FSF, July 2008

by Spilogale Authors

  My initial fear and disgust at this stunt began to fade, to be replaced with grudging admiration for the publicist's ingenuity. There was no way I'd soon forget the arrival and existence of this particular book. Of course, any review of mine would still have to focus objectively on the book's innate qualities....

  I added The Corpse Always Rings Twice to the top of my queue of possible review candidates.

  But now I was faced with disposal of the “packaging.” It would never fit intact into my trash bin, and would certainly look quite startling sticking out.

  So, feeling like a real criminal, I chopped the mannequin up into pieces, bagged them, and dumped them outside.

  Little did I anticipate that this was just the start of a flood of “different” ARCS.

  Other publishers eventually noticed that Kentucky Canebrake's latest book seemed to garner a larger-than-expected number of reviews, and determined to secure the attention of reviewers with similarly outrageous packages.

  Over the next several months, among dozens of macabre galleys, I received prepublication mysteries disguised as a dead sheep atop a hay bale (The Silage of the Lambs); a raw side of beef (Until the Cows Come Home); an arson-ruined dollhouse (MacMansion Murders); a sackful of plastic severed wimpled heads (Two Heads are Deader than Nun); and an actual tombstone weighing several hundred pounds accompanied by a real coffin (empty except for the ARC, thank God; this last presentation was for a sequel-by-other-hands to Chester Himes's series about Coffin Ed Johnson and Grave Digger Jones, wherein the two funky detectives had to solve a prep-school murder: Groton Comes to Harlem).

  Some of the books receiving this elaborate treatment were good, others not so. But that was hardly the issue any longer. The issue was the headaches involved for me in unwrapping and disassembling these packages. More and more of my week began to be filled with tedious removal of books from elaborate housings, and then bundling up the waste for disposal. (And I paid a per-bag municipal trash fee!)

  But how could I avoid this onerous new duty? My whole livelihood was reviewing, and I couldn't very well ask to be removed from the list for free books....

  Inspiration for a possible solution struck in the oddest manner.

  One day I had just stepped outside to retrieve my mail when an object sailed through the air and hit me in the head. Luckily, it was a soft thing and caused no harm.

  I picked up the object: it was a mock brick fashioned of Nerf foam with a note attached. The note said, “Get ready to receive your copy of George Pelacanos's brutal noir retelling of O. Henry's The Ransom of Red Chief...."

  My postal person was stifling his laughter from across the street. “They paid the Post Office five cents extra per unit to throw it at the customer!"

  I shook my fist at him. “No Xmas gift for you this year!"

  But I should have thanked him, because the mild blow to my head had dislodged an idea.

  I always submit tearsheets of my reviews to the publishers. A simple Xeroxed page in a business-sized envelope.

  But not anymore.

  I'd see how the publicists liked receiving, for instance, a bad review stuffed inside a wheel of smelly cheese or wrapped around some fish, and a good one accompanied by a bottle of cheap perfume with the stopper left slightly awry in transit.

  And if these mild tactics failed, I could always pull one, possibly two, van Goghs.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Enfant Terrible by Scott Dalrymple

  Scott Dalrymple is Associate Professor and Chair of the Business Administration & Accounting Department at Hartwick College in upstate New York (but he says “Business Administration professor” will do). He recently coauthored a book on management called Time Mastery. This story, his first published work of fiction, is in no way inspired by either of his two wonderful sons (or so he assures us).

  "Can I help you,” states the school secretary, in the sort of tone you might use if a stranger suddenly began swimming in your backyard pool.

  Struggling to seem cheerful, you give your name. “I'm from the University,” you explain. When that does not suffice, you add, “Here to see Mrs. Lipsig? Fourth grade?"

  The woman sneers. “No one told me."

  "I'm sorry,” you say, though you decide that you are not, really.

  The woman consults a worn sheet of paper taped to her desk. “Mrs. Lipsig,” she says. “Mrs. Lipsig.” At first it seems she is talking to herself, but then you notice a tiny hands-free cord dangling from her ear. “Never answers the phone,” she complains. “I'm not walking all the way down there. Fill this out."

  She hands you a peel-and-stick nametag. “Are you a professor?” she asks, suddenly animated. “My daughter went there.” When you say nothing, she adds, “For nursing.” The courtesy seems rather tardy, so rather than answer, you just look at her blankly and ask, “Where do I go?"

  She tells you, clearly taken aback by such rudeness; the incident will no doubt be the stuff of staff lounge discussion.

  Your shoes squeak on the waxed floor of the hallway, which is otherwise completely silent. A large banner on the wall proclaims, in anthropomorphized letters, You Are Special Too.

  As you turn a corner, a remarkably tiny boy approaches. He meekly displays his hall pass as if expecting trouble. You give him a military salute, which he accepts without apparent surprise.

  When you reach Mrs. Lipsig's room, you can hear a commotion through the closed door, next to which is a tall oblong window. You peer inside. Before you can focus on the scene, an octopus of purple goo slaps the inside of the glass, precisely at eye level.

  A blonde girl comes to the window, stands on tiptoes, and peels it off. She sees but does not acknowledge you, instead running away and flinging the octopus toward the head of an unsuspecting boy, himself busy drawing on the chalkboard with crayons.

  Mrs. Lipsig is not visible. You knock.

  The octopus girl cracks the door and gazes out.

  "Is Mrs. Lipsig here?” you ask.

  In answer, the girl opens the door.

  The classroom is modern, with a data projector suspended from the ceiling and computer stations lining two walls. You can smell the newness of the brown speckled carpet.

  "Where is Mrs. Lipsig?"

  The girl points to a short bookcase. Behind it is a woman of about sixty, flat on her back, surrounded by Lilliputians piling toys on top of her.

  "You moved!” complains a girl whose block tower has collapsed on the woman's forehead.

  "I'm sorry,” says the woman.

  You clear your throat. “Mrs. Lipsig?"

  "Yes?” she asks, no embarrassment in her voice.

  "I hope you're expecting me,” you say. “From the University?"

  She rises slowly. Toys cascade off her body as she does, initiating a chorus of protests.

  "Oh,” she says. “From the University?"

  "I appreciate you letting me visit today."

  She smiles sweetly. “Okay, dear."

  A buzzer sounds, so loud you can feel it in your teeth.

  "Time for lunch!” shouts Mrs. Lipsig enthusiastically.

  The children do not form an orderly line at the door; instead, they rush into the hall as if the room is on fire. When the last straggler leaves and the door clicks behind him, it feels as if you are suddenly wearing earplugs.

  Mrs. Lipsig invites you to sit next to her desk.

  "Do you mind if I eat?” she asks. “They'll be back soon."

  You say you don't mind at all.

  Mrs. Lipsig opens a paper bag and holds a sandwich up to the light.

  "Do you mind if I eat?” she repeats. “They'll be back soon."

  "Please,” you assure her.

  She takes a bite. “Boy, I like these,” she says.

  "Like what?” you ask.

  "These,” she says.

  "Sandwiches?"

  She nods. “Yes! Very good. Sandwiches.” She says the word slowly, as if getting the feel of it.

  You
say you agree: sandwiches are very good indeed.

  "This class after lunch,” you ask, “these will be the gifted children?"

  Mrs. Lipsig speaks as she chews. “Yes. Mrs. Rapp takes the others fifth period, and I do gifted."

  "They can be difficult to handle,” you observe. “Demanding."

  Mrs. Lipsig appears not to hear you. “Where are you from, dear?"

  "From the University."

  "Oh. I went to university once."

  You nod.

  "What do you study?” she asks.

  "I'm interested in exceptionally gifted children,” you answer. “I understand that one of your students scores off the charts."

  "Oh,” she says absently.

  In what seems an impossibly short time, the herd of fourth-graders blasts back into the room.

  "Okay, group A to Mrs. Rapp's room,” cries Mrs. Lipsig. “Group One stay here!” Most of the children trickle to an adjoining classroom. A few moments later, a young teacher enters, followed by a handful of additional students.

  "Oh, hello,” she says. “I'm Mrs. Rapp."

  You introduce yourself.

  "Are you a parent?” she asks.

  You laugh. “No. I'm just here to observe."

  "Mrs. Lipsig?” she asks skeptically.

  "Yes."

  As she walks away, she says, in a confidential tone, “Let me know if you need anything."

  Mrs. Lipsig instructs the nine remaining students to move the desks so they can sit on the floor, in a circle.

  "We have a special treat today,” she says. “A visitor.” She asks if you would like to lead the class in an exercise.

  "Sure,” you say. You look at each of the children in turn; it's not obvious. “Let's play a game. Do you know what a hypothetical situation is?” you ask.

  A cute Asian girl raises her hand. “Where you make a hypotenuse?"

  You chuckle, but Mrs. Lipsig does not. “You're thinking the right way,” you say. “Does anybody know what a hypothesis is?"

  A number of hands go up. You choose a boy with an alarming number of freckles. “It's what you think is true."

  "That's right. A hypothetical situation is one that isn't necessarily true, but we imagine it's true just for now. Make sense?"

  The children indicate that it does.

  "So, let's try one. Close your eyes. Now, imagine two cars, each driving sixty miles an hour, heading straight toward each other. Quick: what happens?"

  An eager young man raises his hand.

  "What's your name?” you ask.

  "Charles."

  "What happens, Charles?"

  "They crash.” To illustrate, he makes the sounds of crashing, which apparently involves a good deal of saliva.

  Some of the other children giggle. A number of hands are withdrawn from the air.

  You smile. “Yes, I suppose that's one possibility. Let's think of other things that might happen too. Be creative. Your name?"

  "John."

  "What happens, John?"

  "They put on their brakes and stop just in time?"

  "Good. What else might happen? Think of crazy stuff."

  A chubby redhead raises her hand.

  "What's your name?” you ask.

  "Carol. One of them stands up on giant wheels and drives over the other one?"

  "That's stupid,” says Charles.

  You shrug. “I think it's actually quite interesting. Thank you, Carol.” Carol sticks her tongue out at Charles, who in reply raises a middle finger. “I saw that, Charles,” you warn. Mrs. Lipsig snickers. “Anyone else have ideas?"

  Without raising her hand, a surly-looking girl says, “One of them flies up in the air."

  "Another possibility. See how many we're coming up with? Let's keep going."

  On the far side of the circle sits a boy by himself, seemingly oblivious. You catch his eye. “What's your name?"

  He examines you before answering. “Michael."

  Mrs. Lipsig stirs in her chair.

  "What do you think happens, Michael?” you ask.

  The boy cocks his head. “Nothing of consequence."

  You chuckle. “Okay. Why is that?"

  "Because one car is in Boston and the other is in Topeka."

  "I'm sorry?” you ask.

  "They are headed directly toward each other, as you say, but are hundreds of miles apart, which you didn't say."

  "Wow,” you reply. “That's very creative thinking, Michael. Good job."

  "Want to know more?” Michael asks, smiling.

  "Sure."

  "The car in Boston is driven by Joe Eckmair, an unemployed machinist who is three sheets to the wind and just minutes away from committing vehicular manslaughter. The one in Topeka is driven by Shelly Kurkowski, who will arrive home to find her husband boinking her sister. She will then proceed to take his pitching wedge—"

  "Form a line for lunch!” interrupts Mrs. Lipsig.

  "But we just had lunch,” Charlie protests.

  "Recess. Recess!"

  Most of the children flit eagerly into the hallway.

  "But we already had recess too,” observes a straggler.

  "Shut up,” says another.

  You pull Mrs. Lipsig aside. “You think I might have a few minutes alone with Michael?” you ask.

  She calls the boy back before joining the other children outside.

  When the two of you are alone, you call Michael to you.

  "Yes?” he asks.

  You motion him closer.

  "What?"

  Closer.

  "I'm going outside,” he says suspiciously.

  The shot must be administered in the roof of the mouth; certainly not the most convenient place. But you're good at it, and before his surprise has fully registered, you lay his limp body gently on the floor.

  It's difficult to get into schools undetected, but quite easy to leave, and no one asks questions as you exit with an oversized duffle bag. Your boss often accuses you of grandstanding, asking why you don't just examine the kids in their homes like all of the other agents. The ostensible answer is that you need to check classmates for cross-contamination; the truth is it's just more fun this way.

  * * * *

  "You're a bad person,” says the duffle bag from the back seat.

  "Probably,” you admit, keeping your eyes on the road. The plastic zip ties are plenty strong enough to restrain him.

  "I can't breathe."

  You reach back and open the zipper a few inches. “There."

  The bag rustles and the boy's head emerges. “This is child abduction."

  You shake your head. “Not exactly."

  You aren't supposed to speak, but that seems cruel.

  "Mrs. Lipsig is going to report me missing,” he says, “and they'll put up a roadblock."

  "Nope."

  "What do you mean? She is."

  "Mrs. Lipsig is walking back into the classroom right about now, feeling vaguely like she is missing something,” you say. “But she has no idea what."

  "The other kids will notice."

  "Maybe. But most won't care. A few may ask where you are, but they won't pursue it. Those who do will be ignored, as children usually are."

  "The police will catch you eventually."

  "Nope."

  After processing this, he says, “When I don't come home, my parents will—"

  "Your parents will have their first peaceful evening in years,” you interrupt, “without you there as tyrant. They will remember you like a canceled TV show from last season. A show whose name they have forgotten."

  "That's a mean thing to say."

  You consider this. “Yes, I suppose it is."

  You merge onto the expressway and engage the cruise control.

  "Look,” you say. “I don't even need to talk to you. It doesn't matter, in the end."

  There is silence from the back seat, then, “I don't understand."

  That's true, you know. You sigh and decide, for the
umpteenth time, to try to explain it all to one of them. For all the good it does.

  "Let's play the hypothetical game again,” you suggest.

  "Okay."

  "Say, hypothetically, that there is a parasite."

  After a pause, the boy asks, “What kind of parasite?"

  "A very old one. Don't ask me to get too specific, because I'm just the brawn of the operation. But somehow this parasite feeds off neural energy. You know what that is?"

  "Of course,” he says. “We all feed off energy, if you think about it. What about the sun?"

  "That's good,” you agree. “Anyway, say that over thousands of years this parasite has developed a taste for a special type of neural energy. One that is especially strong in bright prepubescent children."

  "You aren't from the University, are you?” the boy asks.

  "No,” you admit. You glance back just to be sure he is still in the bag. “Say these parasites, once embedded in an appropriate host, can actually enhance the host's neural activity. By a lot."

  "Isn't that a symbiotic relationship?” he asks.

  "It might be,” you say. “But it doesn't work out that way. Something about these things brings out an arrogant, nasty streak in the hosts. Not all the time, but when it gets hungry."

  "Many people are arrogant and nasty."

  "That's true,” you say. “But there's something else. The adults who are close to these children, they start to lose their minds."

  "Why?"

  "We don't know. They sap intelligence somehow. Like some sort of wireless network, I guess. It's one of the signs, one of the ways we know how to find you."

  It allows the pronoun to pass without comment.

  "Do they know it?"

  "Who?” you ask.

  "The ... parasites. Do they know ... what they are?"

  "No. They aren't intelligent in and of themselves. They need the host. And they don't communicate with each other, any more than cold viruses communicate with each other. So there is no shared knowledge, no culture, so to speak. Each one is like—"

  "A child?” it says.

  You drive for a number of miles before it asks, “What will happen to me?"

  You look in the rearview mirror, though you can't see the bag in it. “In a few days, Michael will wake up in bed, his mind wiped clean,” you explain. “He will be sort of like an amnesia victim. He'll remember certain things, like how to speak and what the state capitals are, but nothing about himself. He will be a bright boy, though not as bright as he has been led to believe.” You allow this to register. “Nothing can be done for the adults."