“We’ll cut down to every other day,” Dr. Fikel said. “Better to taper off gradually. I’ll phone the Munchkin people. Assure them that there’s no danger of contagion. Remind them to button up about all this. We don’t want the entire population of Glenda aware of anything out of the ordinary. In my opinion, Simon Apple is a healthy boy, give or take. A twice-blessed boy.”
The Munchkin Academy agreed to inform Robert J. of any significant change in Simon’s appearance. He was immediately excused from dancing class, an activity Simon had begun to enjoy. Now he only saw Placebo from a safe distance.
19
Simon’s emerging tail was easy to conceal inside slightly altered shorts. His antlers, or horns, presented a special problem. Dr. Fikel suggested that he be allowed to replace the usual Munchkin cap with a knitted hat because of a chronic scalp inflammation and that it would be merciful to order every classmate to do the same. Munchkin’s dean refused to discard the school’s famous cap for fear of offending nostalgic alumni who contributed to Munchkin’s endowment but allowed Simon Apple a medical dispensation.
Keeping Simon’s hat in place proved impossible since pulling it off became a favorite student pastime, especially for Polly Moon who took diabolical pleasure in humiliating him and nursed a powerful curiosity, even a secret envy, about Simon’s tantalizing transition.
Simon himself enjoyed the attention at first but gradually developed self-conscious feelings of inferiority though he never understood what all the fuss was about. He resented his daily visits to Dr. Fikel’s office where he was subjected to a seemingly endless assault of weighing and measuring, bloodletting, needle pricks, X-rays and scrapings. Dr. Fikel’s sour look and the mask of concerned disappointment on his father’s otherwise placid face convinced Simon that he was doing something very wrong but he couldn’t pinpoint his sin. When he asked questions, the answers were always evasive, badly designed to change the subject.
When a Munchkin football team was recruited to play in Glenda’s new Little League, Simon was chosen as a third-string running back. The school psychologist, Melvin Lint, who was also the coach, felt that team play with its inevitable bonding would prove excellent therapy for the Apple boy though there was no plan to use him in an actual game. Aside from evaluating Simon as a fearful child with little interest or ability in athletics, Coach Lint had been quietly informed in so many words that Apple was too valuable a commodity to risk in a contact sport. Robert J., whose nose had been permanently bent by a flying bat in a second grade softball game, signed a permission slip allowing Simon to join the team but stipulating that the boy would be restricted from leaving the bench even during practice; his job would be to suit up and sit down.
The Munchkin Marauders played their first game on Glenda Green. They ran onto the field outfitted in red and black uniforms, white Keds, and orange helmets all donated by local stores including Quikpix.
The Marauders were welcomed by an enthusiastic crowd of parents, relatives and friends. Cheerleaders in leotards, led by Polly Moon who’d learned to twirl a baton with considerable skill, energized the players and onlookers with passionate yells and impressive gymnastics.
Munchkin Academy versus Spock Prep was a big event for Glenda, important enough to attract not only local but national media attention. A clever press release drafted by the Glenda Chamber of Commerce headed tyke titans tussle caught the attention of a producer for The Speed Sage Report, a late-night cable talk show. Covering a football game played by tumbling tots in America’s heartland would work well to soften Speed Sage’s negative image as a cold-hearted, right wing bulldog.
Sage and his production crew drove to Glenda Green in a Chrysler van topped by a microwave dish pointed toward a relay that would send live coverage, via Minneapolis and Chicago, to a network of 232 stations. While a reporter from The Glenda Express watched—from his modest vantage of a folding chair and a bridge table holding an old Olivetti portable—Speed Sage, wearing earphones and a concealed microphone, supervised the strategic placement of his camera crew and sound engineers, then took position looking down at the makeshift field from a portable aluminum platform.
When Munchkin’s cheerleaders went into action, cameras were already rolling. “Move over, Dallas Cowgirls,” Sage told his invisible audience, “for this bevy of milk fed pre-pubescent cuties. And get a gander at the game faces on those players. I’d swear those mini-gladiators are psyched for the NFL. Is this Middle America or what?”
The game was divided into four five-minute periods. The first three were predictable mayhem. Passes were thrown in the wrong direction, runners tripped and fumbled, every tackle was followed by a long time-out while a bloody nose was wiped, tears were blotted, somebody’s mother was cleared from the field.
The coaches from Munchkin and Spock yelled encouragement from the sidelines. Screams from the crowd mixed high praise with curses and complaints that floated through the air like slaps. “The mommas and the poppas are really getting into this,” Speed Sage said. “Did somebody forget to pass around the tranquilizers? Hey folks, lighten up. Those are your kids out there. Be thankful they’re toilet trained. This ain’t the Superbowl so relax and have some fun. No, what the hell—let the killer instinct run its course.”
Simon sat glued to the bench uncomfortable under the extra-large helmet they gave him. Most of his attention was focused on Placebo who was easily the star of the Munchkin Maidens. Her “GO-TEAM-GOs” flew from her mouth as if she spun silk. When she did splits, tiny hairs tingled on Simon’s neck and he felt his new tail curl. The first time he heard his coach yell, “Apple, get in there and get us some points,” he thought he was daydreaming. “Move it, Apple. Get with the program.”
It was in the last minutes of the final period when Simon was pushed across the boundary between safety and suicide. There was no score in the game. Coach Lint had no choice. He needed his last substitute to replace the maimed and dispirited.
Deal or no deal, Simon Apple had to play. Later, the desperate coach would explain to Robert J. that the real issue was mental health. The Marauders were a man short. Ignoring Simon’s presence in the face of such obvious need was more risky than allowing him to touch the football. Simon’s wounded teammates would never forgive a coward and Simon could never forgive himself.
On his first play the fat, puffing center squeezed the ball between salami legs and sent it spinning into Simon’s churning belly. Simon stood holding the ball until he was flattened by the Spock defense. The thud from that hit made the crowd gasp. Robert J., who had spotted his former employee, Rowena Trask, accepting a hotdog from one of Speed Sage’s crew, looked back at the game and realized it was Simon getting up off the ground. “You stupid asshole,” he yelled at Coach Lint. Simon assumed his father was commenting on his own performance. His eyes welled as he got up off the turf.
“Talk about crunch time, the boy with the big orange helmet just saw more stars than a planetarium,” Speed Sage said. “But he’s up and ready to go. That kid’s got moxie!”
Simon’s orange head was blank and buzzing. He crouched, listening to the Munchkin quarterback call signals, wondering where he was and how he got there. He felt his father’s eyeballs burning holes in his cheeks.
The fat center, newly energized by a Hershey Kiss, snapped the ball with frenzy. It flew over the quarterback in a high arc. Simon chased it, grabbed for it, stared at its dumb squashed-egg shape. He heard Coach Lint’s voice command him to “runnit, runnit.”
Simon knew he couldn’t run with the heavy helmet holding him rooted in place. He tore it off with one hand, cradled the ball with the other, lowered his head and charged at the monsters from Spock Prep.
“He dumped his helmet. He’s a little locomotive,” Speed Sage yelled, “but he’s gonna be derailed because here comes the enemy! Hold your horses, folks! Wait just a minute. What is that kid wearing on his head? Whatever it is, it can’t be legal.”
Simon didn’t feel the first collision or the second
. He ran through obstacles that cracked and buckled. He heard sounds like the beating wings of dark angels.
“That Munchkin is going to score!” Sage roared. “He’s in the Red Zone! He’s in the End Zone! Touchdown! Good God, his headgear is caught on the goal post crossbar they lowered for kiddie kicks—he’s spinning like a pinwheel! And he left a trail of comatose kiddies behind him. I hear groans. I see blood. Is this baby football or a hockey game? We came here expecting a comedy of errors, not carnage. What’s going on here in Glenda?”
In the ballroom of The Parker Meridian Hotel in Manhattan, the Regis Pharmaceuticals Board of Directors, a group of major stockholders, and a cadre of Wall Street analysts were gathered to celebrate news of the FDA’s unconditional approval of Hercumite.
Regis Van Clay was in the middle of a speech extolling the talents and dedication of the scientists and salespeople whose long hours of selfless work had catapulted a small manufacturer of generic aspirin, guaranteed organic herbal supplements grown in a hothouse on a former landfill in Jersey City, and a line of discount vitamin pills into a major player in one of the world’s most lucrative growth industries.
“How many among us can honestly say that we prosper from improving the quality of human life?” Regis said. “Lately, there have been rumblings from the disgruntled and misinformed criticizing everything from our marketing methods to our motives. Those same critics can expect longer, more productive lives, and use more of those years to badmouth our efforts, exactly because companies like ours have endured immense risk amounting to billions of dollars, dedicated thousands of expensive hours to searching out and perfecting amazing products like Hercumite. I can’t tell you what to say but I, for one, can only say God bless us, every one! And while I’m at it, God bless God!”
Regis paused for applause. During the pause he was handed a wireless gold-colored telephone; it had been arranged that a call from the oval office would carry a bouquet of presidential congratulations. When that call came in from Washington, D.C., the phone would be hooked up to the ballroom’s speaker system.
Regis smiled into the receiver. Instead of the President, Regis heard the voice of his Director of Public Relations. “Some not so great news,” the voice said.
“I’m in the middle of . . .”
“I’m sorry but I think you need to hear this immediately and in private, Sir. Condition red.”
“This better be a genuine horror,” Regis said. “Hold on.”
Regis looked out at his audience. “Please excuse me, ladies and gentlemen. But as you know, all men are peers,” then he dashed for the rest room waving the telephone.
Luckily that room was empty. Regis found a stall, closed the door, put the phone to his ear and heard a burst of static. “Lousy connection,” he said, “but go on, and be fast.”
“This sportscaster, Speed Sage—”
“Who the fuck is Speed Sage? Speak slower. I can hardly hear you. Is this some kind of bad joke?”
“It seems that our Hercumite boy, Simon Apple, is playing in some kind of moppet football game and he scored a touchdown.”
“Is that what you called to tell me? That Apple scored a touchdown?” Regis yelled, “Well, hooray for us. That only proves Hercumite is . . .”
“Please, Sir, you should know the Sage guy is reporting that Apple gored his way to the goal line,” a hectic voice said. “Gored. Speared. Literally. We’re talking horns or antlers. He says he interviewed some local doctor who mentioned a certain drug, if you get my meaning.”
A round little man in a waiter’s uniform dashed into the toilet and locked himself into the stall adjoining Regis’s cubicle. He heard a shriek from his neighbor’s tiny closet. Since the waiter, newly arrived from Mexico, spoke only menu English, the words were only a clutter of urgent sounds, probably some constipated gringo talking to the air.
“And it’s not just the boy’s head in question. It seems there’s a slight tail problem too. Mr. Van Clay? Are you following me? Hello?”
“I hear you,” Regis said in a soft voice like a knife cutting through cream cheese. “Find out what you can about that Sage person. Get me his history from the time he was a zygote. Medical records, eating habits, marital status, any police record—traffic tickets to pedophilia. And dig into possible financial ties to Merck, Pfizer, GlaxoSmithKline, Burroughs Wellcome, AstraZeneca, whatever, I want his whole pharmaceutical investment spectrum from one-product suppository makers in China to Johnson & Johnson, from giants to midgets, obvious to obscure. And do it now. That’s now.”
“This is still in the rumor stage. Even if there is a connection to Hercumite—dorsal, ventral or both—there’s time for positive spin.”
“What would you suggest for positive spin? Maybe we could put an amulet in every package. Or a phial of holy water.”
Regis slammed down the phone. It rang again. “You’re a hard man to reach, Van Clay. I didn’t expect a busy signal.” This time the voice was unmistakable.
“Mr. President,” Regis said, “All hail to the chief. It’s so good of you to put the world on hold to share this seminal moment with us. May I ask you to give me a moment—we’ve got a case of crossed wires. One of the unexpected benefits of deregulation.”
The man in the next booth flushed. Regis covered the speaker while he dashed back to the hotel’s ballroom.
“No, problem, Van Clay,” the President said. “I’m sitting here relaxing with the First Lady watching some kind of moppet sports event from Minnesota. You wouldn’t believe what . . .”
20
In the visitor’s room, Simon studied the face behind the protective glass looking for some familiar sign, some fragment of recognition. The woman was trim and attractive, neatly groomed, fashionably dressed in a black blazer, black slacks and blue silk blouse. She wore pearl earrings and a gold chain necklace. His visitor had to be well into her sixties. Allowing for her silver hair and a few wrinkles under her chin she had a girlish quality like the women who sell Depends or Metamucil on television. Her teeth were perfectly white, expertly capped—symmetrical teeth lined up like the Rockettes waiting for a cue. Her eyes were hidden behind dark glasses with large circle lenses.
He wished he could see those eyes. They might trigger some sleeping memory. Even her voice failed to evoke recognition though Simon did feel a frisson of distant emotion when she spoke. But there was no upsurge of anything he could easily label love or sorrow. The protective glass kept him from smelling a telltale whiff of her perfume or reading any physical clue that might have come from the heat of even a casual embrace or a kiss on the cheek.
“You don’t know who I am,” the woman said. “Why should you?”
“Could you give me a hint? Twenty questions?”
“I’m your mother, Simon.”
“Ma? Mom? Mommy? My biological mother? Is it really you?”
“Please don’t be snide. I suppose you resent me for testifying as a witness for the prosecution,” Francine Apple Zane said into the telephone connecting the prisoner with his unexpected guest.
“Resent you? I couldn’t focus too clearly that day. I never got a good look at you. They had me pretty well fogged with illegal substances. I do seem to remember being surprised when they called you to the stand,” Simon said. “But not resentful, not really. I am curious about one small matter. Do you believe those lies you told the jury about my calling you to beg forgiveness for bringing shame on the family?”
“You’ve got to realize how it was up there, Simon. All those people glaring, all those cameras with their blinking red lights. I certainly didn’t want to come across like a liar. And where was your lawyer? He might have shaken my story. I was ready to sound less certain. I nearly fainted when he said no further questions.”
“You can’t fault Klipstein for letting you off the hook. You are my mother. If he tore into you it would have made a worse impression on the jury. By the way, how did they get you to commit perjury? Was it fear or money or both?”
&n
bsp; “They’re probably recording this conversation,” Francine said. “I don’t want to get into incriminating specifics. You shouldn’t even ask me such questions. After all, I did make the trip to see you.”
“You’re right. So what are you doing here?”
“It is your last day. I would seem like a very uncaring person if I stayed home. And I do care, Simon. Leaving you was a difficult thing. But you always seemed closer to your father. I didn’t want to snatch you away from your home, your friends.”
“I was less than a year old. The only thing you snatched away was your breasts. I can still taste those rubber nipples.”
“I was hoping we might let bygones be bygones. Why dwell on the past? As it is, things worked out for the best.”
“Except for the fact that I’m about to be executed.”
“I knew you’d bring that up,” Francine said.
“Francine, do you feel any guilt knowing your genes share some responsibility for your son’s—how shall I phrase it—untimely ending?”
“Oh, now this is my fault. It wasn’t my genetics that turned you into a murderer.”
“But I didn’t murder anybody.”
“Please, Simon,” Francine said. “You left a trail of bodies. A mountain of evidence. You’re going to have some explaining to do to the man upstairs.”
“If my hands were drenched in blood why would they force my own mother to testify against me? Would they feed her a script?”
“Nobody forced me to say anything. And when it came to the movie rights I insisted that they include at least the suggestion that Brother Lucas molested you when you were seduced into joining that cult of his.”
“I didn’t know Brother Lucas. I didn’t join any cult. What movie rights? The law says a convicted murderer can’t profit from his crime. There are no movie rights.”
“The law says nothing about a bereaved mother earning a few dollars for telling her story. A mother deserves some reparation for all that shame and disgrace.”
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