David Zeman - The Pinocchio Syndrome

‘If only they knew what it was,’ Susan said. ‘It’s not knowing that makes it worse.’

Michael nodded. ‘I spoke to her myself today.’

‘Really?’ Susan asked.

‘I’ve been calling her every day, just to see how things are going.’

Susan smiled. This was typical of Michael, this thoughtfulness for a colleague in trouble. A few years ago Dick Friedman, a senator from Colorado who had started the same year as Michael, was injured in a hit-and-run accident that nearly killed him. Michael took personal charge of a bill that Friedman was working on and spent countless hours doing research and making phone calls to potential supporters, without ever asking for thanks or even telling anyone. Michael was loyal – a quality that had made him many friends in Congress.

‘Danny doesn’t even know who Pam is now,’

Susan said. ‘That’s what’s really killing her.’

Michael hugged his wife.

‘I know,’ he said. ‘It’s bad.’

He smiled. ‘Maybe he’ll come out of it just as quickly as he got sick. You’ve heard of people coming out of comas after a long time.’

Susan didn’t answer. She was lying on her side, her face buried against his chest.

‘Michael,’ she said.

‘What?’

She chewed her lip nervously. She was wondering whether to share her fears with him. It might make his own burdens worse.

‘Michael, do you feel safe?’

‘Safe?’ He smiled. ‘Of course I feel safe.’

‘It’s just – everything seems strange,’ she said. ‘Those sick people out in Iowa. And now Dan Everhardt … everything seems so sinister.’

He petted her gently.

‘Bad things happen in the world,’ he said, ‘but that doesn’t mean the sky is falling. Just hang in there, babe. That’s all we can do. Everything will be all right.’

‘Do you think so?’ Susan asked.

‘I know so.’ His smile was confident and even playful, as though he knew a secret and was teasing her with it.

She raised her face to kiss him. She breathed in his warmth. There was a long pause while they lay in silence.

‘Do you forgive me?’ she asked at length.

‘There’s nothing to forgive.’ He kissed her lips. ‘Everything is going to be fine. You’re going to be fine.’

She nodded. ‘Thank you, Michael.’

She didn’t really feel reassured. But she did feel better. Michael always made her feel better.

The phone rang while Michael was in the shower. Naked, Susan darted into the hallway and picked it up.

‘Hello?’

‘Susan.’ The voice was female, low and somewhat husky.

‘Yes?’

‘Susan, I just wanted to let you know something.’

‘Who is this? There must be a mistake …’

‘Susan, Dan Everhardt is not going to get well.’

‘I’m sorry? What did you say?’

‘You heard me. Everhardt will not get well. The president is going to have to appoint a new vice president.’

Susan saw herself in the hall mirror. Her hair was awry, her breasts still moist from her sex with Michael.

‘I really don’t understand … Who is this?’ she asked.

‘Your husband will be the president’s choice, Susan.’

‘My husband? What are you talking about?’

‘I just wanted you to know. We’ll talk again soon.’

‘I – who is this? What are you talking about?’

A low laugh sounded on the line.

‘You’ll understand everything, Susan. In time.’

The caller hung up.

Susan put down the phone. She stood for a moment looking at her naked image in the mirror. She crossed her arms over her breasts as though to hide them. Then she felt a sudden chill, and hurried back to the bed to wait for Michael.

Manchester, New Hampshire

November 24

11:30 A.M.

His name was Erroll, like the pianist.

They called him ‘Radio Flyer’ because he was always talking about radio waves. Feeling them, hearing them, even seeing them.

He had been homeless for eleven years now, since they closed the state hospital. He slept in abandoned buildings, ate at shelters, and drank everything from Ripple to lighter fluid.

He carried an old Walkman he had found in the trash years ago. He was rarely seen without the little earphones in his ears. He usually had an intent, busy air about him as he dug into garbage cans, bent to collect scraps of newspaper, or, quite often, stood outside appliance stores staring at news broadcasts on display TV sets.

There were those who wondered if there was any sound coming through his famous earphones. ‘He doesn’t need sound,’ said some. ‘He’s got plenty of voices in his head.’

Today, though, the twenty-four-hour all-news station was actually penetrating to Erroll’s brain, for he had put new batteries into the Walkman two weeks ago and they were still running. He nodded knowingly as he listened to the news.

The two beat cops in their cruiser smelled him almost before they saw him. He had an unforgettable odor of stale sweat, urine, alcohol, and tooth decay. They were never glad to see him, for he was full of garbled stories of aliens who were bombarding him with waves.

‘They weren’t supposed to radiate me,’ he would say, ‘but there was a mix-up. They got the wrong guy. Now these rays are killing me, and I can’t get them to stop.’

Usually the cops took him to a shelter whose personnel then escorted him to a clinic where he got medication. But more often than not he didn’t take the medication. He said it made him drool.

Today he shambled toward the cruiser with a bit more purpose than usual. As he approached the car he took off his earphones.

‘Morning, Erroll,’ said the driver. ‘What’s on your mind?’

‘I found a dead body,’ he said.

‘You found a body?’ the driver asked.

‘A dead person,’ he said. ‘Smells, too. Maybe a few days. Wait till you see the hands and feet.’

‘Hands and feet? What are you talking about, Erroll?’

The bum was visibly excited.

‘I keep telling you guys. The men upstairs are making changes. I’m not the only one. Wait till you see the hands and feet.’

‘Where is it, Erroll?’

‘In a Dumpster in the alley off Chestnut Street. Been there all morning.’

The two cops looked at each other. They had long since learned not to attribute any truth to Erroll’s pronouncements. But a body in a Dumpster was something that had to be checked out.

‘Are you sure about this, Erroll?’

‘As God is my judge. I told you there would be changes. I’m not the only one. Just wait till you see.’

The driver sighed. ‘Okay, Erroll. Get in and you can show us.’

They both wrinkled their noses at his smell after he got into the backseat. He gave them directions. They knew the alley well. Traffic was light, so they would be there inside five minutes.

The younger cop was in a happy mood and decided to make conversation with Erroll on the way.

‘How’ve you been, Erroll?’

‘Not so good this week. This pain in my joints … It’s just arthritis. But the waves aggravate it.’

‘What waves?’

‘The radio waves.’ Erroll took on a brooding look. ‘You can’t just bombard healthy tissue with them. It plays hell with arthritis. I told them it can damage tissue. But nobody listens to me.’

‘Who did you tell, Erroll?’

‘The new doctor over at the clinic. I’m sending some circulars around to the state health authorities, too, but I have to get a stamp first.’

‘What kind of stamp, Erroll?’

‘A rate stamp. It tells your rate so they know how to sort the mail.’

The cop turned around. ‘Rate? What sort of rate?’