The Rosie Effect (9 page)

Seymour smiled. ‘It’s about growing meat in laboratories. So vegetarians can have a guilt-free burger.’

I began to respond to this unexpectedly interesting topic but Isaac interrupted.

‘I don’t think this is the right time for a joke, Seymour. Seymour’s book is about guilt, but not about burgers.’

‘Actually I do mention lab burgers. As an example of how complex these issues are and the way deeply rooted prejudices come into play. We need to be more open to thinking outside the box. That’s all Don’s been saying.’

This was essentially correct, but it started Lydia off again.

‘That’s not what I’m complaining about. He’s entitled to an opinion. I let the evolutionary psychology stuff go before, even though it’s crap. I’m talking about his insensitivity.’

‘We need truth-tellers,’ said Seymour. ‘We need technical people. If my plane’s going down, I want someone like Don at the controls.’

I would have assumed he would want an expert pilot rather than a geneticist flying the plane, but I guessed he was attempting to make a point about emotions interfering with rational behaviour. I noted it for future use as perhaps less confronting than the story about the crying baby and the gun.

‘You want some guy with Asperger’s flying your plane?’ said Lydia.

‘Better than someone who uses words they don’t understand,’ said Seymour.

Judy tried to interrupt, but Lydia and Seymour’s argument had acquired a momentum that excluded the rest of us, even though the topic of conversation was me. I had some familiarity with Asperger’s syndrome from preparing a lecture
sixteen months earlier when Gene had been unable to meet the commitment due to a sexual opportunity. Consequently, I had helped to initiate a research project looking for genetic markers for the syndrome in high-achieving individuals. I had noted some of my own personality traits in the descriptions, but humans consistently over-recognise patterns and draw erroneous conclusions based on them. I had also, at various times, been labelled schizophrenic, bipolar, an OCD sufferer and a typical Gemini. Although I did not consider Asperger’s syndrome a negative, I did not need another label. But it was more interesting to listen than to argue.

‘Look who’s talking,’ said Lydia. ‘If anyone doesn’t understand Asperger’s, it’s psychiatrists. Autism, then. You want Rain Man flying your plane?’

The comparison made no more sense than it did later when Loud Woman drew it. I certainly would not have wanted Rain Man flying my plane, if I owned one, or a plane in which I was a passenger.

Lydia must have assumed that she was causing me distress. ‘Sorry, Don, this isn’t personal.
I’m
not calling you autistic. He is.’ She pointed to Seymour. ‘Because he and his buddies don’t know the difference between autism and Asperger’s. Rain Man and Einstein—it’s all the same to them.’

Seymour had not called me autistic. He had not used any labels, but had described me as honest and technical, essential attributes for a pilot and positive in general. Lydia was attempting to make Seymour look bad for some reason—and the complexities of the three-way interaction between us had now exceeded my ability to interpret them.

Seymour addressed me. ‘Judy tells me you’re married. I’ve got that right?’

‘Correct.’

‘Stop, enough,’ said Judy. Four people. Six interactions.

Isaac raised his hand and nodded. Seymour apparently interpreted the combination of signals as approval to continue. All five of us were now involved in a conversation with invisible agendas.

‘You’re happy? Happily married?’ I wasn’t sure what Seymour’s questioning was about, but I concluded that he was a fundamentally nice person who was trying to support me by demonstrating that at least one person liked me enough to live with me.

‘Extremely.’

‘In touch with your family?’

‘Seymour!’ said Judy.

I answered Seymour’s question, which was benign. ‘My mother phones me every Saturday; Sunday, Australian Eastern Standard Time. I don’t have any children of my own.’

‘Gainfully employed?’

‘I’m an associate professor of genetics at Columbia. I consider that my work has social value in addition to providing an adequate income. I also work in a bar.’

‘Mixing comfortably with people in a generally relaxed but sometimes challenging social environment with an eye on the commercial imperatives. Enjoying life?’

‘Yes’ seemed to be the most useful answer.

‘So you’re not autistic. That’s a professional opinion. The diagnostic criteria require dysfunction and you’re enjoying
a good life. Go on enjoying it and stay away from people who think you’ve got a problem.’

‘Good,’ said Judy. ‘Can we pull some food now and have a pleasant lunch?’

‘Screw you,’ said Lydia. She was talking to Seymour, not Judy. ‘You need to pull your head out of your diagnostic manual and go into the street. Go visit some real people’s homes and see what your airline pilots do.’

She stood and picked up her bag. ‘Order whatever you want.’ She turned to me. ‘I’m sorry. It’s not your fault. You’re not going to undo whatever trauma happened in your childhood. But don’t let some fat little shrink tell you it doesn’t matter. And do me and the world one favour.’

I assumed she was going to mention the bluefin tuna again. I was wrong.

‘Don’t ever have children.’

8

‘Earth to Don. Are you still reading me? I asked how you were feeling about becoming a father.’

I did not need Rosie’s reminder. My reflections on the Bluefin Tuna Incident had been replaced by a struggle to answer her question and I was not making much progress. I suspected that Claudia’s recommended response to difficult personal enquiries—
Why are you asking?
—would not work here. It was obvious why Rosie was asking. She wanted to ensure that I was psychologically ready for the most challenging and important task of my life. And the truth was that I had already been judged,
professionally
judged, by a social worker accustomed to dealing with family disasters, as unfit.

In describing the lunch to Rosie seven weeks earlier, I had focused on matters that would be of immediate interest to her:
the restaurant, the food and Seymour’s book about guilt. I did not mention Lydia’s assessment of my suitability as a father, since it was only a single—albeit expert—opinion, and of no immediate relevance.

My mother had given me a useful rule when I was young: before sharing interesting information that has not been solicited, think carefully about whether it has the potential to cause distress. She had repeated it on a number of occasions, usually after I had shared some interesting information. I was still thinking carefully when the doorbell rang.

‘Shit. Who’s that?’ said Rosie.

I could predict who it was, with a high degree of certainty, taking into account the scheduled arrival time of the Qantas flight from Melbourne via Los Angeles and travel time from JFK. I released the security lock and Rosie jumped up to open the door. When Gene emerged from the elevator, he was carrying two suitcases and a bunch of flowers, which he immediately gave to Rosie. Even I could see that his arrival had caused a change in the human dynamics. A few moments earlier, I was struggling to find the correct words to say. Now, the problem had been transferred to Rosie.

Fortunately, Gene is an expert in social interaction. He moved towards me as if to hug me, then, detecting my body language or remembering our past protocols, shook my hand instead. After releasing it, he hugged Rosie.

Gene is my best friend, yet I find hugging him uncomfortable. In fact, I only enjoy close contact with people with whom I have sex, a category containing one person only. Rosie
dislikes Gene, yet she managed to hug him for approximately four seconds without a break.

‘I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this,’ said Gene. ‘I know you’re not my biggest fan.’ He was speaking to Rosie, of course. I have always liked Gene, although this has required forgiveness for some immoral behaviour.

‘You’ve gained weight,’ I said. ‘We need to schedule some running.’ I estimated Gene’s BMI as twenty-eight, three points higher than when I had last seen him ten months earlier.

‘How long are you staying?’ said Rosie. ‘Has Don told you I’m pregnant?’

‘He has not,’ said Gene. ‘That’s wonderful news. Congratulations.’ He used the wonderful news as an excuse to repeat the hug and avoid answering the question about the duration of his visit.

Gene looked around. ‘I really do appreciate this. What a great place. Columbia must pay better than I thought. But I’m interrupting dinner.’

‘No, no,’ said Rosie. ‘We shouldn’t have started before you. Have you eaten?’

‘I’m a bit jet-lagged. Not sure what time my body thinks it is.’

Here, I could help.

‘You should drink alcohol. Remind your body that it’s evening.’ I went to the coolroom to collect a bottle of pinot noir while Gene began unpacking in what, until now, had been the spare room. Rosie followed me.

Rosie stared at the barrels of beer, then looked suddenly ill and dashed out. It was true that the smell was much stronger
inside the coolroom. I heard the bathroom door slam. Then there was a loud noise, a crash, but not from the bathroom. It was followed by a booming sound at similar volume. It was drumming from upstairs. An electric guitar joined in. When Rosie returned from the bathroom, I had the earplugs ready, but I suspected that her level of satisfaction had dropped.

She went to her new study while I fitted my own earplugs and finished my meal. Fifty-two minutes later the music stopped and I was able to talk with Gene. He was certain that his marriage was over, but it seemed to me that he merely needed to rectify his behaviour. Permanently.

‘That was the plan,’ he said.

‘It was the only reasonable plan. Draw up a spreadsheet. Two columns. On one side you have Claudia, Carl, Eugenie, stability, accommodation, domestic efficiency, moral integrity, respectability, no more inappropriate-conduct complaints, vast advantages. On the other, you have occasional sex with random women. Is it significantly better than sex with Claudia?’

‘Of course not. Not that I’ve had a chance to compare recently. Can we talk about this later? It’s been a long flight. Two flights.’

‘We can talk tomorrow. Every day until we get it resolved.’

‘Don, it’s over. I’ve accepted it. Now, tell me how it feels to be an expectant father.’

‘I don’t have any feelings about it yet. It’s too early.’

‘I think I might ask you every day until we get it resolved. You’re a bit nervous, aren’t you?’

‘How can you tell?’

‘All men are. Worried they’ll lose their wives to the baby.
Worried they’ll never have sex again. Worried they won’t cut it.’

‘I’m not average. I expect I will have unique problems.’

‘And you’ll solve them in your own unique way.’

This was an extremely helpful contribution. Problem-solving is one of my strengths. But it failed to address the immediate dilemma.

‘What do I tell Rosie? She wants to know how I feel.’

‘You tell her that you’re excited about being a father. Don’t burden her with your insecurities. Got any port?’

The music started again. I didn’t have any port, so substituted Cointreau and we sat without talking until Rosie came out to get me. Gene had fallen asleep in the chair. It was probably more comfortable than sleeping on the floor. It was certainly better than being homeless in New York.

In the bedroom, Rosie smiled and kissed me.

‘So the Gene situation is acceptable?’ I said.

‘No. It’s not. Nor is the beer smell, which we’re going to have to do something about if you don’t want me throwing up in the evenings as well as the mornings. And obviously you need to talk to the people upstairs about the noise. I mean, you can’t give earplugs to a baby. But the apartment is just stunningly, wonderfully brilliant.’

‘Sufficient to compensate for the problems?’

‘Almost.’ She smiled.

I looked at the world’s most beautiful woman, dressed only in a too-large t-shirt, sitting up in my bed—our bed. Waiting for me to say the words that would allow this extraordinary situation to continue.

I took a deep breath, expelled the air, then took another breath to allow speech. ‘I’m incredibly excited about becoming a father.’ I was using the word
excited
in the sense that I would use it to say an electron was excited: activated rather than in a particular emotional state. Hence I was speaking sincerely, which was a good thing, as Rosie would have detected a lie.

Rosie flung her arms around me and hugged me for longer than she had hugged Gene. I was feeling much better. I could allow my intellect to rest and enjoy the experience of being close to Rosie. Gene’s advice had been excellent and had, at least for me, justified his presence. I would solve the noise problem and the beer problem and the fatherhood problem in my own way.

I woke with a headache, which I attributed to the stress associated with recalling the Bluefin Tuna Incident. My life was becoming more complex. In addition to my duties as professor and spouse, I was now responsible for monitoring beer, Gene and, potentially, Rosie, whom I suspected would continue to be neglectful of her health, even during this critical period. And, of course, I needed to do some research to prepare myself for fatherhood.

There were two possible responses to the increased load. The first was to put in place a more formal schedule to ensure that time was allocated efficiently, taking into account the relative priority of each task and its contribution to critical goals. The second was to embrace chaos. The correct choice was obvious. It was time to initiate the Baby Project.

I suspected Rosie would have a negative reaction to the
installation of a whiteboard in the living room. I discovered a brilliant solution. The white tiles on the walls of my new bathroom-office were tall and narrow: approximately thirty centimetres high and ten centimetres wide. They provided a ready-made grid with a surface suitable for a whiteboard marker. On one wall were nineteen columns of seven tiles, interrupted only by the toilet-roll holder which occupied one tile and obscured another—an almost perfect template for a rolling eighteen-week calendar. Each tile could be divided into seventeen horizontal slots to cover waking hours, with the possibility of further vertical subdivision. Rosie was unlikely to see the schedule, given her statement about respecting my personal space.