Miracle Man (5 page)

The director of the OSSIS, Orin Varneys, received from Massey, not only his report with copies of all the testing materials and results, but also the materials of Knoll and Draper. Director Varneys had more experience in these matters than any local or state authority, and he was quick to dismiss hyperbole. Intrinsically skeptical, Varneys was fond of saying, “Genius is a relative term and it’s used too loosely. Every educator and psychologist wants to discover the next Einstein, but we’re still waiting, aren’t we.”

4

T
he Austin family was enjoying one of their favorite weekend indulgences, a bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken with mashed potatoes, gravy, corn on the cob and coleslaw, when the phone rang. Edith picked it up.

A woman’s voice said, “Is Mr. or Mrs. Austin there, please?”

Edith answered, “Yes, this is Mrs. Austin.”

“Hold on for Director Varneys.”

“Who?”

“Hello Mrs. Austin. Is your husband home?”

“Who is this? Is this a crank call?” replied Edith.

Peter motioned to Edith and took hold of the phone. “Who is this?” he asked with annoyance.

“This is Director Varneys of the OSSIS.”

“We’re not interested in buying anything, and you shouldn’t disturb people on their weekends. I thought that became illegal.”

“Wait—don’t hang up. I’m not selling anything.” Peter slammed the phone into its cradle, and then a few seconds later picked it up and left it lying on its side so it would ring busy.

On Monday morning, an envelope was delivered to the Austin’s house by Fed Ex. No sender was indicated. Edith opened it. It was a letter on engraved stationary with the initials OSSIS at the top and a Washington, D.C. address.

Dear Mr. and Mrs. Austin:

I am sorry we were unable to speak when I telephoned you on Saturday. I can understand that my call was unexpected. I am the director of a U.S. government agency called the Office of Special Strategic Intelligence Services. We are, among other things, in charge of monitoring unusual intelligence assets. We have been advised by Drs. Draper, Knoll and Massey that your son, Robert James, may possibly be of importance to this office.

I can assure you that it is in your son’s best interests that you kindly cooperate with us.

Please call me when you receive this letter.

Very truly yours,

Orin Varneys

Edith did something she virtually never did because Peter didn’t like it. She called him at work. Edith’s voice was shaky as she read Peter the letter and he was annoyed that someone had upset her. Telling her to calm down, he asked her for Varneys’ phone number, which was printed on the letter, and said he’d call him during his lunch break.

When Varneys got on the phone, Peter said, “Mr. Varneys, we received your letter. I’m sorry I hung up on you the other day, but we get a lot of phone solicitations and you certainly sounded like one. What’s your letter all about?”

“Mr. Austin. Let me ask you a question. What’s the most valuable asset that the United States has?”

Peter replied, “A lot of things.”

“No. One thing is the most valuable. Human talent. Superior human talent and intelligence. From this, stems everything—economic dominance, military security, our entire way of life.”

Peter responded, “Well, we’re not the only country with smart people.”

“Exactly my point, Mr. Austin. Many of our competitors have extremely intelligent people. So all we can do is to try to keep ahead. That’s why my agency exists. To identify extraordinary human intelligence. And to nurture and protect it. And that’s why we’re interested in your son.”

“What do you want from us?”

“All we want is to fly you, Mrs. Austin and Robert to Rochester, Minnesota for a few days. All at taxpayer expense, of course. We’ll put you up in the best hotel, deluxe rental car, fine restaurants, everything. It will be a nice respite for you and the family.”

“Why Rochester, Minnesota?”

“That’s where the Mayo Clinic is located. We want Robert to spend some time with a doctor who does work for us there. Dr. John Uhlman. He’s chief of Psycho-Neurological Development at Mayo.”

“More tests on Bobby?”

“I assure you that these will be the last. Uhlman is the biggest expert in the U.S. —-probably in the world.”

“And what happens after that, Mr. Varneys?”

“Well, let’s just take one step at a time Mr. Austin.”

“Is ‘no’ a viable answer here?”

The silence lasted long enough for Peter to think the line had gone dead. Finally, he heard Varneys say, “It really is in your family’s best interests to work with me on this, Mr. Austin.”

5

P
eter wasn’t happy about using up a week of his vacation time for a trip to Rochester, Minnesota, but the “Welcome to Rochester” website touted the attractions of the city and the family hadn’t been away together on an “airplane holiday” for two years, so Peter and Edith decided to make the most of it. They were candid with Bobby as to the purpose of the trip, but Bobby was excited by the prospect of the airplane travel and he loved airports. So two weeks after Peter had spoken to Director Varneys, the Austin family sat comfortably ensconced in business -class seats for the first time in their lives. After finishing a glass of red wine, Edith began to feel more relaxed. The alcohol had taken the edge off her apprehension over the trip.
It’s all so weird
, she thought.
Director Varneys and his strange agency. And now the Mayo Clinic.
As she grew sleepy from the wine, her head sunk into the pillow. Closing her eyes, she thought back to how it began — a voice-mail on her answering machine a little more than four years ago. The call was from Natalie Kimball, a social worker at the Bureau of Child Health and Welfare Services.

“What did you want to speak to me about?” Edith asked, returning Kimball’s call.

“Mrs. Austin—would it be possible for us to talk in person? I’ll come to you so it won’t be inconvenient. It’s about an important matter.”

“Well, is there a problem? Did something happen to one of our children?”

“Nothing like that. It’s a good thing.”

The next morning at eleven, Kimball arrived at Edith and Peter’s home. A clapboard two story house with a small front yard in a tidy working class neighborhood, the house was built in the late 1930s and had that slightly crooked appearance that befalls old wooden houses as they settle in over the decades. Once through the door, Kimball’s face lit up and she smiled. Although a few years had passed since the last of the foster kids had lived there, the living room walls and shelves still paid tribute to the changing mix of twelve children who had called this house their home over a period of two decades. Sports trophies, academic awards, little ceramic sculptures, watercolor paintings and diplomas from kindergarten through college were on display. Countless games, childrens’ books and other juvenile treasures were piled high in open wooden storage boxes that Peter had built and decorated, which were stuffed into the corners of the room. Hanging in the dining room were numerous framed photos of Edith and Peter posing proudly over the years with each of the twelve foster children they had raised, a veritable time-line of Edith and Peter’s adult lives.

Edith made a pot of coffee and poured two cups as Kimball sat down at the kitchen table. A 44 year old spinster of Norwegian ancestry, Kimball’s frizzy grey strands were brushed tightly back culminating in an unflattering bun which sat like a meatball on her head. She wore no makeup and her face was prematurely aged. Dressing in dowdy clothing that would have been unstylish even if worn by a woman twenty years her senior, Kimball sipped her coffee and got right to the point.

“Mrs. Austin. Edith— if you don’t mind. I need your help. I know that you and your husband really care about kids. That’s so evident as I feel the magic in this house. A wonderful little infant who has had nothing but the worst of luck needs a break. Everyone’s afraid to take him in, but only because of their suspicions.”

“Ms. Kimball, Peter and I are too old to even think of taking in another child, let alone an infant. Pete’s almost sixty. He’s a few years away from retiring. We want to sell this house and move down south where it’s cheaper to live. We just can’t take on the responsibility. It wouldn’t even be fair to the child. Someone else better will come along. You’ll see. Be patient.”

Kimball’s eyes grew watery. “No there won’t. No one will come forward. You’re this baby’s only chance. This is the child that was in all those terrible newspaper articles. You read them—didn’t you? Doesn’t he —- more than anyone else you ever had in this house—-doesn’t he deserve a home?”

Edith’s face drained of color. “Oh my heavens. That poor little boy. Nobody has taken him yet?”

“Not for want of trying on my part. Edith, we can’t let this happen. Please. Think about it and talk to your husband.”

As Edith showed Natalie to the door, she rubbed her hand hard against the back of her neck, her jaw clenched tightly. “I can’t promise anything. Peter won’t like this.”

It was 6:15 in the evening when Peter walked through the front door and did what he always did. He hung his jacket on the wooden coat tree and went into the kitchen to get a cold beer from the refrigerator. But this evening, Edith didn’t greet him when he entered the house. Instead, he found her sitting at the kitchen table drinking a cup of tea with a dour expression on her face. Peter said, “What’s wrong? Why are you sitting here like that?”

“I have to talk to you about something. Sit down please.”

“Can’t it wait for later? I’m tired and I just want to relax and watch some TV before dinner.”

“Peter, do you remember that phone message from a Ms. Kimball at the Bureau of Child Welfare?”

“Did something happen to one of our kids? Did someone get hurt?”

“It’s not that. It’s that we’re not done yet. We’re just not done. Do you remember those horrible articles about that newborn?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, nobody wants him. Ms. Kimball says that we’re his only chance. She’s tried everything else.”

“Edith, we agreed no more kids. We’ve done twelve and we did it well and it was great. But we’re done now. Let someone else step up.”

“I can’t live with myself if we just turn away.”

“You read the articles. You know what the experts said. He’s an accident waiting to happen. That’s why nobody wants him. They’re not stupid. We don’t need our lives complicated like this now Edith. Enough already. Stop feeling that you have to take in every stray.”

Edith replied, “Let’s talk to the pediatrician and get the facts. People say awful things all the time. It doesn’t mean it’s true. Look what they said about Phillip, and look how he turned out. We couldn’t be more proud of him. And nobody was going to give him a chance.”

Peter’s eyes strayed to the dining room and to a photo hanging on the wall of the two of them proudly standing on either side of Philip in his college graduation robe.

“Peter, let’s just look at the baby. You know how we can tell what he’s really like just by looking. Let’s just look. And we don’t have to keep him forever. We can just get him started for a few years. Then, he’ll be older and the stigma will be gone. People won’t be afraid to take him then and we can still retire and move like we said we would.”

“Why are you doing this to me, Edith?” replied Peter as he walked out of the kitchen.

The Austin’s doorbell rang on Saturday at noon sharp. When Edith opened the door, there stood Kimball holding #2764, together with Dr. Edward Drummond, the chief pediatrician of the Bureau of Child Health and Welfare Services, whom Kimball had begged to accompany her. The visitors were led over to the living room sofa.

Edith called down to Peter who was in his basement workshop, “Peter, they’re here. Come up please.”

Peter appeared, his mouth twisted to one side and his eyes aimed at the floor. By this time, Edith was sitting in the easy chair cuddling the baby, and saying “You are such a beautiful baby boy. Just look at you. I never saw such pretty blue eyes on an infant.”

Kimball was beaming. Peter groaned. He pulled up a chair next to Drummond.

“Doctor, I have to be honest with you and I’m asking you to be honest and straight with me. What’s this kid’s health risks? We don’t need a train wreck in our lives.”