The Rosie Effect (33 page)

‘Why not? Maybe the band won’t turn up and I can play a couple of hours of drum solos.’

I told the Prince not to speak. I needed to think. Walking is good for thinking, as are other repetitive activities. Unfortunately, the walk to Greenwich Village was insufficiently long to generate a solution to the Prince’s problem.

The venue was downstairs. As we opened the door, I realised why Gene had uncharacteristically chosen to spend his evening listening to live music. On the front of the band’s drum kit were the words
Dead Kings
. Behind the drums was George.

I looked at the Prince.

‘You knew he was playing here?’ he said.

‘No. It’s a result of human interconnectedness.’

Although I had heard George practising multiple times, I had never seen him undertake his most characteristic repetitive activity. We stood inside the door and observed for a while. The Prince was watching his father and I was looking
for Rosie and Gene. Due to the large number of patrons, I did not succeed in locating them.

I asked the Prince’s opinion of his father’s competence.

‘Better than he used to be.’

‘Better than you?’

‘He’s good for the Dead Kings. It’s not all about technical expertise. It’s about how you work together. People used to criticise Ringo, but he was a great drummer for the Beatles.’

We waited by the entrance for another three songs. While we listened, my mind completed the problem-solving process. I made a mental note to be less critical of my students’ use of earphones while studying.

The singer announced a short break and I tracked George as he walked to a table in front of the stage. Rosie’s red hair was unmistakable. I instructed the Prince to wait and walked over. George and Gene were pleased to see me, Rosie possibly less so.

‘Nice of you to join us,’ she said. ‘I gather you’ve eaten.’

‘Correct. I need to speak to Gene.’

‘Of course you do.’

I pulled Gene away and explained what I wanted to achieve. I had a theoretical solution, but the social protocols were too complex for me to execute. Gene, of course, was totally confident.

‘I’ll speak to George. You speak to whatever-his-name-is.’

‘The Prince.’

‘The Prince. Right. I’m doing this on two conditions, Don. Number One is you’ve got to,
got to
, make an effort to fix things up with Rosie.’

‘I’ve made all possible efforts.’

‘Didn’t look like it tonight. Number Two is you have to break a rule.’

A chill ran through my body. Gene was asking a high price. He pointed to a sign:
Absolutely no recording or photography
.

‘Get your phone out. This is going to be a moment for the ages.’

Gene returned to his table. I could see him speaking to George, who responded by looking around frantically. But the timing was perfect. The band was reassembling and George was required on stage.

They played one song, then George, who had his own microphone, made an announcement.

‘My son is here tonight. I haven’t seen him for a very long time. His name is also George and last time I heard him play he was a sight better than I am.’ There was applause, and the Prince waved. George beckoned him up, and he refused, but I pushed him, and informed him that I would persist if necessary.

The Prince stepped onto the stage and George indicated that he should take his place behind the drums. The band started playing, and George and I sat with Rosie and Gene. George was focused on the stage. The Prince seemed competent. When the song was over, George started to get up. I put down my phone, which had been running the video application that had led to my arrest, and stood in front of him.

‘The change of roles is permanent,’ I said. ‘The Prince requires a job and you need to escape the repeating pattern of Atlantic cruises.’ I detected resistance. ‘It also
compensates for the error you made, which temporarily destroyed his life.’

George sat down again and poured himself a glass of red wine.

‘And since he is a superior drummer, the cruise ship patrons will receive better entertainment.’

32

‘Rosie. I need to discuss something with you.’

I was visiting the apartment to check the beer. The system was functioning well; prior to leaving I had checked it only once per week. But the weather was unusually warm for December, and it seemed reasonable to visit more frequently. I had also taken the opportunity to draw the Week 32 diagram of Bud on the tiles. His or her development remained interesting, despite the reduced connection to my own life. Having gone this far, it seemed reasonable to complete the forty weeks.

‘I closed the door for a reason, Don. It doesn’t make it easy for me, you coming in twice a day.’

Gene had indicated that Rosie was not currently receptive to a surprise dinner—or even a scheduled dinner—or to relationship discussions.

‘I’m afraid you’re going to have to give it time,’ he said.

But I was not discussing the relationship.

‘This is a research question. Since you’re considering returning to psychology, you’ll find it interesting.’

‘I’ll reserve judgement.’

I explained the Lesbian Mothers Project. Any justification for refraining from mentioning it was no longer relevant. It was time to begin disclosing the information I had withheld. This was the first, and least risky, step. My participation in the project was not illegal, unethical or weird.

‘This is the project you started to tell me about, right,’ said Rosie. ‘You never mentioned it again.’

‘I didn’t want to invade your territory.’

‘You mean you didn’t want to tell me you were invading my territory.’

‘Correct. The problem is that they don’t want to publish the results.’

‘Why do you think that is?’ asked Rosie.

‘If I knew the answer, I wouldn’t have woken you up to ask.’

‘What do you think of people who take scientific findings out of context to push their own barrows?’

‘You’re referring to Gene?’ I said.

‘Him too. These women are trying to make a point that two women can bring up a child as well as a heterosexual couple.’ She sat up in bed. ‘They don’t want to publish something that suggests otherwise.’

‘Surely that’s pushing their own barrow.’

‘Not to the extent of some dinosaur who’s going to pick it up and say kids who don’t have a father are deprived. Which
is an issue that’s a little close to my heart right now. So don’t expect me to be rational about it.’

‘But the results don’t indicate any requirement for a father,’ I said. ‘Both carers can raise the baby’s oxytocin. It’s just that an unconventional parent uses an unconventional method. I predict zero problem for the child.’

‘Don’t expect the
Wall Street Journal
to see it that way.’

I had turned to leave when Rosie spoke again.

‘And Don. I’ve got a flight home tomorrow. Judy’s taking me to JFK. I got the cheapest fare. It’s non-refundable.’

I was leaving to check the beer again before dinner when Sonia stopped me.

‘Wait an hour and I’ll come with you.’

‘Why?’

‘We’re going to see Lydia.’

‘She indicated she was unavailable for further consultation. And it’s a Sunday. A Sunday evening.’

‘I know. I called her. I told her that you and Rosie—you and I—had split up as a result of what she said to you. She was a bit blown away: she thought she’d reassured you to stay with me—with Rosie.’

‘She merely provided objective advice.’

‘Well, she’s feeling responsible now. She overstepped the line and she knows it. We’re meeting at your apartment. I couldn’t do it here because of Dave. I’ve told him I’m taking you to see Rosie before she flies home. I haven’t mentioned Lydia. Obviously.’

‘What about Rosie?’

‘Gene’s taking her out.’

‘Gene’s involved in this?’

‘Everyone’s involved, Don. We think you’re both making a mistake, and if you won’t listen to anyone except Lydia, then she can tell you. I’m going to channel Rosie—I’ll
be
Rosie—and Lydia is going to tell us to stay together. And when she does, you’re going to solve the Marriage Disaster Problem. Am I speaking your language?’

Sonia and I arrived at the apartment two minutes before Lydia was due. I realised Sonia had never visited; it had not occurred to me to invite her and Dave to dinner. It was probably a social error.

‘My God, what’s that smell?’ she said. ‘I think I’m going to throw up. I’ve been feeling terrible all day.’

‘Beer. There’s a small leak that’s impossible to access. Dave blames the workman who replaced the ceiling.’

Sonia smiled. ‘That’s so Dave. How does Rosie cope with it?’

‘Humans adapt to smells quite quickly,’ I said. ‘It’s only recently that regular washing has been conventional. Prior to that humans did not wash for months, and there was no problem. Except disease, obviously.’

Lydia arrived on time.

‘My God, what’s that smell?’ she said.

‘Beer,’ said Sonia. ‘Humans adapt to smells quite quickly. It’s only recently that regular washing has been conventional.’

‘I guess hygiene was not quite at New York standards in a small Italian village.’

‘That’s right. Lucky Don’s a hygiene freak or the baby—’

I gave Sonia a look intended to remind her that she was supposed to be Rosie, who would not be defending weirdness and had not been raised in a small Italian village with poor hygiene. Of course, neither had Sonia. I suspected things were going to become confusing.

Then one of the Georges began drumming.

‘What’s that?’ asked Lydia.

It was a reasonable question, as the initial beats could have been confused with the discharge of a firearm. But the drumming became more rhythmic, and a bass and two electric guitars joined in. Now the answer would be obvious to Lydia, which was fortunate as she could not have heard mine.

We attempted to communicate in rudimentary sign language for approximately three minutes. I deduced that Lydia was asking, ‘How will the baby sleep?’ and Sonia was responding, ‘Skull, bye-bye, bird, kangaroo, no, no, no, eating spaghetti.’

The music stopped. Sonia said, ‘I am thinking about flying home to Italy.’

‘And if you stay? If you and Don are able to get through this misunderstanding?’

I led them to Gene’s room, where I had stowed the gift from my father.

‘Oh God, it’s a coffin,’ said Lydia. ‘A transparent coffin.’

‘Don’t be ludicrous,’ said Sonia. ‘I feel like you’re trying to find reasons to criticise Don.’

‘What is it then? A spaceship?’

In fact the soundproof crib was incompatible with space travel as it was permeable to air. I set the alarm on my phone, and as soon as it started ringing put it in the crib and secured the lid. The noise disappeared.

‘But if the phone needed to breathe, it could do so,’ I said.

‘What if it cries?’ asked Lydia.

‘The phone?’ I realised my error and pointed out the microphone and transmitter in the crib. ‘Rosie will sleep with earphones. I will have earplugs, hence not be disturbed by the baby myself.’

‘Nice for you,’ said Lydia. She looked around. ‘Is someone else sleeping here?’

‘My friend. His wife evicted him for immoral behaviour and now he’s living with Rosie.’

‘In the baby’s room.’

‘Correct.’

‘Rosie,’ Lydia said, and Sonia glanced at the door before realising that Lydia was speaking to her. ‘You’re comfortable with this?’

Sonia’s response suggested extreme
dis
comfort. She returned to the living room and looked around frantically. I diagnosed panic.

‘I need to use the bathroom. Where’s the bathroom?’ she asked in what was supposed to be her own apartment.

We were standing just outside my bathroom-office. I opened the door for Sonia.

‘There’s a desk in the bathroom,’ said Lydia as Sonia closed the door behind her. I was aware of this. I had not taken it with me to Dave and Sonia’s, as it would have been
impractical to carry it on the subway.

We were interrupted by Sonia calling from the bathroom-office. ‘I’ve got a problem.’

‘With the plumbing?’ I asked. The toilet sometimes jammed in flush mode.

‘With
my
plumbing. Something’s wrong.’

It is socially
extremely
inappropriate to enter a bathroom containing an unrelated individual of the opposite gender. I was aware of this, but my behaviour was justified by the probability that the problem was related to Sonia’s advanced state of pregnancy. I guessed the onset of labour.

I entered the forbidden zone, and Sonia explained the problem. Her description of the symptoms was unambiguous.

‘What are you doing?’ asked Lydia. ‘Is everything okay?’

‘Making a phone call,’ I said. ‘No.’

‘What’s wrong?’

‘Prolapsed umbilical cord. I’ve called an ambulance. The problem should not require immediate intervention if labour hasn’t commenced.’

‘Oh God,’ said Sonia. ‘I think it has.’

Following my instructions, Lydia assisted Sonia to Rosie’s study, and I once again dragged the mattress from the main bedroom which Rosie had resumed using. I needed space to manoeuvre. Sonia lay on the mattress. I had already specified maximum urgency when I phoned 911, so there was no point in phoning again and adding a load to the system that might delay assistance to other emergencies.

Sonia was extremely agitated, almost hysterical. ‘Oh God,
I read about this. The baby’s head crushes the cord and there’s no oxygen, oh shit, shit, shit—’

‘Potentially,’ I said. I attempted to adopt a bedside manner, the exact thing that had dissuaded me from considering medicine as a career. ‘The chances of maternal death are virtually zero. Without intervention, the baby will probably die. However, intervention has been summoned.’

‘What if it doesn’t come?
What if it doesn’t come?
’

‘I consider myself capable of the necessary intervention. I’ve had significant practice.’ I thought it unnecessary to mention that there had been no prolapsed cord in the birth of Dave the Calf.

‘What practice?
What practice?
’ Sonia’s hysteria seemed to be causing her to say everything twice.