Side Effects

by Harvey Jacobs

  For all that hoopla, the best welcome came when Simon discovered that Polly Moon was to be his classmate. His first reaction, seeing Polly, was traumatic. Simon felt suffocated by the memory of his lost Victoria which seemed to have its own clinging perfume. That typhoon of loss passed quickly; Polly looked so delectable in her Munchkin uniform (white blouse, plaid skirt, long red stockings, blue sneakers and Munchkin beanie), his thoughts of Victoria’s desertion were replaced with rainbows. The last time he’d seen Polly they were both toddlers confined to carriages or strollers. Now, by some miracle, they were self-propelled. Since Simon had once heard Dr. Fikel refer to Polly Moon as “the Placebo,” he thought it was a special, secret name and used it to greet her, running toward the girl with his arms ready for embrace. Polly turned away, left Simon standing with his arms outstretched, walked slowly to the drinking fountain, filled her mouth with Great Bear water, turned herself into a squirt gun and showered his face with a mix of spit and spring water. Simon had never felt happier in his life.

  As things settled into routine, the days at Munchkin Academy were generally bearable. Simon endured the black hole of early childhood, those snail-paced hours of mammalian maturation, with a special advantage. He was fortified with ever-increasing doses of Hercumite.

  Munchkin’s academic regimen began with a morning march around a painted circle in the gym. The children clapped their hands together on cue while jolly songs played over the school’s sound system. Next, the kindergarten set was sent outside to the playground. After that, there were lessons in ABCs and numbers, conducted with the help of picture cards and wooden blocks. Then came lunch followed by an hour of naptime.

  Oddly, naptime seemed to provide Simon with his most valuable instruction though he had no idea why. It wasn’t that he was sleepy or lazy, quite the contrary; in that hour he was more alert than ever. Simon lay down on a mat decorated with Mickey Mouse and Donald Duck, pretending to shut his eyes but observing the world through a narrow slit. When it felt safe to take the risk, he twisted his head, pretending to be possessed by a dream, to catch a look at Polly.

  She rested just three mats away, so near and yet so far. On good days, her skirt hiked up over her thighs. Browsing the patch of uncovered skin between the hem of her skirt and the tops of her stockings made Simon go crimson, like a figure in a coloring book, with a rush of pleasure and guilt. He was certain that if the teacher who presided over naptime even suspected those feelings, he’d be strapped to the large Rand McNally world globe that sat on a desk under the American flag and rotated to death like a barbecued chicken; a dead child would be returned to Robert J.

  After his ersatz nap came art class. Some of Simon’s mates drew beautiful images of animals, birds, trees, flowers, happy images of domestic life. Simon drew flat-faced clocks with eyeballs marking the hours and human arms and hands measuring time. His clocks crowned towers of castles perched on mountaintops. He drew tower after tower, clock after clock. What began as gentle teacherly urgings ended as sharp commands to try other subjects but Simon couldn’t think of anything else to draw.

  What bothered Simon more than his teacher’s entreaties to broaden his palette was her insistence that the sky above his clock towers should not hang from the top of the page like a dangling blue roof. She said the sky should come all the way down to the ground. That seemed to him like madness. It made Simon question all her proclamations. The teacher was so exasperated by Simon’s hanging skies, she took him outside to show him how the sky works and explained the horizon line but he discarded those lessons as excessive, even deliberately confusing. He saw what he saw and he knew what he knew: that sky and clouds belonged up where he’d put them and he felt huge contempt for the kids who went along with her dumb instruction.

  At first, the beautiful Placebo drew skies the way Simon did, as a blue rectangle holding the sun, moon and a few birds. But Polly heard the teacher’s treacherous words and compromised. After a few days, her skies came halfway down, a vision that made Simon queasy. He sensed he was losing her to pedantic abuse.

  During free play in the yard, Simon tried desperately to communicate his sense of dread, to warn Polly that soon her skies would touch the earth if she continued to yield to pressure, but the girl never allowed him to finish a sentence. Sometime she’d kick him in the shins or tip his milk cup. At other times, she pretended to be deaf and dumb, jumping around with her hands over her ears, eyes closed, and her mouth zipped shut. When her behavior reached critical mass, Simon lapsed into one of his furious tantrums; it took two adults to hold him down. The terrible tantrums were never reported to Robert J.; Munchkin Academy was glad to have a future celebrity on its roster. Dr. Finla, Dean of Admissions, had confirmation that Simon Apple was to be the global symbol for Hercumite from no less a source than his father.

  It was Polly Moon who first noticed that Simon was growing antlers. Her discovery came during a dancing lesson when the two were purposely paired.

  17

  Marvin Klipstein, Esq., liked to say he wore his face on his sleeve, that his feelings were transparent as window glass. Marvin was no poker player; you could read his cards in his eyes and in the way his mouth and nose curled and twitched. Under severe stress, his ears wiggled and a tic trembled his left lid.

  When he came to see Simon Apple, his message of bad news was telegraphed before the guard opened the cell door.

  “Was that Agent Beem I saw outside?” Klipstein said. “Has he been harassing you?”

  “It was Beem,” Simon said, “but, no, he wasn’t harassing me. He was filling in a few blanks.”

  “He was firing blanks, you mean. Don’t trust anything he tells you. And don’t answer any questions. It’ll end up being used against you.”

  “A little late for that,” Simon said, waiting for Klipstein to say what he came to say. The ticking and twitching were eloquent enough.

  “Don’t take this too hard, kid,” Klipstein said. “The Supreme Court turned nine thumbs down. A unanimous verdict. I thought I had one or two of them on the cusp. I thought my arguments were strong. I came on like gangbusters. I was good, Simon.”

  “There was no way they were going to grant a stay.”

  “Don’t be so cynical. This wasn’t some cockamamie governor. This was the United States Supreme Court.”

  “Remind me to salute,” Simon said.

  “Never in my wildest dreams did I ever think Marvin Klipstein would have the opportunity to plead a case before the highest court in the land. I was shitting green in the beginning but when I heard my voice soar, it carried my soul along with it. I wish you could have heard me. It’s amazing how the right set of circumstances can bring out your best. I’ll never forget that it was you who got me to that courtroom. I felt like an eagle, Simon. I’ll bet those austere bastards had a moment of pause before they reached a decision. They’ll think about this one for the rest of their lives.”

  “How long did it take them to rule?”

  “Fifteen minutes,” Klipstein said. “That was ten minutes more than anybody expected. I could have sworn I had the black and the broad in my hip pocket.”

  “So, that’s that,” Simon said.

  “There could be a Presidential pardon.”

  “There could be an alien invasion,” Simon said. “But there won’t be.”

  “I’m sorry,” Klipstein said. “Heartbroken. Let’s face facts. You’re going down. In a few hours Simon Apple will cross to the other side. He will meet his maker.”

  “I get the idea,” Simon said.

  “In a way I envy you,” Klipstein said. “No more sweating the daily indignities. A few gasps, a rattle of bones, one door closes and another door opens. You’ll be in on the big secret. You’ll have the final answer to the ultimate question.”

  “It sounds terrific,” Simon said. “I can’t wait.”

  “And you go knowing you’re guaranteed a posthumous Congressional Medal of Honor. It won’t be publicized but it will happen the minute you’
re officially pronounced dead. Even if they bury the medal with your remains, you’ll join the nation’s most elite fraternity of heroes. Believe it, I’ll make damn sure they live up to that promise. Are you ready for more news?”

  “Nothing can top that last bulletin, Marvin.”

  “We got Arlington Cemetery. Not the best plot but not the worst. You’ll sleep in illustrious company. The deal is, your tombstone will be left blank, classified, for at least fifty years, but you can bet the grass will be clipped and watered. You’re guaranteed perpetual care for as long as the stars and stripes wave over the land of the free and the home of the brave.”

  “Klipstein, you did what you could. You have my gratitude. You win some, you lose some. Now go away. Get the fuck out of here before I break your fat ass.”

  “I respect your need for solitude,” Klipstein said. “But there is something else.”

  “Don’t tell me you’re going to bill me. I thought the Regis crowd was paying the freight. I always suspected your deal with them was more pro than bono. You know I’m a pauper.”

  “This isn’t about money, Simon. It’s about loose ends. It’s about a personal favor. It’s about the slim chance that those stories we hear about how the freshly deceased see a tunnel and an eerie glow of white light, how they hear classical music and see a whole crowd of gorgeous creatures waiting to usher them into paradise. If those stories are true, Simon, say a tiny bit true, in that case I’d like you to deliver some information to a few select souls you might run into on the other side.”

  “I’m not Western Union. I’m not the pony express,” Simon said.

  “I brought some pictures,” Klipstein said, flipping open his wallet. “To help you recognize certain faces. This is my father, Hyman. This is my mother, Lily. Give them my love, etcetera, etcetera. Improvise. Tell them I miss them, that I’m doing well, making a living, like that. And this is my cousin, Serena. Tell her, concerning a certain delicate matter, I’m sorry for what happened but I wouldn’t trade the experience for a pound of platinum. Make sure that when you tell Serena you don’t trumpet the news to the rest of the family. And this one with the sideburns is my friend, Arnie. Tell him Sharon came on so strong, so wet and hot, I couldn’t help myself. I tried, tell him I tried but you know how it goes and it was only a few times while he was away on business and we talked about him while we were doing it. The bald guy is my Uncle Max. Say I always intended to pay back the loans and I’ll make donations to charity in his name in the full amount plus interest. And you better say that what he heard about me and Aunt Rebecca was absolute bullshit. The one in the bathing suit is Aunt Rebecca. She was some piece of work for a seventy-year-old woman. If you get the chance, tell her that what happened between us makes me wince to think about but I wouldn’t trade it for a million dollars. Between us, Simon, it was only a blowjob in the laundry room and a million dollars is still a million dollars but how can it hurt to stretch the truth a little? And this is . . . I don’t remember her name, but we met at Kutcher’s Country Club on a singles weekend and the lies, oh, the lies. Did I know it was her first time? Did I know she wasn’t on the pill? I was a different person in those days. A potato pancake was enough to turn me on. And this one holding the vacuum cleaner is my wife’s best friend, Celia, a compulsive cleaner. We were in the kitchen alone doing dishes when out of the blue she slaps me on the groin with a damp sponge, I—” The lawyer raised his arms toward Heaven and screamed, “Oh dear God! The things we do, the trail of—”

  “Klipstein, get hold of yourself,” Simon said. “I hate to disappoint you but I plan to travel light. I’m not even taking an extra pair of underwear. I can’t carry your messages.”

  “Would it hurt you to do me that small favor? Is this your idea of how to show gratitude?”

  “All right. I’ll plead your case for a general amnesty,” Simon said. “But it’s probably not necessary. I think we know everything the minute we die. It all comes clear. Maybe the minute before we die. Maybe that’s what kills us.”

  “God forbid,” Klipstein said. “Should I leave the pictures with you or what?”

  “Put them on the cot. Under the pillow,” Simon said.

  “Bless you,” Klipstein said. He patted his eyes with a Kleenex and threw his arms around the condemned man. “And just in case you run into anybody who knew me, mention that I argued a case before the Supreme Court. Slip it into the conversation somehow. Me. The Supreme Court.”

  18

  The faculty at Munchkin Academy couldn’t help noticing Simon Apple’s infatuation with Polly Moon and her reflexive response of cruel rejection. Such behavior could leave permanent scars on both young psyches as several teachers knew only too well. In conference, a decision was made to attempt conflict resolution through the healing power of forced proximity. As a start, the two children were paired during dancing lessons.

  After singing “Where Is Thumbkins?” while wiggling their opposable thumbs—a rhyme Simon liked since he knew exactly where Thumbkins was at any given moment—they sang “Do You Know the Muffin Man?” a lyric that terrified the boy.

  Simon’s mind belched the image of a large, animated muffin with stubby legs and arms, pocked with oozing blueberries, staggering like a zombie down Drury Lane, where the song said the creature lived. That frightening thought caused kidney spasm; it took much of Simon’s energy to enforce tight bladder control. The idea of peeing on Polly Moon’s Mary Janes was unconscionable.

  During “Muffin Man” the dancers had to take their partners by the hand, skip across the floor, spin around twice, then bow or curtsy to one another depending on gender. The complicated choreography confused Simon, who was anxious enough feeling his partner’s small warm fingers trapped in his grasp; he often twirled prematurely and sent his beloved Placebo flying into empty space or another couple. When that happened, her revenge was to grab at Simon’s long hair as if it were a lifeline— Hercumite nourished hair follicles like plant food—and give his head a hard yank in whatever direction she happened to be tossed. This happened so often the dancing teacher spoke to Robert J. several times about getting his son a protective trim. It was wasted advice. Simon’s father was prohibited from taking him to a barber or altering his appearance in any way without first getting written approval from Regis’s advertising people.

  After one such episode, Polly Moon came away from the encounter with her hand badly cut, screaming that Simon Apple had rats living on his scalp. To quiet the hysterical girl, Simon was ordered to sit in a chair while their instructor probed his bushy mop under a standing lamp. While she looked, the teacher chanted “so silky soft and nice, no cooties and no little lice,” then suddenly changed her tune to “Sweet Jesus!”

  That night, Robert J. got a call from Munchkin’s dean suggesting immediate investigation of two sharp lumps behind the frontal lobes on Simon’s skull.

  Simon and his father immediately rushed to Dr. Fikel’s office. The bad news was confirmed. A pair of bony growths definitely resembling stalks of raw ginger or deer antlers had begun to sprout. The doctor used a caliper to measure those protuberances, took a series of blood tests, then pressed a naked Simon against the cold plate of his fluoroscope. Dr. Fikel did a quick survey of his insides and found nothing unusual, but there was a suggestion of some abnormality near the base of Simon’s spine.

  “We’ll have to do a series of X-rays,” Dr. Fikel said, “but I seem to detect a thickening of the coccyx.”

  “Meaning?”

  “I can’t make a final diagnosis but my hunch is that in addition to the cranial event, your son is budding a bit of a tail. It’s probably nothing of concern, an adjunct to his extraordinary growth spurt. I’m left wondering if I should call Regis Pharmaceuticals.”

  “And say what?”

  “We do have a potential problem here. Our agreement with Regis stipulates that any suspicious aberration in the child’s physiology must be reported and documented. They’re very sensitive to anything that might be constru
ed as a side effect associated with Nonacripthae.”

  “But this may not have any connection to that drug,” Robert J. said. “I was a heavy smoker for twenty years. I smoked two packs of Camels a day. Couldn’t secondhand smoke be the culprit here? The baby was exposed to those fumes. I’ll testify to that.”

  “A point well taken,” Dr. Fikel said. “I’ll mention it. Except that in my opinion those secondhand smoke studies are a crock of shit based on junk science. Of course, if this can be traced to tobacco we’re off the hook. Horn and tail growth could even be traceable to psychological stress. Has Simon been under unusual pressure? Are you abusing the boy in any way?”

  “He must still miss his mother. And when our housekeeper, Victoria, left so suddenly, he was traumatized. All that happened a while ago and he seems to take nicely to the Munchkin Academy. I can’t point a finger to any specific irritation. The only thing he complains about has something to do with the sky coming all the way down.”

  “We’ll make a list of anything that could be a factor here,” Dr. Fikel said. “The last thing we want is to leave stones unturned. So far, all we have are a few bony aberrations. The lad feels no discomfort. I would say there’s room for prudence here before we go frightening the Regis people. I suppose I could wait a few weeks before blowing whistles. This whole thing might be a storm in a teacup.”

  “In a few weeks the Hercumite advertising campaign kicks off,” Robert J. said. “It would be sinful to deny Simon such opportunity because of a condition that might be caused by something utterly trivial like a tight hat or belt.”

  “Absolutely,” Dr. Fikel said. “Let’s not forget that nature does have a way of correcting herself. Of course, I’ll watch the boy like a hawk. I’ll do everything possible to reverse this condition. We do have the patient’s welfare to consider.”

  “Above all else,” Robert J. said. “But you might want to reduce the dose of Hercumite in the meanwhile.”