The Rosie Effect (11 page)

The pregnancy websites also contained vast amounts of information about foetal development. Rosie had been clear that she did not want a technical commentary, but it was so
interesting
, especially with a case study progressing in my apartment. I selected one of the wall tiles above the bath and labelled it ‘5’ to represent the estimated number of weeks of gestation up to the preceding Saturday. I made a dot the size of an orange seed to represent Bud’s current size, then added a sketch. Even after forty minutes’ work, it was crude compared with some of the diagrams available online. But, as with the schedule on the tiles opposite, its production gave me a distinct sense of satisfaction.

To solve the immediate nutrition problem, I selected a vegetarian recipe at random from one of the websites. A jog via Trader Joe’s sufficed to source all the necessary ingredients for a tofu and squash flan.

I was left with an afternoon of unscheduled time—an ideal opportunity to do some research in line with Gene’s
advice. It seemed wise to delay the shower and change until after my excursion, especially as the weather forecast indicated a thirty per cent probability of rain. I put my light raincoat on over my jogging costume and added a cycling hat for hair protection.

There was a small playground on 10th Avenue, only a few blocks away. It was perfect. I was able to sit on a bench, alone, and watch children with their guardians. Binoculars would have been helpful, but I could observe gross motor actions and even hear some conversation, especially as much of it was shouted. I was not disturbed—in fact on the sole occasion that a child approached me it was immediately summoned back.

I made several observations in my notebook.

The children explored for short distances but routinely checked and returned to their guardians. I recalled seeing a documentary in which this behaviour was made more obvious by fast-motion replay, but could not recall what type of animal was involved. My phone had substantial available memory, so I began shooting my own video. Gene would definitely be interested.

My recording was interrupted by some kind of communal activity: the guardians and children gathered together for approximately twenty seconds and then moved to the other end of the playground, where my view of them was obscured by a central island of foliage. I followed and sat where I could observe them again, but they did not resume their play. I decided to wait and used the time to change the video resolution on my phone in case there was an opportunity to film a longer segment. Due to my focus on the camera-operating
task, I did not notice the approach of two uniformed male police officers.

In retrospect, I may not have handled the situation well, but it was an unfamiliar social protocol in unexpected circumstances driven by rules which I did not know. I was also struggling with the video application which I had downloaded because of its superior compression algorithm, without due attention to its user-friendliness.

‘What do you think you’re doing?’ This was the (marginally) older policeman. I guessed they were both in their thirties, and in good physical shape—BMIs approximately twenty-three.

‘I
think
I’m configuring the resolution, but it’s possible I’m doing something different. It’s unlikely you will be able to assist unless you’re familiar with the application.’

‘Well, I guess we should get out of your way and leave you with the kids.’

‘Excellent. Good luck fighting crime.’

‘Get up.’ This was an unexpected change of attitude on the part of the younger colleague. Perhaps I was seeing a demonstration of the ‘good cop, bad cop’ protocol. I looked to Good Cop to see if I would receive contrary instructions.

‘Do you also require me to stand up?’

Good Cop assisted me to stand. Forcefully. My dislike of being touched is visceral, and my response was similarly automatic. I did not pin or throw my assailant, but I did use a simple aikido move to disengage and distance him from me. He staggered back and Bad Cop pulled his gun. Good Cop produced handcuffs.

At the police station, the officers sought a statement in which I conceded that I had been in the park observing children and that I had resisted arrest. I was finally given an answer to the obvious question: what had I done wrong? It is illegal in New York to enter a designated children’s playground without the company of a child under the age of twelve. Apparently there was a sign posted on the fence to that effect.

Incredible. If I had actually been, as presumably suspected by the police and anticipated by the lawmakers, someone who gained sexual satisfaction from observing children, I would have had to kidnap a child in order to gain entry to the playground. Good Cop and Bad Cop were not interested in this argument, and I eventually provided an account of events that seemed to satisfy them.

I was then left alone in a small room for fifty-four minutes. My phone had been confiscated.

At that point an older man, also in uniform, joined me, carrying what I guessed was the printed version of my statement.

‘Professor Tillman?’

‘Greetings. I need to call a lawyer.’ The time spent alone had been useful in allowing me to collect my thoughts. I remembered a 1-800 phone number for criminal lawyers from a subway advertisement.

‘You don’t want to call your wife first?’

‘My priority is professional advice.’ I was also conscious that news of my arrest would cause Rosie stress, particularly as the problem was still unresolved and she could do little to help.

‘You can call a lawyer if you want. Maybe you won’t need one. You want something to drink?’

My answer was automatic. ‘Yes, please. Tequila—straight up.’ My interrogator looked at me for approximately five seconds. He made no signs of getting the drink.

‘Sure you wouldn’t like a margarita? Maybe a strawberry daiquiri?’

‘No, a cocktail is complex to prepare. A tequila is fine.’ I suspected that they would not have fresh juice available. Better a neat tequila than a margarita made with lemon syrup or sweet-and-sour mix.

‘You’re from Melbourne, Australia, right?’

‘Correct.’

‘And now you’re a professor at Columbia?’

‘An associate professor.’

‘You got someone we can call to verify that?’

‘Of course. You can contact the Dean of Medicine.’

‘So you’re a pretty smart guy, right?’ It was an awkward question to answer without appearing arrogant. I just nodded.

‘Okay, Professor, answer me this. With all your intelligence, when I offered you a margarita, did you really think I was going to go to the tearoom and squeeze a few limes?’

‘Lemons are fine. But I only asked for a tequila. Squeezing citrus fruit for cocktails seems an inappropriate use of time for a law-enforcement professional.’

He leaned back. ‘You’re not kidding, are you?’

I was under extreme pressure, but conscious that I must have made an error. I did my best to clarify.

‘I’ve been arrested and am at risk of incarceration.
I was unaware of the law. I am not intentionally making a joke.’ I thought for a moment, then added, only because it might reduce the chances of jail and consequent low-quality food, dull conversation and unwanted sexual advances, ‘I’m somewhat socially incompetent.’

‘I sorta figured that out. Did you really say “Good luck fighting crime” to Officer Cooke?’

I nodded.

He laughed. ‘I’ve got a nephew a lot like you.’

‘He’s a professor of genetics?’

‘No, but if you want to know about World War II Spitfires, he’s your boy. Knows everything about planes, nothing about how to stay out of trouble. You must’ve done all right at school. To make professor.’

‘I got excellent marks. I didn’t enjoy the social aspects.’

‘Problems with authority?’

My instinctive answer was ‘no’: I am observant of rules and have no desire to cause trouble. But unbidden memories of the religious education teacher, the headmaster and the Dean of Science in Melbourne entered my mind, followed by Wineman, the superintendent at the Brooklyn apartment and the two cops.

‘Correct. Due to honesty—lack of tact—rather than malice.’

‘Ever been arrested before?’

‘This is the first time.’

‘And you were in the playground to’—he checked his document—‘observe children’s behaviour in preparation for fatherhood.’

‘Correct. My wife is pregnant. I need to acquire familiarity with children.’

‘Jesus.’ He looked at the paper again, but his eyes did not indicate that he was reading. ‘All right. I don’t think you’re a danger to kids, but I can’t just let you walk away. If next week you go and shoot up a school, and I’ve done nothing—’

‘It seems statistically unlikely—’

‘Don’t say anything. You’ll talk yourself into trouble.’ It seemed like good advice. ‘I’m going to send you to Bellevue. This guy will see you and, if he thinks you’re safe, you’re off the hook. We’re all off the hook.’

He gave me back my phone and waved the handcuffs. ‘Brendan’s a good guy. Just make sure you show up. Or we do it the hard way.’

10

It was 6.32 p.m. when I left the police station. I immediately phoned Bellevue to make an appointment. The receptionist asked me to call back the next day unless it was an emergency. Approximately four minutes into my description of the situation, she made an apparently irreversible decision that it was not.

On the subway, I debated whether I needed to inform Rosie of the Playground Incident. It was embarrassing, and suggested a lack of familiarity with rules. Knowing the rules is one of my strengths. Rosie would be upset that something unpleasant had happened to me and angry with the police—in short,
stressed
. My earlier decision to insulate Rosie until the matter was resolved remained valid. I had avoided the worst-case scenario at the police station. The
assessment at Bellevue was the only remaining obstacle.

I told myself that there was
no reason
for anxiety about meeting with the psychologist. In my early twenties I was interviewed by numerous psychologists and psychiatrists. My circle of friends included Claudia, a clinical psychologist; Gene, head of a psychology department; Isaac Esler, a psychiatrist; as well as Rosie, a psychology graduate and PhD candidate. I was experienced and comfortable in the company of these professionals. Nor was there any reason for the psychologist to consider me dangerous. There was thus
no reason
for anxiety about the assessment. In the absence of a reason, it was irrational to be anxious.

Rosie was already home, working in her new study, when I arrived. I had missed my stop, and then walked in the wrong direction. I blamed the change of location. I began dinner preparation. It would provide a less-dangerous topic of conversation than the day’s activities.

‘Where have you been?’ Rosie called out. ‘I thought we were having lunch together.’

‘Tofu. Nutritious and easy to digest and a great source of iron and calcium.’

‘Hello?’ She emerged from the study, and came up behind me as I focused on the food. ‘Do I get a kiss?’

‘Of course.’

Unfortunately the kiss, despite my best efforts to make it interesting, was insufficient to distract Rosie from her inquisition.

‘So, what have you been doing? What happened to lunch?’

‘I hadn’t realised lunch was confirmed. I took the day off. I went for a walk. I was feeling unwell.’ All true statements.

‘No wonder. You were up all night drinking with Gene.’

‘And purchasing smoked mackerel.’

‘Oh shit. I’d forgotten. I’m sorry. I had some eggs and vinegar and went to sleep.’

She pointed to the tofu, which I was in the process of preparing.

‘I thought you were going out with Dave.’

‘This is for you.’

‘Hey, that’s nice of you, but I’ll get a pizza.’

‘This is healthier. Rich in betacarotene, essential for a healthy immune system.’

‘Maybe, but I feel like pizza.’

Should I rely on the instincts that indicated pizza or the website that specified tofu? As a geneticist I trusted instincts, but as a scientist I had some confidence in research. As a husband, I knew that it was easier not to argue. I put the tofu back in the refrigerator.

‘Oh, and take Gene with you.’

Boys’ night out was defined as being Dave, me and sometimes Dave’s former workmates. However, it was also defined as Rosie ‘having time to herself’. The only way of maintaining both components of the definition was to require Gene to eat alone, which would have broken another rule of ethical behaviour. Change seemed unstoppable.

As Gene and I exited the elevator and stepped into the street, George was leaving a limousine carrying a bag. I intercepted him.

‘Greetings. I thought you were returning to England.’ An online search had revealed the name of George’s cruise ship, which had departed a few hours earlier.

‘Bit quiet for you, eh? No, we’ve got a few months off, courtesy Herman’s Hermits. Agent’s looking for gigs in New York. How’s the beer?’

‘The temperature is correct and stable. There’s a minor leak that produces occasional odours, but we’ve become accustomed to them. Are you planning to practise tonight?’

‘Funny you should ask. Can’t say I feel like it, but Jimmy—the bass player—said he might fetch up. Three days in New York City and he’s run out of things to do so why not get together and drink beer and play some music.’

‘Do you want to watch baseball instead?’ The idea popped into my head as a solution to the noise problem that George might create for Rosie. It may have been the first occasion in my life that I had spontaneously asked someone other than a close friend to join me for social purposes.

‘You going out, then?’ he said.

‘Correct. To eat food, drink alcohol and watch baseball. We also talk.’

I had selected Dorian Gray, a bar in the East Village, as our regular meeting place. It offered the best combination of television screens, noise level (critical), food quality, beer, price and travel time for Dave and me. I introduced George as my vertical neighbour, and explained that Gene was living with me. George did not appear concerned about having an extra non-paying tenant.