The Rosie Effect
Page 26
‘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.
‘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.
