by Tom McNeal
“Not that great. That’s the reason I wanted to be on your show, so I could pay off a loan that’s due.”
Milo Castle nodded. “And it says here that you live in the back of the bookstore with your father. Does he help you with the store, too?”
“No, he works in a restaurant.”
Jeremy said this with such evident pride that Milo Castle asked a question without looking at his card. “Does your father run the restaurant?”
“Oh. No. He just does whatever Elbow Adkins asks him to do, like busing tables and stuff.”
This would have been an even more awkward moment, but Elbow himself yelled from the audience, “And he only does that so he can flirt with a particular waitress!”—which, while not an especially witty remark, distracted everyone from the pathos of Jeremy’s answer.
“Okay, Jeremy,” Milo Castle said. “Enough visiting. Let’s get down to business. You know how the game is played. In our studio in Boston, we have collected three internationally renowned experts on the Grimm Brothers and their tales”—here a vast screen to one side of the stage revealed two women and a man sitting in a book-lined study—“and they will be the final judges as to the correctness of your answers. Their green light means you’ve answered correctly and may go on; their red light means your answer is incorrect and the game is over. With each new question, the amount of your earnings doubles, and the questions get more difficult as we go. After the fourth question, you will have the choice to retire with your winnings or risk your earnings and go on. Answer seven straight questions correctly, and you will take home over one hundred thousand dollars! So, Jeremy, are you ready to play?”
Jeremy nodded. I will be truthful: he seemed frightened almost beyond speech.
I said, Listen, if you will. Can you hear me, Jeremy?
Again he nodded.
Milo Castle said rather theatrically, “Then we’ll seal off your climate-controlled, soundproof booth and … start the game!”
A window in front of us slid up and sealed the booth closed.
“Can you hear me now, Jeremy?” Milo Castle asked.
In a voice that seemed barely to get out, Jeremy said, “Yes.”
“Just speak up, then, Jeremy, and here we go.” With a flourish, he said, “Your first question, for one thousand dollars: In several of the tales collected by Wilhelm and Jacob Grimm, a kiss casts off an enchantment. But in what tale is a frog thrown against a wall, finding himself immediately thereafter restored to a prince?”
I was answering the question even before it was completed, so that Jeremy, almost without a second’s thought, could answer, “ ‘The Frog King,’ or ‘Iron Heinrich.’ ”
The panel of experts nodded, a large green light illuminated brightly, and Milo Castle said, “That is correct! Now, question two, for two thousand dollars: What was the original title of Grimm’s fairy tales, and for what audience was it intended?”
“Kinder und Hausmärchen,” Jeremy said. “And it was meant for other scholars rather than children.”
“Kinder and what?” Milo Castle said, looking toward the screen where the panel of experts could be viewed. I was not surprised when they nodded and the green light again brightened. One of the experts said, “Kinder und Hausmärchen is the German for Children’s and Household Tales. So that is correct.”
“Well done!” Milo Castle said, which, I will admit it, I found pleasing, indeed.
And so the questions continued until, after our fourth correct answer, Jeremy was asked whether he would like to retire with his eight thousand dollars or continue.
People were shouting from the audience. Though we could not hear them, we knew from having watched the show that they were shouting for us to go on. Well, that is how it is. The audience always does this—I cannot tell you why.
Still, I had to agree. Jeremy had not yet earned enough money to pay Mayor Crinklaw and retire the loan.
Let us answer one more, I said.
“One more question,” Jeremy said.
Milo Castle nodded and smiled. “Okay, Jeremy … for sixteen thousand dollars, tell us what important change in Rapunzel’s circumstances occurred in the first edition of the tales but was deleted in subsequent editions?”
Ach! I could have laughed! It was too easy!
Jeremy touched his fingers to his temples, I answered the question, and he said, “The fact that Rapunzel had become pregnant.”
The experts smiled and nodded, the green light shone, and Milo Castle said, “I guess those visits by the prince to the tower weren’t exactly G-rated!” This was some sort of joke, and though we could not hear the audience, we could see that they were laughing. After this, in a low, serious voice, Milo Castle said, “So, Jeremy, retire and keep your sixteen thousand dollars or risk your winnings and go on?”
Jeremy hesitated, but I reminded him that we did not yet have the sum needed to satisfy his debt. One more, I said. It will not be difficult.
“Go on,” Jeremy said, and we could see people in the audience, including Jeremy’s father, clapping and nodding.
“Okay, I ask you, fifteen-year-old Jeremy Johnson Johnson of the little town of Never Better, for thirty-two thousand dollars … which of the Grimm Brothers illustrated a number of the stories for the later editions of the Household Tales?”
Simple—laughably simple. And I was happy to have a light beamed upon my younger brother.
“Ludwig Emil Grimm,” Jeremy said.
The green light, the satisfying refrain of “That is correct,” the exuberant if unheard applause from the audience, and then Milo Castle said, “While Jacob and Wilhelm Grimm were far more famous, their younger brother, Ludwig, was a noted artist in his own right.”
Milo Castle rather dramatically took a long, deep breath. He looked at the audience and then at our glass booth. “Well, Jeremy, you have gone where no other fifteen-year-old contestant has ever gone before. Now, do you rest on your laurels or do you go on? Remember that the questions grow increasingly difficult.”
Yes, it was true that the amount of money already earned was enough to take care of Jeremy’s immediate needs, but an additional sum would no doubt prove useful as well. Also, it must be said, this was all quite stimulating.
Let us answer one more, I said. I really was enjoying myself.
Jeremy hesitated, so I said, This will go toward your education, Jeremy.
“We’ll go on,” Jeremy said, a decision animatedly received by the audience.
“Okay, Jeremy, for sixty-four thousand dollars … a friend and collaborator of the Grimm Brothers wrote, ‘I’ve already heard one mother complaining that a story about a child who slaughters another child is in your collection.’ Your three-part question is: One, who was this correspondent? Two, about which story does he refer? And three, in what way did the Grimm Brothers respond?”
The first two answers were not difficult—I supplied them at once.
“Achim von Arnim was the letter writer,” Jeremy said, “and he was referring to a very short tale called ‘How Children Played Butcher with Each Other.’ ”
“And how did the Brothers Grimm respond?” Milo Castle said, and while Jeremy rubbed his temples, I told him.
“Wilhelm Grimm wrote back to say the tale was useful because he had himself heard it as a child from his own mother and it made him careful about child’s play.”
I was waiting for the panel to lean forward to illuminate the green light, but they did not. Instead, they looked warily at one another. Finally, one of them said, “The contestant’s first two answers are correct. The third answer is not incorrect, but it is not complete. We are looking for the brothers’ actual editorial response.”
Milo Castle said, “Jeremy?”
Jeremy rubbed his temple. I was suddenly quite nervous. I said, Sie haben die Geschichte von den Folgenden Ausgaben beseitigt.
Jeremy said, “Sie haben die Geschichte von den Folgenden Ausgaben beseitigt.”
Milo Castle cocked his head. “Excuse
me?”
But I recovered, and quickly provided Jeremy the translation, which he recited: “They eliminated the tale from all subsequent editions.”
Milo Castle and everyone else turned toward the screen, where the experts were all smiling and nodding, and then, wondrous to behold, the green light shone!
In the audience, the celebration appeared exuberant.
Finally, when it had evidently quieted, Milo Castle said, “Well, Jeremy, here we are. You have earned an incredible sixty-four thousand dollars. Retire now, and you take it all home—or at least what Uncle Sam leaves for you. If you go on, and answer one more question, you will earn one hundred and twenty-eight thousand dollars, which will be yours to keep and will additionally qualify you for this year’s Uncommon Knowledge Tournament of Champions. So what will it be, Jeremy Johnson Johnson? Keep your winnings and retire … or risk your winnings and go on?”
It was clear that Jeremy wanted to stop, but he gazed out at the audience and found his father. He was nodding yes. So were Ginger and Jenny Applegarth. While Jeremy was looking at them, I said, Let us go ahead, Jeremy. We can make your small town proud of you. But it was more than that. I was shimmering with excitement. Never had the Zwischenraum been so exhilarating, and I knew it never would be again.
“Well, Jeremy,” Milo Castle said, “stay or go?”
Say yes for me, Jeremy, if you kindly will.
“Okay,” Jeremy said in a faltering voice.
“Okay?” Milo Castle said. “Okay what?”
“I’ll go ahead.”
Again we could see the audience applauding, although it quickly gave way to apprehension, I could see it in their faces, but this fact only doubled the sum of my pleasure. If we could not answer questions regarding my own life and the tales my brother and I collected, then who could? Besides, there was no turning back—Milo Castle was now wearing the solemn look that preceded his more difficult questions.
“Okay, Jeremy Johnson Johnson,” he said in a hushed tone, “in the tale of Snow White as related by the Brothers Grimm, the jealous queen sends the royal huntsman out into the forest with Snow White for the purpose of killing her. For one hundred and twenty-eight thousand dollars, your two-part question is this: In the Grimms’ version of the tale, the queen asks the huntsman to bring back what evidence to prove he has killed Snow White? And, secondly, what change in the nature of this evidence was made when Walt Disney produced his animated version of the tale?”
What? What kind of foolery was this? I was appalled by the question. Who was this Mr. Walt Disney and why were they asking questions about his version of our tale?
Jeremy was rubbing his temple, and I told him what I knew.
“In the version collected by the Grimm Brothers,” Jeremy said, “the huntsman is asked to bring back Snow White’s lungs and liver so the queen might eat them.”
The panel of experts all nodded in agreement.
“And in the Disney version?” Milo Castle said.
Jeremy rubbed his temples again, but what could I do? I could not have felt worse. I was of no help to him.
I do not know, I said.
“Ten seconds, Jeremy,” Milo Castle said.
Jeremy stared out at the audience. All of the people were very still. They looked at Jeremy as if at somebody perched at the very lip of a high cliff.
Milo Castle said, “A small hint. In the Disney version, the queen wanted to put this into her golden jewelry box.”
So this Mr. Walt Disney wanted something less ghoulish than lungs and liver! A necklace? I said. A buckle from her shoe?
Jeremy shook his head. He was rubbing his temple very hard.
Then, from somewhere within the glass booth, a man’s voice, so soft that it was hardly audible, said, “Her heart.”
Jeremy stiffened for a moment, then his expression turned to confusion. His skin seemed stretched in different directions. He rubbed his temples hard.
That voice was not mine, I said. It was a mortal’s voice. I do not know whose.
“Jeremy?” Milo Castle said. “I’m afraid I have to ask for your answer.”
Jeremy had heard the words. He knew the answer. But he would not speak it.
“I don’t know,” Jeremy said. “I’m sorry.” His face was contorted—he was on the edge of tears. “I never saw the Walt Disney movie. I’m sorry.”
“We will allow you one guess,” Milo Castle said.
“Her heart,” the soft voice within the booth said again.
Jeremy’s expression was wretched. He cast his eyes down and mumbled, “A lock of Snow White’s hair.”
As if shot, Milo Castle’s chin dropped dramatically to his chest. All eyes turned to the experts, who looked gravely at one another and shook their heads.
The dread red light suddenly brightened.
The members of the audience collapsed in their seats, stared at Jeremy in disbelief, clapped their hands to their head. Open mouths, I was sure, were releasing groans.
In a somber tone, Milo Castle said, “Our panel tells us that the first half of your answer is correct, but both answers are required, so, Jeremy, I’m afraid your quest sadly ends here.” The moderator’s voice then turned expansive. “But we and inquisitive minds across America and around the world thank you, Jeremy Johnson Johnson, for sharing with us your … uncommon knowledge!”
Everything else was anticlimactic. The door to the glass booth swung open, and Milo Castle, accompanied by applause, walked across the stage to shake Jeremy’s hand. “Sorry, young man. We were really rooting for you,” he said, and he did seem genuinely regretful. Then the lights dimmed, Milo Castle hurried off into the side darkness, and out in the auditorium there was a general shuffling as people moved toward the exits.
A short time later, Jeremy was escorted to some double metal doors that led into the glaring sunlight of a back alley, where Jeremy’s father, Jenny Applegarth, and Ginger stood waiting.
“Sorry,” Jeremy mumbled when he saw them all looking at him. Then, without any warning at all, his face gave way and he began to cry. His father was the first to reach him. He put his arms around him and said, “You did great, Jeremy. I couldn’t be prouder.”
“You were fabulous, Jeremy,” Ginger said. “I mean it. I couldn’t believe how you answered all the hard stuff.” She shook her head. “Them bringing the Disney version into it was totally bogus.”
Jeremy dabbed at his eyes with his new blue shirt, then took a few deep breaths. “Well, we got a lot further than I expected,” he said. “I just wish …” But he could not say more.
Jenny Applegarth said, “I had no idea anybody could know so much about the Brothers Grimm. Question after question. I don’t know how to say it, but it was really something.”
“Not really,” Jeremy said. He took a deep breath. “Just so you know, it’s not like I really learned it or anything. It’s more like this stuff just channels through me.”
Everyone in the group was staring at him. Finally, Ginger said, “So you’re not an actual whiz kid—you’re an actual mystic. In what way is that less impressive?”
Jeremy seemed glad to receive Ginger’s kind words, but still he said, “I wasn’t calling myself a mystic.” Then, looking around, he said, “So where’s the big black car?”
“Over there.” Ginger was nodding toward a boxy orange vehicle parked down the alley. A man with a sleepy expression sat behind the wheel.
“The orange van?” Jeremy said.
Ginger offered a wan smile. “I guess the deal is that if you don’t win, they send you home in a pumpkin.”
Over the next few days, Jeremy grew very quiet. He did not rub his temples to invite commiseration from me. In fact, he seemed relieved that I kept my silence. Whether he was annoyed with me, or angry, or disappointed, I did not know. I only sensed that some strange barrier now stood between us.
As disagreeable as these days were for me, they were worse for Jeremy. He owed money he could not pay, and when he went out, the villa
gers seemed more scornful than ever. Mayor Crinklaw said, “Holy Harry, boy, you were so close to that pot of gold, I could smell it!” and Elbow Adkins said wistfully, “Almost, Jeremy. Almost.” But it was evident that most villagers were on familiar terms with Mr. Walt Disney’s version of the story of Snow White and knew the answer that Jeremy could not give (her heart, just as the mortal’s voice had told us), and so in addition to the town’s judgment of him as an unpunished housebreaker, many citizens seemed to feel a further measure of disdain for his inability to answer what, to them, was the easiest question of all.
Conk Crinklaw, for example, stopped by the bookstore to offer his condolences, then shook his head and said, “But c’mon, Jeremy, I knew the answer to that question when I was, like, two. What was in that little glass room—some kind of brain-numbing gas?”
To which Ginger, sitting on the edge of the reading table, replied, “Nobody I know produces brain-numbing gas but you, Conky.”
Conk nodded as if complimented and asked Ginger if she wanted to come over and get shellacked in a game of horseshoes. “We’ll see who shellacs who,” she said, sliding from the table. She turned to Jeremy. “Wanna come?” she asked, but of course he declined.
And so she went off to play horseshoes, but in less than an hour she had returned to the bookstore and sat down without a word.
“Who won?” Jeremy asked.
“Nobody,” Ginger said. “He was ahead and then I was ahead and then I just didn’t feel like playing anymore.” She looked at him. “I just kept wondering how you were doing.”
He shrugged. “I’m doing fine.”
But, truly, he did not seem fine, and Ginger stayed on, like a nurse waiting for a patient’s fever to break. Days passed. She stayed close and ate with him and sat with him. Sometimes an hour or two would go by and Ginger would say nothing more than “There goes McRaven again,” because, it was true, the deputy continued his vigilant surveillance of Jeremy and the bookstore. But what could a Finder of Occasions do if Jeremy stayed indoors? Nothing. That was what I believed.
The mayor stopped by one day to say he was sorry about it all, and—who knew?—maybe an inheritance would come through for Jeremy, he was sure hoping so, but if it didn’t, well, then, Jeremy and his father could take anything at all they wanted from the building when they went, “except”—the mayor gave Jeremy and Ginger his square-jawed smile—“the walls, floor, and roof, a’course.”
