Prizes (14 page)

13
 

One day Rochelle Taubman vanished forever.

Sandy Raven learned of this disappearance during a weekly phone conversation with his father. According to him, the studio did not believe that her original name had the celestial ring of stardom. So the Publicity Department performed some alchemy.

Taubman became “Tower,” a word that not only rhymed with power, but also suggested the height for which she was destined. And, since there was no pizzazz to Rochelle, a name that one executive remarked “sounds like somebody’s mother,” they wove her a new identity out of pure iridescent neon.

Thus, Sandy had to reprogram his emotions. He was no longer worshipfully in love with Rochelle Taubman. The object of his affections had been metamorphosed into Kim Tower.

Sandy had also moved up in the world.

Those who believe that science is a religion regard the Massachusetts Institute of Technology as its Vatican, with the many Nobel Prize winners on its faculty as its College of Cardinals.

Situated in Cambridge, on the banks of the Charles River, the university is a short jog away from Harvard, with which it shares the unswerving belief that its students are the best and the brightest in the universe.

Both institutions would admit that they seek out a different sort of student. While Harvard takes pride in selecting the whole man or woman—athletic, charismatic, musical, artistic—MIT cares only about the candidate’s brain.

What better proof than the simple fact that they do not even have a football team? How could they, when the average student’s IQ is higher than his body weight?

In this academy, the fun aspects of college life were conspicuously absent. While in theory Tech students could go on dates during the weekend, this freedom was really illusory. For none of them would dare take time off from their slavery in the scientific salt mines.

So their joys were brief and vicarious. And pretty much boiled down to hamburgers and beer in the Kresge Grill. They lived in a kind of academic submarine, and their only brief glimpses of the outside world were through its electronic periscope—television.

It was here that Sandy was able to follow the progress of Rochelle’s career. Though it had been a while since they had seen each other in person, he could still adore her on the tube. Thanks to the influence of the studio, she received fairly regular invitations to guest star on series being shot under their aegis.

Sidney alerted his son to the fact that Rochelle would assay her most challenging role yet as a deaf prostitute in a “Movie of the Week.”

Sandy pinned the note on his bulletin board—as if he would forget. No doubt he unconsciously hoped that
one of his neighbors would see “Kim, Tuesday 9
P.M.
” and think it was a real-life date.

He was already in a well-chosen seat in the student union by eight-thirty. The initial signs suggested that it would be an auspicious occasion—there was no wrangling among the guys about which channel they would watch: the title “Women of the Night” was too tantalizing to miss.

But Sandy had not reckoned on an unexpected factor—his classmates’ hormones. For, while he had come to venerate, they had gathered to undress his beloved with their eyes. And Sandy marveled at how her breasts seemed to have developed.

“Wow, look at those tits!” drooled one sophisticate.

“Man, wouldn’t you like to be her bra,” grunted another.

“Shut up you assholes. She’s a serious actress.”

Sandy’s unfortunate outburst shocked even him. All eyes turned to the slight, pimple-faced figure, perched anxiously on a chair in the back of the room. The object of his castigation growled, “Who the hell are you, Raven—her brother?”

“No,” Sandy answered furiously. “She’s just sort of an old girlfriend of mine.”

“Like hell,” his antagonist countered. “Why on earth would a piece like that go out with a wonk like you?”

“You don’t understand,” Sandy objected.

“You bet I do. You’re bullshitting.”

Just then Sandy’s eyes returned to the screen. It was displaying a commercial for Kraft cheese.

“My God,” he exploded. “What’s happened to Rochelle?”

“You’re a little slow on the draw, aren’t you, Raven? The girl’s name was Maisie and she’s dead.”

“Dead? But she just got on—I mean, who killed her?”

“Well, maybe if you shut up and let us watch the show, Telly Savalas will find out.”

Sandy was crestfallen. And could not keep from crying on Sidney’s shoulder when they spoke on the telephone later that night.

“But Dad, you said she had a big part.”

“Kiddo, you gotta understand how the business works,” his father reasoned. “This wasn’t some afternoon soap. It was prime time, the major leagues. You have no idea how many households she died in. Frankly, I thought she was very … appealing. Particularly that fantastic blouse she wore—especially considering it was TV.”

“Uh, yeah,” Sandy agreed, remembering the garment that was the cause of his altercation. “Anyway, Dad, where does she go from here?”

“Well it’s obvious, sonny boy—up.”

“Do you really think so?” Sandy asked eagerly.

“Or down,” his father added philosophically. “I mean, you never know in this business. Get what I mean?”

“Yeah, Dad. Do you ever see her?” he asked with a touch of self-pity.

“Across a crowded commissary, so to speak. Don’t worry, I always give your love.”

“And does she even remember me?”

“Are you kidding? Anyway, take care of yourself. Speak to you next week.”

It was only when he had hung up that Sandy realized that his father had not directly answered his question.

College girls, however humble their respective academies, were not interested in MIT freshmen. Occasionally one of Sandy’s classmates from the Boston area would show up with a date from his old high school. But even that was so rare an occurrence that when Barry Winnick of Maiden, Massachusetts, his Kresge Hall neighbor, knocked on his door one Friday night, Sandy thought it nothing short of a miracle.

“Listen, Raven, you’ve gotta help me,” he begged.

“What’s the problem?” Sandy asked warily.

“I’m in trouble,” his classmate replied. “I’ve got a date with the high school nymphomaniac.”

“Nymphomaniac?”

“Yeah,” Barry nodded. “Absolutely round heels.”

“So what seems to be the trouble?” said Sandy, who had by now caught some of his classmate’s rampant general anxiety.

“It’s her cousin, dammit.”

“She has a cousin?” Sandy asked eagerly.

“Yeah, in from Pennsylvania, or somewhere.”

“Is she a nympho too?”

“How the hell do I know? It’s not genetic—or is it?”

“They don’t teach you that sort of thing, Winnick. Now, when do I get to meet the cousin?”

“You mean you’ll do it?” Barry asked with astonishment and gratitude.

“Do what?”

“Take her off my hands. Distract her, or at least chew the fat with her in your room while I, uh, communicate with Ramona. Will you do it? Will you be a pal?”

“Sure,” Sandy answered magnanimously, inwardly thinking, Is he kidding?

“Of course there’s no guarantees,” Barry cautioned. “I mean, just ’cause she’s related to Ramona doesn’t mean she’s attractive—or that she’ll put out. Or both—or either. You gotta be willing to suffer for the greater good.”

“What greater good?”

“My getting laid, you schmuck.”

There were four more days or ninety-six hours, or 5,760 minutes till the weekend, and Sandy scarcely drew breath during any of them. He, who had written down his lectures practically verbatim, found it hard to concentrate at all. If this kept up, it would be good-bye to the Dean’s List.

Friday—eve of the big event—he laid out his clothes
and found his shirt collection wanting. The next day he blew ten bucks on a pink button-down item that he calculated would snow anyone. He spent practically the rest of the day grooming, and was dressed and ready for action before the sun went down.

Both in a highly tensile state, the two students waited for the girls to arrive by the change booth in the Central Square subway station.

Suddenly, Barry spied them out of the corner of his eye and whispered to Sandy, “I see them, Raven. Look cool and confident.”

“That’s very difficult,” Sandy confessed.

“Don’t fink out on me now,” Barry snapped nervously. “This is my big chance.”

Sandy tried to remain calm but could not resist taking a peek at what sensual delight might be undulating into his long-deprived life.

Even assuming Margie was the short and scrawny one, she didn’t seem
that
bad. At least from thirty paces.

He was right. And for some reason, scrawny Margie could not keep her eyes off him. As her cousin made the introductions, she stared intently at Sandy.

Sandy was flattered and felt a surge of confidence. Then, a split second later, Margie whispered something to her cousin, who in turn called Barry aside and murmured something to him. The next thing Sandy knew, Barry was clearing his throat like a tic.

“Uh, Raven, we gotta talk,” he hacked. “We gotta talk.”

The two young men moved aside, and Barry muttered, “Sandy, I don’t know how to tell you this.”

“That’s okay, Winnick. I can see she’s a dog, but I said I’d do it, and I will. After all—”

“No,” his friend cut him off sharply. “You don’t get it.”

“Well then, what?”

“She doesn’t dig you.”

“Huh?”

“I mean, I told her you were a great guy and everything, but Margie won’t play ball unless I call in the second team.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Roger Ingersoll—my backup. He’s waiting by his phone.”

“What?” Sandy exploded. “Ingersoll?”

A feeling of terrible hurt was beginning to overwhelm him.

“Raven, please,” Barry implored. “This is my big chance with Ramona. Be magnanimous, Raven, and abdicate. I mean, go to the movies or something. I’ll even pay.”

Sandy glanced furiously at Margie and thought, You bitch. You heartless bitch. Am I that disgusting? Evidently, yes.

“Fine, Winnick,” he mumbled, on the verge of tears. “I’m taking off.”

And he walked sadly into the night, mourning the death of his confidence.

Later that night there was a feverish knocking on his door. Sandy opened it to find Barry resembling nothing so much as a Mexican jumping bean.

“Just to tell you not to worry, old pal. Everything worked out terrific. Ingersoll came through and Ramona delivered. Of course, Roger claims to have gotten to third base with Margie, but I think he’s full of it Anyway, I just didn’t want you to worry.”

“That’s okay, Barry. I’m glad you told me.”

Sandy pushed his door closed, muffling Barry’s afterthought, “Oh yeah, Raven. Thanks a lot for understanding.”

No, Barry, Sandy agonized. The truth is, I don’t understand at all.

14
 

In the four years since he had been made director of the lab, Adam Coopersmith was, metaphorically speaking, the father of nearly two hundred children. By treating multiple-miscarrying women with large dosages of natural progesterone, he had enabled 174 of them to carry their pregnancies to term.