful as he lay on the sand. Weeping in his anxiety, Judd forced his own breath into the small body. He moved Michael’s arms, held his head back, slapped his little face.
“Please,” he begged, not knowing who he was talking to. “Please don’t let him be dead. I’ll never ask you for anything again.”
Judd’s own tears were falling on Michael’s face when, at last, Michael began to breathe, then to complain and whimper. “Thank God,” Judd said aloud through rasping breaths. “Thank God.”
Judd had called the local hospital and taken Michael to the emergency room by the time Margery and the two older children returned from their shopping. Having found no note from Judd, Margery was beginning to worry when she saw her husband and son come through the door, Michael eating an ice-cream cone, both looking surprisingly normal except for their sand-covered clothes.
Judd had never forgotten that day. The bright sun, the feeling of odd tranquility before the freak wave suddenly reached out to snatch his son. The frantic rescue, and Judd’s occult impression of the ocean’s ill will as he fought his way toward shore.
Judd believed that Fate had intended to end Michael’s life that sunny day, and that he, Judd, driven by his desperate love for his favorite son, had frustrated Fate. The price he paid was his own heart condition, which was discovered not long afterward and persisted to this day. It was a price he paid gladly.
He also felt that Michael’s precocious rendezvous with death had thrown a special halo over his life and destined him for great things. Judd tried his best to prepare Michael for that special fate, encouraging him always to do his best, always to win. Over the years, as Michael’s achievements became more and more stellar, Judd felt confirmed in his superstitious belief. His own greatest achievement as a man consisted in having given Michael this second chance at life.
“Why am I thinking of this now?” he wondered, strolling along the shore as the moon hovered above the waves. Suddenly he saw the connection. Michael’s furious strokes on that last lap of the Olympic relay had been an echo of Judd’s frantic strokes when he fought his way through the waves so long ago to save his son. Michael had swum that relay as though death were at his back. And, in a way, it was.
Memory had combined with the night air to chill Judd’s hands and feet, so he turned to go back home. He saw Susan coming toward him along the beach. She was wearing jeans and a sweater. Her blond hair was blowing in the wind. He smiled, pleased by the sight of this sweet nymph coming toward him under the tempestuous sky.
“There you are,” she called. “Ingrid was worrying about you.”
She curled her arm inside his and th
ey started back toward the house.
“What were you doing out here?” she asked. “Aren’t you cold?”
“I’m not so decrepit that I can’t take a walk on the beach after my dinner,” Judd growled. But his eyes were tender as he looked at Susan.
“Come on in and have a Guinness,” she said.
“If you think Ingrid is going to let me have a Guinness without a fight, you’re wrong,” Judd said. “No wonder I can’t stand to be in my own house.”
Gusts of wind blew their hair this way and that as they walked. Warmed by Susan’s touch, Judd was already shaking off the effects of his painful memory on the beach.
“Michael called,” Susan said. “He was sorry to miss you.”
Judd felt a pang of loss. His devotion to Michael was such that he even regretted small losses like missing phone calls.
“How is he?” Judd asked.
“Terrificwas the word he used,” Susan smiled. “I believe him. I’ve never seen him so excited.”
“Well, it’s an exciting time,” Judd said, patting her hand. “Did he have any message for me?”
“Just that he loves you.”
Judd smiled gratefully. As the house came closer, he felt as though Michael’s words were incarnated in the warm touch of the beautiful girl on his arm. After a lifetime of waiting, everything was in place. Fate was smiling on the Campbells. And Michael had made it all possible.
38
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Georgetown
March 5
IT WAS against the heady background of Michael’s nomination that Susan Campbell accepted a request from Karen Embry for an interview.
Susan had never met the reporter before. Karen had explained that she was working on a freelance series of feature articles about the Pinocchio Syndrome. In answer to Susan’s question she explained that her special area of expertise was public health. The series of articles she was preparing would deal only tangentially with politics. It was essentially a story of the epidemic and its effects on people’s lives.