“We’ll work on it,” Martin said.
Before Malenko hung up, he said, “You know, it would be very nice, of course, if Dylan could follow in his father’s footsteps. Schools don’t get much better than MIT.”
“I hear you, Doctor.”
Dylan was still spread out on the couch. Martin went back to his chair. It was nine o’clock.
“Time for bed,” Martin announced.
“But I not tired,” Dylan whined. “I wanna stay up with you and watch TV.”
“Well, then how about we watch
“I don’t like that show. It’s stupid.”
“Well, Daddy wants to watch it.”
“I wanna see the elephant show.”
“But the elephant show is all over.”
With the remote Martin switched channels. The camera closed in on Regis Philbin who announced the special show for teenage contestants, eighteen and under.
“You’re mean.”
Martin felt a blister of petulance rise. “I’m not mean. I just want to watch this.”
“You don’t like me,” Dylan mumbled.
Martin muted the commercial. “What did you say?”
“You don’t like me.”
“Of course I like you. I even love you.”
“How come I had the dream?”
“What dream?”
“The dream about you gave me away.”
“Gave you away? That’s silly. I wouldn’t give you away.”
Dylan looked at him. “Me take stupid pills, that’s why.”
“Don’t say that.”
“Lucinda says.”
“Well, Lucinda is wrong.”
Dylan pouted and buried his face in the pillow.
Martin recalled what Malenko had said about sedatives to calm him down, to minimize the trauma, to delete all memory of the event. Ketamine, or something like that.
The commercials ended, and Philbin announced the qualifying round. The camera showed ten young people, four females and six males, at their consoles with their hand controls waiting for the question. One of the boys was black.
The question was to place four foreign capitals in order from east to west. Before Martin could register the question, the buzzer went off, and five kids had gotten the correct order, the fastest time going to Lincoln Cady—in 3.8 seconds, which was nearly two seconds faster than the next fastest answer.
While the audience applauded, Cady moved to the console across from Philbin.
He was a pudgy serious-looking boy with thick glasses. He did not seem the least bit nervous. In fact, he seemed preternaturally calm.
He and Regis Philbin chatted briefly to warm him up. The boy spoke in a soft even tone, his words enunciated precisely and deliberately. He seemed like a sixteen-year-old going on forty.
The first five questions were the usual throwaways.
In no time, Lincoln Cady had reached the $32,000 mark without having to use a single lifeline.
“Do you read a lot?”
“Yes.”
“Good for you. You have remarkable recall.”
“Thanks.”
“What do you hope to study at Cal Tech next year?”
“Computer engineering.”
Regis nodded. “You did so well on the medical questions that I’d think you’d be interested in studying medicine.”
Lincoln raised his eyebrows. “I’m more interested in machines than people.”
Regis smiled. “I have days like that, too.”
The audience laughed, and they went on to the next question, which he got, then the next.
Throughout the exchange, it struck Martin that the boy didn’t appear to blink.
The next question: “What was the occupation of Albert Einstein when he published his theory of relativity:
The kid deliberated a bit, but Martin was certain that he had been told to draw things out in order to heighten tension. Then he said, “Office clerk.”
“Is that your final answer.”
“Yes.”
Regis Philbin cocked his head. “You got it for a hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars.”
The audience exploded. The boy smiled and fixed his glasses calmly. There was more perfunctory chitchat then the next question.
“Who hit the first Grand Slam in World Series history?” The choices were:
Martin had no idea what the answer was, and Lincoln Cady said he did not know sports and would have to call a friend, a classmate at his school named Robert. Philbin called, Cady read the question, and the young male voice at the other end said, “Elmer Smith.” Cady offered that for his final answer, and Philbin congratulated him for reaching the $250,000 mark.
After the applause and more small talk, they moved to the half-million-dollar question. When Philbin asked him what he was planning to do with whatever money he won, Cady said he would give it to his parents to help pay off some debts, then put the rest toward college. Philbin liked that, and the audience approved.
The next question lit the screen: “When three celestial bodies form a straight line, what is the phenomenon called?” And the answers listed were
Cady still had two lifelines left, but he said he didn’t need them.
“Syzygy,” said Lincoln.
“Is that your final answer?”
“Yes, it is.”
“You just won yourself half a million dollars.”
“YES!” shouted Martin, and the audience went crazy.
There was a cut for a commercial break, and Martin turned off the audio, thinking how in grade school he was a stutterer. He remembered vividly all the shit—how they had called him “Muh-Muh.” The running joke was: Hey, Martin, try to answer this in under an hour: “What’s your name?” In English class when they got to poetry, they said Martin was an expert on alliterations.
He supposed it was funny, looking back. But at the time it was hell. People thought that stuttering meant you were stupid. He could still recall the raw humiliation, the mortification he felt when he couldn’t get out what he wanted to say, just a vicious staccato of syllables—
He was not going to put his own son through that.
