Side Effects

by Harvey Jacobs

  “Nobody’s fault,” Simon said. “Do words between father and son matter that much except for the unspoken ones?”

  “I always cared for you. I admit you weren’t the easiest child to offer unconditional love, what with your susceptibility to side effects that didn’t seem to bother normal kids. It’s hard to explain but you made your mother and me feel guilty, as if we’d created some kind of pharmacological monster. Those drugs you reacted to have been a boon to mankind, generally speaking. Oh, I know you’re going to tell me prescriptions account for a few casualties each year but most of those are in underdeveloped countries.”

  “Who told you that? Legal drugs probably kill more people than the illegal ones and they happen to be equal opportunity killers. Not to mention overpriced.”

  “Look who’s talking about killers,” Robert J. said. “You’re the one getting the lethal injection in a few hours. Not a pharmacist.”

  “A few hours? Is that all that’s left?” Simon said. “I thought they just served an early dinner.”

  “I shouldn’t have put it that way, son. You mean the world to Rowena and me. Even your biological mother is deeply affected by all this unpleasantness. I heard her interviewed on the radio by either Larry King or Speed Sage and she shed tears for you.”

  “My biological mom came to see me.”

  “She said she might drop in. Francine is a good person at heart. I don’t think she’d have left me if it weren’t for you. You were a bit of a burden, Simon.”

  “I didn’t know you felt that way.”

  “It makes sense when you think about it.”

  “I guess it does,” Simon said. “Sorry.”

  “Water under the bridge. You are aware that I knew you were getting off on my album,” Robert J. said. “That was very wrong of you, invading an artist’s privacy.”

  “I agree,” Simon said, “and I apologize. But discovering that my dad was the town voyeur was a little upsetting. You always said that running Quikpix was a sacred trust that made you feel as important as Dr. Fikel, that you performed a public service. Then I found that album. Civic porn. And to set the record straight, I never got off on your album. I got off on Marlene Dietrich, Fay Wray, Vera Zorina, Claudette Colbert, Rita Hayworth, Lauren Bacall, Natalie Wood, Sophia Loren, Leslie Caron, Goldie Hawn, Linda Evans, Marilyn Monroe, Sally Field etcetera and so forth. The first team.”

  “Sally Field? The Flying Nun? That’s disgusting.”

  “I don’t want to argue with you,” Simon said. “At this point, I’d settle for a tight hug and a kiss goodbye.”

  “A hug and a kiss?”

  “A handshake, then.”

  “What made you do it, Simon?”

  “Do what?”

  “What you did.”

  “I never did what I did,” Simon said. “I wrote you about . . .”

  “Rabbi Bakla and Father Mahoney said you refuse to ask for contrition. You could be risking supreme discomfort for the rest of eternity.”

  “Pop, do you have any conception of how a side effect or black box on a warning label affects the economic well-being of every man, woman and child in the nation? It was all explained when they took me down to the White House. Blindfolded for obvious reasons. When I realized where—”

  “They took you to the White House. Of course they did. I’m sorry you feel they snatched your lobster away too soon. Truly sorry. Bless you, Simon. Remember that you were loved within limits. Your mother and I were not unconditional people.”

  “I was going to leave my lobster bib to Rowena,” Simon said. “As a keepsake. I’d like her to know that. I always felt close to her.”

  “I’ll tell her. She’ll be touched,” Robert J. said. “And let’s keep that album business to ourselves.”

  “Not a word,” Simon said.

  92

  “There’s a woman who claims to be your aunt,” the guard said. “Victoria Wyzowik. You want to see her?”

  “Did you say Victoria?” Memories of love and betrayal clashed behind Simon’s eyes like the colors in a Jackson Pollock. His ears filled with a saintly hum while basilisks gnawed at his full stomach. He felt himself being tucked into bed and tossed into boiling water like his late lobster.

  If tears would turn to diamonds, how rich this boy would be!

  He’d buy the earth and sun and moon and give some stars to me

  “Well? Yes or no?” the guard said.

  “Yes,” Simon said. “Absolutely.”

  “My sweet Simon,” Victoria said. More than forty years had thickened and shrunken the woman he remembered and streaked her hair, but she was absolutely Victoria. That face was remarkably unchanged, especially her eyes. Simon crawled inside those eyes; they held him the way a mirror holds its reflections forever, made clearer and deeper than any photograph. Victoria was in his eyes too, bending over his wrecked father, sucking the devil out of him as if his sex was a straw. Slurp, slurp.

  “You must have passed Robert J. in the corridor,” Simon said. “He just left here.”

  “He didn’t recognize me,” Victoria said. “Do you?”

  “Oh, I do,” Simon said.

  “Are your memories of Victoria fond or hateful?”

  “A broth of both. You’ll never know how much I loved you back then. And what I went through when I caught you . . . why go into that? I suppose I understand what went on that night, at least to a degree. Maybe I should even thank you for saving my father’s life or at least his spirit. Did you expect to get kicked out of our house for what must have seemed an act of charity to you, or were your sights set on becoming the next Mrs. Apple?”

  “I didn’t want to leave you, child. Nursing you was the greatest pleasure I ever felt.”

  “Nursing me? I don’t remember any nursing going on.”

  “What sharp teeth you have, what urgent hunger.”

  “That sounds right,” Simon said. “But I have no recollection of . . .”

  “You were very small. I like to think of myself as your first love.”

  “I’d say that was an accurate assessment. What I felt for my mother was reflexive. What I felt for you was more like opening a gift. That doubled the pain when you left. Why didn’t you say goodbye? Why didn’t you send a postcard? Don’t answer. Those were stupid questions. But the nursing business . . .”

  “It’s true. I still have your teethmarks on my nipples. My husband gives me a hard time about those tiny tattoos. Voltan makes jokes about my suckling a tiger cub.”

  “Voltan? Not Voltan Zerminsky?”

  “You know his work?”

  “Aphrodite, in the garden of The Museum of Modern Art? That’s you? I had an eerie feeling . . .”

  “It’s Aphrodite, not Victoria. I was merely her conduit.”

  “Incredible. Mrs. Zerminsky! Belated congratulations. You know, after you left, Robert J. got me a stepmother—Rowena Trask, half his age. Nice girl. No complaints. All’s well that ends well, to coin a phrase.”

  “Ah, dear Simon. I’m sure that monk deserved what he got.”

  “Between us, the monk never got. He was in to see me the other day.”

  “Of course he was. I believe in angels.” Simon watched Victoria unbutton her blouse. Her breasts fell free.

  “Are you thirsty, little Simon? Go ahead, drink. But don’t bite.”

  “Victoria, I’m bowled over by the gesture but I was weaned a while ago. And considering what went on between you and my dad, I wouldn’t feel right. But if I could just lay my cheek against those breasts, which, if I may say so, are magnificent for a mature woman, I wouldn’t refuse that comfort. And look, those must be the marks you talked about, there, around the aureole. I must have been marking you like a tree, a trick I learned from the woodsman in that story you told me about two thousand times.”

  “The woodsman who found his way home.”

  “Through the forest. Chased by a werewolf,” Simon said.

  “A vampire,” Victoria said. “You were too young to
hear about werewolves.”

  Simon rested his face against Victoria Wyzowik’s bosom with his eyes closed, listening to her strong heart and feeling her chest’s easy rise and fall.

  “None of this would have come to pass if they gave me a suspended sentence,” Simon said. Victoria patted his hair and sang:

  If tears would turn to diamonds, how rich this boy would be!

  He’d buy the earth and sun and moon and give some stars to me.

  “I have some news you’ll be pleased to hear,” Victoria said. “Voltan has been commissioned to create a monument to Regis Van Clay. I understand from certain of Mr. Van Clay’s comments that your paths have crossed.”

  “Our paths have crossed once or twice,” Simon said.

  “You’ve had a profound effect on the man.”

  “You have a therapeutic bosom,” Simon said, snuggling closer, kissing the pale scars left by his feeding frenzies.

  “It will be Voltan’s most ambitious project, a massive memorial. What a shame you won’t be here to bear witness,” Victoria said.

  “Incidental,” Simon said, “to the bigger picture.”

  “Sweet boy,” Victoria said. “How often did I tell Fritzel you were special?”

  93

  In the middle of a lava enema, one of Belladonna’s specialties, Regis made a quick call to Brian Beem. He was all smiles when Belladonna punched a blunt knitting needle through his upper left eyelid.

  “Oh, that felt good, Belladonna. Today, everything feels good. They’ve already got Simon Apple in a hospital gown. That’s euphemistic for shroud. In a matter of hours he’ll be strapped onto a gurney, wheeled into the Death Chamber, hooked up to an IV. First he’ll be given our latest formula for Bridgecataphan aka Hyberpoid and lapse into a merciful coma-like fog so that when another Regis Pharmaceuticals breakthrough, Ebolapril Irreversus aka Cemavoma is introduced into his aorta, then his organs begin to rupture and literally melt into a chemically rich slush ideal for fertilizing genetically engineered legumes. Except for a few contortions that might bother the witnesses more than they will the subject, who’d be brain dead. Or so we think based on animal studies or whatever they use for testing in the countries we outsource to for that sort of work. A final infusion of Neuroniflash aka Deckorpa should pull the plug on any surviving cells with the efficiency of a butcher knife and none of the mess. Plus the fact that every one of those drugs is strictly kosher, conforming to the toughest dietary laws on the planet. Bye bye Simon Apple.”

  “Wouldn’t it be more sensible to use some of the body parts for transplant?” Belladonna said.

  “Yes,” Regis said, “but where the death penalty is called for there’s a need to communicate what I call the certainty of finality for real closure. In some societies, the condemned are shredded then burned. It’s something like being drawn and quartered which I’ve always felt was one of the more effective deterrents to crime. Would you want to be given a pancreas whose previous owner was a monk murderer?”

  “I’m not sure,” Belladonna said, using her remote to tighten the band circling Regis’s foreskin.

  “Besides, the chemicals make organ transplants contraindicated. You’re doing all the things I like best tonight,” Regis said. “You’re treating me as if it was my birthday.”

  “I have the impression you’re in the mood for celebration,” Belladonna said, sending a jolt of current through Regis’s sinus cavity.

  “It’s nearly game time,” Regis said.

  94

  “So much affection,” Simon said. “My greatest delight comes from holding you, Polly Moon.”

  “We had so little time together. It was my fault. Can you forgive me, Simon, because I can’t forgive me. I was such a self-centered bitch.”

  “You were you. The joy is that we found each other and none too soon.”

  “I don’t understand, Simon. Your lawyer called fifteen minutes ago and said he might have discovered another justification for an appeal. You refused to let him—”

  “Polly, total strangers have filed appeals I never wanted appealed for two decades. I didn’t contest the verdict or the sentence. Not when I understood what’s at stake for the nation. I want to get past all this.”

  “When you get past this there may be no place left to pass. I want more time with you.”

  “I can only say so much. I explained that. I’m on a mission like Nathan Hale. I only regret that I have but one life to give for my country. And not enough life to give to you.”

  “I don’t know if I should tell you this, but I think I’m pregnant. You’re a daddy, Simon Apple.”

  “Polly, that’s impossible. We haven’t been together for twenty years.”

  “Oh, I know it’s a miracle. You could call it a virgin birth. But I could swear you came to me during the Equinox and—”

  “It’s the thought that counts, darling. I’m so worried about you, Polly. I’ve got a few bucks squirreled away. I’ve left instructions with Marvin Klipstein naming you my sole heir. Actually, soul heir. He might be able to negotiate rights to a movie or one of those biographies.”

  “I belong to AFTRA, SAG, ASCAP and Equity.” Polly said. “I get royalties from The Windchime Concerto. I’ll be fine.”

  “About The Windchime, you might be interested in knowing—”

  “Simon. Remember you once told me that these days side effects have replaced what used to be called fate? Well, if that’s true, a psychic could read a person’s future better with a list of their prescriptions than with numerology, astrology, I Ching, Kabala or Tarot. I might go into the psychic business. polly’s parlor. ask your doctor. What do you think?”

  “It could work,” Simon said. “You might be on to something big.”

  “Imagine. In a world where the affluent enlightened reject bad habits like aging and dying, science will offer more and more prescriptions leading to fresh, imaginative side effects far surpassing the reliables like diarrhea, constipation, acid reflux, upper respiratory distress, cardiac arrhythmia, visual disturbance, memory loss, impotence, kidney failure, liver enlargement, rectal itch, polyp proliferation, weakness, dizziness, cough, headache, hallucinations, sore throat, ear ache, mouth pain, bluish complexion, vomiting, insomnia, muscle ache, yellowing eyes, skin numbness, tingling, bruising, bleeding, swelling, seizures, cramps, hostility, mood changes, suicidal urges, so on and so forth. It’s very exciting. Half the new drugs that come to market will be for ailments that didn’t exist last week. Those drugs will cause a whole new batch of afflictions requiring cures—all leading to incredibly creative side effects. Take the fuss over silicone implants. There’s still disagreement about those artificial breasts being a boon or a health hazard. Before they were recalled those breasts accounted for tens of thousands of marriages and maybe hundreds of thousands of children, every one a consumer. So you see, side effects aren’t all bad,”

  “My little optimist,” Simon said.

  “How are you, Simon?” Rabbi Bakla said. He and Father Mahoney pushed past the guard and entered Simon’s cell. “That’s quite an outfit they’ve got you in. Nice, simple lines. Almost Grecian.” Simon felt an inner moan; he didn’t want this last moment with Polly interrupted.

  “And who might the lovely young lady be?” Father Mahoney said.

  “Polly Moon,” Simon said. “Meet Rabbi Bakla and Father Mahoney, darling. They’re battling for custody of my invisible essence. Life eternal.”

  “That’s a bit extreme,” Rabbi Bakla said. “But since you mentioned life eternal, you might want to know you’ve been granted special dispensation concerning that lobster you ordered. The news came to me directly from the Knesset in Israel. How did you get the State Department involved?”

  “I’m not sure,” Simon said, crediting former Agent Brian Beem with an act of kindness. “Now I’m asking another favor. We want you to marry us. Here and now.”

  “You have no license. The state requires—”

  “I’m giving my life to the state,�
�� Simon said. “We want you to sanctify this union for ethical, legal and romantic reasons. I could call Oprah Winfrey and let her run with the story.”

  “I’m with child,” Polly said.

  “In a symbolic sense,” Simon said. “She’s under a lot of stress.”

  “A Death House wedding?” Father Mahoney said. “It’s the kind of story that might play very well in the media. We could split the publicity between religions.”

  “According to my watch you’d only have half an hour together as man and wife,” Rabbi Bakla said. “Not much of a honeymoon.

  “Your watch might be wrong,” Polly said.

  “Stand side by side,” Rabbi Bakla said.

  Simon Apple took Polly Moon’s hand. He noticed Father Mahoney and Rabbi Bakla looking at the skull and crossbones tattooed on her right wrist. “From another incarnation,” Simon said.

  “We frown on body piercing,” Rabbi Bakla said. “Or adornments of the flesh.”

  “Their rules are rigid,” Father Mahoney said. “But, Rabbi, the girl isn’t converting, she’s only marrying an unrepentant barbarian.”

  “Do you, Simon Apple, take this woman . . . ?”

  “I do,” Simon said. “I did.”

  “Do you, Polly Moon, take this man . . . ?”

  “Do cannibals eat mermaids? Do mermaids eat sardines?”

  “Is that a yes?”

  “It is.”

  “In accordance with the laws of . . .”

  “We now pronounce you man and wife.”

  Simon and Polly locked in a tight embrace. They heard the squeaky wheels of a gurney sing to them from down the corridor.

  95

  Regis raised his arms so that Trilby could buckle the harness holding a pair of angel wings to his naked back. She already had her own set of wings anchored firmly in place.

  Those chest and shoulder riggings were linked to a disk on her bedroom ceiling by almost invisibly thin strands of titanium wiring. The disk was painted with a benevolent moon face—the sly, winking friar’s face that once stared down from billboards for Admiration Cigars. “Go!” Trilby said. The moon began to revolve as the two angels were lifted off Trilby’s fleecy carpet and spun faster and faster. “You can flap your wings by moving your arms like so,” Trilby said, demonstrating. Hidden lights blanketed the couple in rainbow colors as the werewolf wail of a Theramin played in the background.