She was just five when the Nazis invaded Poland in 1939. Her gentle father was drafted into the Polish army. A month later, she was told he died of typhoid in a prison camp outside Warsaw. Her mother, a sweet soul from Danzig, was turned into a whore for SS officers. Victoria went to live with her ancient grandmother in a Krakow slum. She spent her days foraging for food, coal, anything that might be used to sustain life. She ransacked garbage cans and begged German soldiers for coins and candy. She wandered like a rat through dismal streets fighting other rats for discards turned to treasures. At night she dipped rancid bread into sewer soup, then crawled into bed beside her father’s mother who gave off less heat than a candle stub.
By 1944, when the Russian liberators came, Victoria’s grandmother was too feeble to care for anyone; the girl was shipped to a state orphanage. At the orphanage she was taught to read, write and sing inspirational songs in praise of the Communist regime. Because the child had a talented voice, strong and pure, she was chosen to be part of a choir that traveled through ruined cities mouthing uplifting ballads for captive audiences of school children and battered workers.
The day Victoria turned fifteen she met a violinist twenty years her senior and gave him her love and trust. With the help of small miracles they escaped Poland, walked across Europe and somehow found their way to Paris. While his young mistress worked ten hours a day in a hospital laundry, her lover met a woman who owned a successful cabaret in the Marais. Victoria was discarded like an unwanted pet. She quit her job, switching allegiance from laundry soap to a religious vision of terminal filth; she made a living by renting her only real estate, her shapely body, to be used as a mattress by battalions of local predators.
Luckily, the hapless bit of flotsam was rescued from oblivion by an organization of Quakers who managed to find her a position caring for the children of an American diplomat and his wife. Victoria loved her new job, the family loved Victoria. When they returned to the United States, they arranged for her to accompany them to Washington, D.C.
Victoria was twenty-three, chubby and hopeful, when she took her second lover, a salesman named Hobart Burl who transported her to Minneapolis. They had a good life together until Hobart was “downsized” by the company he’d thought of as his second father. When he was “downsized” with no notice or excuse, the man cracked like an egg, spilling wrath and rage, striking out in all directions.
Police called by a neighbor saved Victoria from being strangled by the electric cord that dangled from one of the appliances Hobart once sold in the Midwest territory. That same night she packed her small suitcase and caught the first Greyhound bus out of town. It took her to Glenda.
She found a room downtown, bought a copy of the Glenda Express, and circled the Help Wanted ads. By the end of the week Victoria was hired as live-in companion to Dr. Henry Fikel’s mother-in-law, Lorna Erp, stricken by what was diagnosed as senile dementia brought on by hardening of the arteries.
Lorna Erp, all ninety pounds of her, was in the process of forgetting everything and everyone she’d ever loved or hated. She spent whole days and nights watching people on her Zenith TV screen, accusing them of spying on her. Those two-dimensional invaders were accompanied by sounds of witless laughter and terrible music. They ate, drank, fornicated, fired guns, raced cars through her living room, rode horses, herded cattle, flew planes that dropped bombs, sailed submarines that spit missiles, used bad language, hissed snippy barbs between porcelain teeth guarding wet, angry mouths hidden under perfect pink noses and large, empty eyes. They insisted Lorna do this, buy that, go there, take laxatives, chew gum, soak her dentures, gargle blue water, fly to strange places, eat flame-broiled hamburgers, drive bloated cars at murderous speeds.
Puzzled, Lorna asked Victoria how those strangers got inside her defended house and what it was they wanted of her. When Lorna got too agitated and tried to shoo the television phantoms out the door or through her curtained window, Victoria gave her some Phenobarbital, massaged her neck and hummed a lullaby imported from a country she hardly remembered.
One evening, during Nightly News and Weather, one of the flat people detached from the video screen, beckoned to Lorna, skipped over to where she sat, took her hand and lifted her from her reclining chair. She went lightly, walking with a grace and dignity, then vanished into a commercial for Phillips’ Milk of Magnesia.
It was soon after Lorna Erp died that Dr. Fikel sent Victoria Wyzowik to meet Francine Apple who felt dazzled, guilty, a bit intimidated by, and oddly envious of a woman who’d survived such horrors.
Victoria wore her past like a bride followed by a train woven by bloodthirsty spiders.
She told her tale with quiet pride. If Victoria Wyzowik made Francine Apple a little nervous, still, Simon’s mother relished the prospect of having her son cared for by someone worldly wise who exuded confidence, capability and compassion. In balance, Victoria struck Francine as more a find than a threat. It helped that the woman was no raving beauty; she had the quality of everyday dishes, bland wallpaper, a self-contained presence that fit nicely into the Apple landscape. In a major motion picture Victoria would be played by Ingrid Bergman. In real life she was familiar as a cantaloupe with her open, scrubbed face, peasant body, pleasant features and optimistic outlook.
Victoria simmered with matronly warmth. She radiated happiness. This was no wild thing. This was a woman who lusted for order in a respectable home. Francine hired her on the spot even before her husband had his say.
Robert J. agreed with his wife’s choice. Other candidates he’d met smelled like sour milk and baby oil. This new nanny smelled more like Aunt Jemima pancakes. Having Victoria in the house didn’t compensate for losing Rowena Trask in the Quikpix but she was a benevolent presence. Little Simon sparkled whenever Victoria aimed her peaceful Slavic breasts in his direction. Robert J. thought about photographing Victoria’s busy bumblebee body someday, possibly doing a motion study of her daily domestic athletics. There was beauty in the way she moved through her chores, even in clothes, the fractured frame-by-frame beauty of the Muybridge study of a racehorse at full gallop, the landmark study that proved all four hoofs simultaneously left the ground. Victoria Wyzowik seemed Zephyrous while she cooked, washed dishes, mopped, vacuumed, ironed shirts, rocked Simon to sleep; she had the same mystical St. Thomas Aquinas–style elevation Robert J. saw in waitresses who floated through the late shift in all-night diners.
The Naked Nanny, Photographs by Robert J. Apple, was the kind of coffee table book that could make his reputation. He squashed that fantasy. There were still lines of no crossing, at least in Glenda.
8
Simon Apple adored his keeper. On crisp, sunny days Victoria bundled him like a holiday package and whisked him around the neighborhood. He rode inside a regal carriage imported from France equipped with a canopy to protect him from brutal sun and errant winds. As they went along, she sang strange, sad songs in a rich, deep voice that made his skin vibrate in sympathy.
Often they crossed paths with another pram, a straightforward American model from Sears, inhabited by a swaddled puff called Polly Moon. That carriage was powered by a thick German lady named Fritzel Vonderbraun. Soon Victoria and Fritzel became cautious friends, carrying on an endless conversation about weather, their quirky bosses, the dinner menu, the latest scandal on the front page of supermarket tabloids like The National Enquirer (for those with inquiring minds) and The Star for readers with brains that fit easily into thimbles.
Simon Apple and Polly Moon developed a more complicated relationship. For Simon, riding beside Polly was like being bathed in tepid water, lathered with Castile soap, then pat-dried and powdered with ZBT. He squirmed and gurgled when he saw her, waving his arms and kicking at his blanket. Polly reacted by screaming and gagging, drawing herself into a fetal knot.
Fritzel shoved a bottle into Polly’s valentine face to calm those tantrums. Simon didn’t need comforting; he was perfectly happy in Polly’s sphere. He never regarded her fit
s as signs of displeasure or rejection. When she bubbled in his direction he accepted the glob as a gift, as part of her charm. “Look how he loves my little bitch,” Fritzel would say. “He wants to get in her pants.”
Her friend’s risqué remarks made Victoria erupt with laughter, somehow proud to hear her Simon assessed as a nascent bundle of lust. That laughter, those sudden joyful geysers, showered over Simon like spring rain. He was utterly content with his world.
It was Fritzel who first questioned the spiny growths that began to sprout on Simon’s face and neck.
When Fritzel said, “Your boy looks like a cactus,” Victoria was forced to acknowledge the ugly needles. She knew they also covered his back and behind but had kept that information to herself hoping they would disappear as suddenly as they’d emerged. Victoria didn’t want to take blame for causing any trouble or sounding unnecessary alarms.
But once Fritzel made that comment, and went on to accuse Simon of being contagious, since a tiny tuft of what felt like Brillo had appeared on Polly’s bottom, Simon’s parents had to be let in on the aberration.
If Victoria had kept quiet, the Apples might never have noticed their son’s peculiar affliction. Robert J. worked long days expanding Quikpix with Francine beside him. In the evenings, when they saw Simon, he was already asleep in a room wrapped in shadows. The night Victoria mentioned Simon’s “rash,” they scanned him with a flashlight. After a quick conference, they called the doctor.
Dr. Fikel first prescribed heavy applications of zinc ointment. The pasty cream did nothing to ameliorate Simon’s symptoms. Next he suggested oatmeal poultices. Simon was put in a bathtub with gauzy bags of cereal dangling in the water. Instead of helping, the oatmeal seemed to nourish whatever it was that plagued the infant. Within a week Simon’s skin turned rough and green as a Hass avocado.
“Soon the little man will sprout roots,” Fritzel said, upsetting Victoria greatly, “and they’ll put him in a pot. Watch, you’ll have to water him twice a day. I’ve heard of such cases in Dusseldorf.”
Victoria made such a fuss Francine was forced to take a day off and wheel Simon to Dr. Fikel’s office. Fikel and his nurse turned pale when they examined him. What Dr. Fikel thought was prickly heat or some fungus, easily treatable, was now diagnosed as much more serious, an unknown malady, possibly life-threatening. Tests were taken of Simon’s bodily fluids and one of the nasty needles was plucked from a chubby thigh. A few days later, the Apples were summoned to Dr. Fikel’s consultation room.
“I sent the tissue sample to the Centers for Disease Control,” the doctor said. “And it’s a good thing I did. This is only the third case on record. They think it might be an allergic reaction to Cripthalizine . That drug is derived from the twigs of a Bolivian bush used by the natives to manufacture deadly darts.
“You’ll be happy to know that because of Simon’s condition the Food and Drug Administration ordered Regis Pharmaceuticals to include a warning on every Cripthalizine label. That’s drastic action considering the drug was approved for human use with no restrictions or evidence of adverse reactions. Millions of prescriptions have been written under the trade name Cribangel . But from this day, Priklopathy Spontanatus will be cited as a rare side effect. I have a note from the Surgeon General thanking me and commending you for coming forward. So at least we have a name and possible cause for Simon’s ailment.”
“Well that’s good news,” Robert J. said. “At least we know what we’re dealing with. But is there a cure? What happened to those other two cases?”
“They died,” Dr. Fikel said, lowering his eyes. “Otherwise robust children. But fortunately, the Regis people believed they have an antidote. Nonacripthae. It works on laboratory rodents and chances are it will work for Simon. But you must understand the risk. There’ve been no human trials.”
“And if we don’t agree to allow our only child to be a guinea pig?” Francine said.
“The prognosis is not positive. He should hang on into autumn, then things will fall off him,” Dr. Fikel snapped. “You must accept that Simon’s situation is an anomaly. Every scientific breakthrough has a price tag, sometimes tragic. But Cripthalizine has saved many lives. There are always a few subjects who compromise otherwise pristine results.”
“You sound angry,” Robert J. said. “This isn’t Simon’s fault.”
“I’m certainly not angry,” Dr. Fikel said. “But it’s always disappointing when the promise of a miracle drug is diluted by some genetically defective—what I’m trying to get across to you is that every doctor, research chemist and health professional shares your sorrow. Not to mention stockholders in a company like Regis Pharmaceuticals. Do you have an inkling of what’s involved in nurturing a product like Cripthalizine? Countless hours, endless frustrations of trial and error, a million tests, fortunes of money, an unimaginable tangle of red tape to navigate before government bureaucracy . . .”
“We own some Regis stock ourselves,” Francine said. “It’s done well for us. It split twice in the last five years.”
“Blue Chip,” Dr. Fikel said. “A compassionate company. Do you know they’re willing to offer Nonacripthae to your boy at no cost? Not even for shipping and handling. That’s a gift worth thousands of dollars, and an option to buy 5000 shares of Regis stock at a hundred dollars a share. All in exchange for your agreement to abstain from any legal action stemming from Simon’s use of either drug.”
“You mean if, God forbid, Simon should pass away right now we’d have a case?” said Francine.
“You might conceivably win a settlement after years of litigation. By that time you and your husband might be dust and bones.”
“Stop that kind of talk,” said Robert J. “Of course we’ll agree. Get the medicine.”
Nonacripthae
Trade name: Hercumite
Another breakthrough from Regis Pharmaceuticals
Simon Apple was given a daily dose of twenty Nonacripthae tablets for six months. The family was sworn to secrecy since the drug’s official approval was mired in a bureaucratic maze. Victoria kept the timetable of his regimen to the minute and made things easier for the patient by soothing his burning throat with colorful combinations of Jell-O and gobs of vanilla ice cream.
Nonacripthae, along with the prospect of resuming his rides alongside Polly Moon, helped Simon recover. His spines wilted and shriveled like the bristles of an old toothbrush; his greenish hue faded away. Dr. Fikel reported that his blood tests were normal. Simon was Simon again, responsive and playful.
Polly Moon had been brought to Dr. Fikel’s office soon after he examined Simon Apple. Fritzel convinced her parents that she suffered from the same disease. Dr. Fikel knew the children had come into frequent contact. The girl showed unmistakable signs of having contracted Simon’s malady and he had once prescribed a dose of Cripthalizine to get her through the flu. Still, Dr. Fikel told the Moon family that her skin condition was merely a common reaction to the synthetic diapers she wore. Fritzel didn’t buy his diagnosis but thought better of questioning a respected medical professional.
Dr. Fikel compromised his ethics in the name of science. He took it upon himself to administer a placebo to Polly Moon in place of Nonacripthae, nothing more potent than double virgin olive oil. He’d always wanted the chance to participate in some vital research project, and while he was only a pawn in a Regis Pharmaceuticals study, he took the opportunity presented by Polly Moon’s behind to push the envelope.
Amazingly, the small cluster of infection on Polly’s rump vanished in three weeks. The doctor vowed to keep that news to himself, at least for the moment. He reasoned that he could open himself to litigation by the child’s family since he had risked her life and, more important, it might upset the folks at Regis. His little experiment was entirely unauthorized, and Dr. Fikel saw how the Regis people rejoiced at news of Simon Apple’s recovery. They’d written him off before he swallowed his first Nonacripthae tablet.
Complicating their rapture with n
ews of a positive placebo effect seemed counterproductive.
Letting well enough alone proved to be the correct strategy. Dr. Fikel was flown to New York to report personally on the Apple case history to the Regis sales staff at the Plaza Hotel in Manhattan. They gave him a standing ovation; he was treated like Albert Schweitzer.
Polly Moon showed no signs of any recurrence or complication.
For Simon, there would be side effects but not all that bad, not for years.
9
“Curious, but the thing I remember most vividly is the boom boom boom,” Brian Beem said, leaning close to Simon’s ear. “Boom boom boom.”
“You lost me,” Simon said.
“All will come clear. First, get the picture of Brother Lucas: Plum-colored face. Pug nose. Caterpillar mustache riding a fat upper lip. Bald head patched with globs of rusty hair spread like the continents on a world globe. Gray eyes holding candle flames in their pupils. Pear-shaped body. White robe. Black sandals. Are we talking Central Casting or what? Lucas looked like he slid off a wine label.” Beem sucked in air until his cheeks bulged and turned red. He held two fingers in a V from the top of his skull mocking the horned god, Bacchus. “Changing lifestyles is one thing but this was something else. I’ve put a ton of people in the Witness Protection Program who ended up more recognizable than that lovable sonofabitch. I’d heard rumors about what he’d done to himself when he left the Agency but I had to see him to believe him.”
“I know what Brother Lucas looked like,” Simon said. “I murdered him, remember? They did have the courtesy of showing me his pictures at the trial.”
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