The Rosie Effect

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.

Dave is adaptable to changes in plans and was happy to have George and Gene join us. We ordered burgers with all available extras. Dave’s diet is suspended on boys’ nights out. Gene ordered a bottle of wine, which was more expensive than the beer that we usually drank. I knew this would worry Dave.

‘So,’ said Gene, ‘what happened to you today? I had to show your new assistant the ropes.’

‘You make it sound like it wasn’t too much of a burden,’ said George. ‘This’d be a young lady, would it?’

‘That’d be exactly what it were,’ said Gene, possibly mimicking George’s accent. ‘Name’s Inge. Very charming.’

In keeping with the primary purpose of the boys’ night out, which was to provide mutual assistance with personal problems, I was wondering whether I should seek advice on the Playground Incident. I wanted a second opinion on my decision to withhold information from Rosie, but it seemed unwise to tell George, who was effectively my landlord, that I had been arrested.

‘I have a minor problem,’ I said. ‘I committed a social error which may have consequences.’ I did not add that the error was a direct result of following Gene’s advice to observe children.

‘Well, that’s all clear enough,’ said Gene. ‘You want to tell us a bit more?’

‘No. I just want to know whether I should tell Rosie. And if so, how.’

‘Absolutely,’ said Gene. ‘Marriage needs to be based on trust and openness. No secrets.’ Then he laughed, presumably to indicate that he was making a joke. This was consistent with his behaviour as a liar and cheat.

I turned to Dave. ‘What do you think?’

Dave looked at his empty plate. ‘Who am I to talk? We’re going broke and I haven’t told Sonia.’

‘Your refrigeration business is in trouble?’ said George.

‘The refrigeration part is okay,’ said Dave. ‘It’s the business part.’

‘Paperwork,’ said George. ‘I’d tell you to get someone to do it, but one day you wake up and find you’ve been working for them instead of the other way around.’

I found it hard to see how such information would become available at the point of waking, but agreed with George’s broad thesis: administration was a major inconvenience to me also. Conversely, Gene was an expert at using it to his own advantage.

The conversation had lost focus. I brought it back to the critical question: should I tell Rosie?

‘Seriously, does she need to know?’ said Gene. ‘Is it going to affect her?’

‘Not yet,’ I said. ‘It depends on the consequences.’

‘Then wait. People spend their lives worrying about things that never happen.’

Dave nodded. ‘I guess she doesn’t need any more stress.’ That word again.

‘Agreed,’ said Gene. He turned to George. ‘What do you think?’

‘I think this wine is surprisingly palatable,’ said George. ‘Chianti, is it?’ He waved to our server. ‘Another bottle of your finest Chianti, squire.’

‘We’ve only got one kind of Chianti. The one you were drinking.’

‘Then bring us your finest red wine.’

Dave’s expression indicated horror. I was less worried. Dorian Gray’s finest red wine was unlikely to be expensive.

George waited for the wine to arrive. ‘How long have you been married?’ he said.

‘Ten months and fifteen days.’

‘And already you’re doing things you can’t tell her about?’

‘It seems so.’

‘No kids, I presume.’

‘Interesting question.’ It depended on the definition of ‘kid’. If George was a religious fundamentalist, he might consider that a kid had been created at some time between an hour and five days after the removal of my shirt on the life-changing Saturday, depending on the speed of travel of the successful sperm.

While I was thinking, Gene answered the question. ‘Don and Rosie are expecting their first child…when, Don?’

The mean human gestation period is forty weeks; thirty-eight weeks from conception. If Rosie’s reporting was correct, and conception had occurred on the same day, the baby was due to be born on 21 February.

‘Well,’ said George, ‘that answers your question about whether to put her in the picture. You don’t want to say anything that’s going to upset her.’

‘Good principle,’ said Gene.

Even without the scientific evidence linking stress to Bud’s future mental health, my companions had reached essentially the same conclusion as I had. The news needed to be withheld until the problem was resolved. Which needed to happen as quickly as possible if I was to avoid becoming a victim of cortisol poisoning myself.

Gene tasted the wine on behalf of the group and continued. ‘It’s natural for people to deceive their partners. You don’t want to go against nature.’

George laughed. ‘I’d like to hear you argue that one.’

Gene proceeded to give his standard lecture on women seeking the best genes, even from outside their primary relationship, and men seeking to impregnate as many women as possible without being caught. It was fortunate that he had given the talk many times, as I detected significant intoxication. George laughed a lot.

Dave did not laugh at all. ‘Sounds like baloney. I’ve never seriously thought of cheating on Sonia.’

‘How can I put this?’ said Gene. ‘There’s a hierarchy. The further up the pecking order you go, the more women are available to you. A colleague of ours is head of the Medical Research Institute in Melbourne and he just got caught with his pants down—almost literally. Couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy.’ Gene was referring to my co-researcher in Melbourne, Simon Lefebvre, and it was good to know that he now regarded him as a ‘nice guy’. In the past there had been some unhealthy competitiveness.

Gene poured the last of the wine. ‘So, no offence, but Don is an associate professor and I’m a department head. I’m at about the same level as Lefebvre, but up the ladder from Don. I probably don’t get as many opportunities as Lefebvre, whose dedication to the task is an example to all of us, but I get more than Don.’

‘And I’m a refrigeration engineer, which is lower than both of you,’ said Dave.

‘In terms of the social hierarchy, that’s probably true. It doesn’t make you any less worthwhile as a person. If I need my fridge fixed, I’m not going to call Lefebvre, but on average someone in your profession is going to get fewer opportunities for sex with women who are unconsciously—or consciously for that matter—focused on status. You’re probably a better man than I am in lots of ways, but in this group I’m the alpha male.’

Gene turned to George. ‘Sorry, squire, I’m being presumptuous. I’m assuming you’re not the vice chancellor of Cambridge or an international soccer player.’

‘Too dumb for the first,’ he said. ‘Would’ve liked to be the second. Got a try-out with Norwich, not good enough.’ The waiter brought the bill and George grabbed it, put a pile of notes on it, and stood up.

George, Gene and I took a taxi back to the apartment building. When the elevator doors had closed in front of George, Gene said, ‘A free meal. Shows what a guy will do to challenge the alpha male. Do you know what he does for a living?’

‘Rock star,’ I said.

Rosie was in her sleeping costume, but still awake, when I entered the bedroom.

‘How was your night?’ she asked, and I had a moment of panic before realising that no deception was required.

‘Excellent. We drank wine and ate hamburgers.’

‘And talked about baseball and women.’

‘Incorrect. We never talk about women in general—only you and Sonia. Tonight we talked about genetics.’

‘I’m glad I stayed home. I’m guessing talking genetics meant Gene giving Dave the “men are programmed to deceive” lecture. Am I right?’

‘Correct. I consider it unlikely that Dave will modify his behaviour as a result.’

‘I hope nobody modifies their behaviour because of anything Gene says to them,’ she said and looked at me strangely. ‘Is there something you’re not telling me?’

‘Of course. There are vast numbers of things I don’t tell you. You’d have information overload.’ This was an excellent argument, but it was time to introduce a change of topic, shifting the focus to Rosie. I had prepared a suitable question during the taxi ride home.

‘How was your pizza?’

‘I ended up cooking the tofu. It wasn’t that bad.’

A few minutes after I joined Rosie in bed, George began drumming. Rosie proposed that I go upstairs to ask him to stop.

‘I’ll go up myself, if you won’t,’ she said.

I was faced with three choices: a confrontation with my landlord, a confrontation with my wife or a confrontation between my landlord and my wife.

Judging from his appearance when he opened the door, George must have been playing in his pyjamas. I have a theory that everyone is as odd as I am when they are alone. I was also in pyjamas, of course.

‘Making too much noise for you and the missus? And Don Juan?’

‘Just the missus.’ I was trying to reduce the magnitude of my complaint by sixty-seven per cent. My voice sounded uncannily like my grandfather’s.

George smiled. ‘Best night out in living memory. Used me brain, didn’t talk about football.’

‘You were fortunate. Normally we talk about baseball.’

‘Bloody interesting, that stuff about genetics.’

‘Gene is not always technically accurate.’

‘I’ll bet he’s not.’ He laughed. ‘Don’t know what the connection is, but this is the first time I’ve felt like practising for donkey’s years. Reckon your mate’s brought out the alpha male in me.’

‘You’re drumming to annoy Gene?’

‘People pay money for this. You’re getting it for free.’

I could not think of a good counter-argument, but George smiled again.

‘I’ll play a chaser for him and call it a night.’