The Rosie Effect

24

After making a phone call for advice, George commanded the taxi to detour via a bar in White Plains. It was 10.35 p.m. and we had not eaten. I was wearing clothes lent to me by Ben the Farmer to replace those soaked during the delivery of Dave the Calf.

‘Beer tonight,’ said George. He ordered four. We drank them rapidly and George ordered more.

‘I’ll let you in on a secret,’ he said. ‘Looking after that poor cow was good karma. Made up a wee bit for not being at the birth of my first kid.’

‘The one with the thrifty mother?’ said Gene.

‘That’s the one. I was on the road.’ He paused. ‘They rang the hotel and I was with a groupie. That’s the way it was back then.’

I was amazed. ‘You were having sex with another woman while your wife gave birth to your son?’

‘How did you know it was a boy?’

‘You mentioned it earlier. And it’s on the internet.’

‘I’ve got no bloody secrets. Except what I just told you.’

‘We should all share a secret,’ said Gene. ‘One each. Tell us one of yours, Don.’

‘A secret?’ In the sixteen weeks since the Playground Incident, I had accumulated multiple secrets, but it seemed unwise to disclose any after drinking beer. Conversely, George’s decision to share an example of morally repugnant behaviour seemed to be a gesture of friendship, allowing each of us to disclose something immoral or illegal and receive advice from the others, knowing that our behaviour was unlikely to be as shameful as George’s. It was a subtle social manoeuvre, but my analysis had taken some time.

‘I’ll go first, then,’ said Gene. ‘But this goes no further, all right?’

George made us perform a ludicrous four-handed handshake.

‘Guess how many women I’ve slept with.’

‘Less than me,’ said George. ‘If you can count them, it’s less than me.’

‘More than me,’ I said.

Gene laughed. ‘Go on.’

I remembered Gene’s map, with a pin for each nationality. I allowed for a further fifty per cent to accommodate multiple women of the same origin and more recent conquests.

‘Thirty-six.’

‘Way off.’ Gene drank some more beer, then held up an open hand. ‘Five.’

I was astonished. Was Gene lying? It was a reasonable hypothesis, given that, if he was not lying now, he must have lied repeatedly in the past. Perhaps, being unable to compete with George for the highest total, he was aiming to be the least promiscuous.

Dave also appeared astonished. Astonishment was the appropriate reaction. ‘Five?’ he said. ‘I mean, that’s—’

‘—less than you, right?’ Gene was smiling.

‘I don’t cheat on my wife, but—’

It was only four more than me! ‘What about the open marriage? What about the map?’

‘The open marriage never got off the ground. The first woman had issues. Bunny-boiling types of issues. I had enough of that with my first wife.’

‘Game isn’t worth the candle,’ said George.

‘Not at this age, anyway,’ said Gene.

‘What about the map?’ I asked—again. There were twenty-four pins in Gene’s map before he had temporarily reformed and pulled it down. ‘What about Icelandic Woman?’

‘I buy dinner. If they’re up for having dinner one-on-one, I reckon that’s a date. You don’t go out to dinner by yourself with a married man unless you’re up for it. The rest would follow if I wanted it to.’

This was incredible. The consequences of Gene lying to make his behaviour appear worse than it was had been disastrous. I pointed out the obvious.

‘Claudia threw you out because you admitted to having sex with Icelandic Woman. But you only purchased dinner. Correct?’

‘Actually, I had to fight her off. She was—what is it you say, George?’

‘No Jerry Hall?’

Gene laughed.

I brought the discussion back on track. ‘So tell Claudia the truth and she’ll accept you back. All problems solved.’

‘It’s not as easy as that.’

‘Why not?’

We all looked at Gene. Nobody spoke. We were acting like therapists. I was wishing that I could fix the Rosie problem simply by telling the truth.

‘I doubt Claudia would have any interest in me if I wasn’t who she thinks I am. It’s part of why she’s attracted to me.’

‘She’s attracted to you because you cheat?’ I said. ‘All theories…your theories—’

‘Women like men who can attract other women. They need to be reminded that they’ve got someone other women want. Look at George. All that form didn’t stop you finding three more wives.’

‘If I hadn’t had the form, maybe I could have got by with one. But Don’s got a fair point—there’s nothing to lose by coming clean.’

‘It’s deeper than that. We let it go too long, till it was past saving. If I look back, it was after Eugenie was born. I started playing the game, even if I didn’t take it all the way. You can’t neglect a marriage for nine years and expect to go back. Anyway, I’ve found someone else.’

‘Who?’

‘You know who. I’ve shared my secret.’ He turned to Dave. ‘What about you?’

Dave looked back at Gene. ‘You’ll understand what this means. The baby’s not mine.’

We were stunned into being therapists again and waited for Dave to speak.

‘We did the IVF thing, and I’ve got some problems. Some to do with the weight, some not. So in the end it was her egg and some other guy’s wriggler.’

I presumed wriggler was a synonym for sperm and not penis.

‘Now I’m wondering if me not being around, working late—all the stuff Sonia complains about—is because I don’t want to put time into some kid who doesn’t have my genes. I mean, subconsciously.’ He looked at Gene. ‘Like you said.’

‘Shit,’ said Gene. ‘There’s nothing wrong with working hard to earn a dollar.’

‘Funny,’ said Dave. ‘Until you told me about how the gene thing worked, I was afraid that Sonia would leave me. Now I realise I’ve got no more investment in our baby than I have in Dave the Calf. And if she figures that out, then why would she want me around?’

Gene laughed. ‘Sorry, I’m not laughing at you. I’m laughing at the complexity of the whole business. Trust me, Sonia won’t leave you because of that. The great thing about homo sapiens is that we’ve got a brain that can override our instincts. If we want it to.’

I had been so interested in the revelations from George, Gene and Dave—astonishing revelations—that I had not had time to think of one of my own. George saved me.

‘Don told us his bit the other night, when he said he was doing it hard with his marriage. Want to give us an update?’

‘I’m acquiring knowledge of the birth process. I have professional-level expertise on the subject of attachment of babies to same-sex and mixed-sex couples, and the consequent impact on oxytocin levels. And I’m seeing a therapist to review progress.’

‘How’s the relationship?’ said George.

‘With Rosie?’

‘That’d be the one.’

‘No change. I haven’t had a chance to apply the knowledge yet.’

We were all silent in the taxi on the way home. Two thoughts were occupying my mind: Gene’s lies had cost him his marriage. And telling the truth could no longer save it.

When the elevator stopped at my floor, George asked if I had a few minutes to check something upstairs.

‘It’s extremely late,’ I said, although I suspected I would have trouble sleeping. I had not drunk sufficient alcohol to counteract the effects of adrenaline from the excitement of Dave the Calf and, despite reinstating my original bedtime schedule, I had slept erratically since the removal of the mattress.

‘It’ll only take a few minutes,’ he said.

‘The alcohol will affect my judgement. Better to check in the morning.’

‘All right,’ said George. ‘Guess I’ll just do some drum practice to wind down.’

Gene was holding the elevator door open. ‘George wants to talk to you “one on one”,’ he said. ‘That’s fine. Have a drink for me.’

I had no choice but to follow George to his apartment. He poured two large glasses of Balvenie twenty-one-year-old Scotch.

‘Here’s to you,’ he said. ‘I said I didn’t want to be part of a men’s group, but you’ve kept it going. None of us would bother if it wasn’t for you calling up and making us put it in our schedules every week.’

‘You’re suggesting we abandon the group? That I’m the only one benefiting?’

‘On the contrary. I’m just saying that these things need a champion or they drift apart. If it wasn’t for Mr Jimmy, the Dead Kings would’ve been finished thirty years ago. And we’d all be the worse for it.’

I drank my Scotch. I assumed George had delivered his message, but he refilled our glasses. I suspected the second glass would solve the sleeping problem—possibly the standing problem.

‘You know I said I didn’t have any secrets?’ he said.

I nodded.

‘I lied. My son, the one whose birth I didn’t get to. He’s a drug addict. That’s no secret. This is the secret. It was my fault. I caused it. He never even drank, didn’t smoke. He was a jazz drummer. A bloody good drummer.’

‘You consider that some failure in your parenting caused him to take addictive drugs?’

‘It wasn’t his genes, I can tell you that.’ George took a long time to finish his glass of Scotch. I followed the therapist rule and stayed silent. George filled his glass again. ‘I put him onto it. I goaded him into doing it. Told him he was afraid to try things, afraid to grab hold of life. Gene’ll tell you why I did it.’

‘I thought this was a secret. Do you want me to tell Gene?’

‘No. But if you did, Gene would tell you I wanted to bring him down to my level. Unconsciously, I suppose. But not that unconsciously.’

George was now unambiguously distressed. I hoped I would not be required to put my arm—or arms—around him.

‘So there you go,’ he said. ‘You’re the only one who knows, besides me and him. He’s never said a word against me.’

‘Do you require help to solve the problem?’

‘If I did, you’d be the first person I’d ask. Too late for that. I just wanted to tell someone who would see it straight, see it for what it is. If I’m going to be judged, I want to be judged by someone I respect.’ He raised his glass as if in a toast, then consumed its contents. I followed his example.

‘Ta for that,’ he said. ‘I owe you one. If you find a solution for drug addiction, let me know on the way to collecting your Nobel Prize. If I had to put my money on anyone to do it, you’d be my man.’

Our apartment was dark when I returned from George’s. I had unpacked my wet clothes from the garbage bag, brushed my teeth and checked my schedule for the following day when a thought formed. I was compelled to act on it.

Gene was asleep and not happy to be woken.

‘We need to call Carl,’ I said.

‘What? What’s happened? Has something happened to Carl?’

‘Something might. He may begin taking illicit drugs. Due to his mental state.’

Gene had provided an argument, albeit an unconvincing one, for not telling Claudia the truth. But it was obvious that the lie was causing Carl to hate Gene. Hate causes distress, potentially leading to mental and physical health problems. Adolescents are highly vulnerable. It was too late to save George’s son, but we were in a position to save Carl.

‘His mental state is based on an incorrect assumption about your behaviour. You need to correct it.’

‘Save it for the morning.’

‘It’s 2.14 a.m. 5.14 p.m. in Melbourne. Perfect time to call.’

‘I’m not dressed.’

This was true. Gene had been sleeping in his underwear, an unhealthy choice. I began to explain about the risk of tinea cruris but he interrupted.

‘Let’s get it done then. Don’t turn the video on.’

Calculon was online. I connected and she summoned Carl. I remained in text mode.

Greetings Carl. Gene (your father) wants to speak to you.

No thanks. Sorry Don, I know you’re only trying to help.

He has a confession.

I don’t want to hear any more about the stuff he’s done. Goodnight.

Wait. He didn’t have sex with multiple women. It was a lie.

What?

I judged this as the perfect moment to switch to video. Carl’s face filled the screen. He had neglected his shaving, in the manner of Stefan, and looked capable of patricide.

‘What are you saying?’

I punched Gene in the arm in what I considered a traditional signal to speak.

‘Shit, that hurt, Don.’

‘Give Carl the information.’

‘Um, Carl, you should know I didn’t sleep with all those women. I was just big-noting myself. Don’t tell Claudia.’

There was silence. Then Carl said, ‘You’re such a loser,’ and terminated the connection.

Gene began to stand up from the edge of the bath but, doubtless due to intoxication, fell back in on top of my clothes, which had been soaked in bovine amniotic fluid. They did not smell pleasant. Gene did not appear to be hurt, and from my position on the toilet it was easier to let him get out by himself.

Gene’s yell as he fell into the bath must have woken Rosie. She opened the bathroom-office door and looked at us strangely, presumably because of Gene’s attempts to exit the bath and my unfamiliar costume—Ben the Farmer’s trousers were too large for me and were held up by rope. Gene was, of course, in his underwear.

Rosie quickly turned away from Gene and looked at me. ‘Have a good night?’ she said.

‘Excellent,’ I replied. The large mammal delivery represented an important milestone in restoring our relationship.

Rosie did not seem interested in further conversation. Gene fell back in the bath.

‘Sorry,’ I said to Gene. ‘I should not have classified the night as excellent. We appeared to make no impression on Carl.’

‘I think you’re wrong,’ said Gene. ‘He just needs time to think about it.’

I stood up, but Gene had not finished.

‘Don, one day soon you’re going to have a child of your own. You’ll understand how far you’d go to protect your relationship with him or her.’

‘Of course. I encouraged you to make maximum efforts to solve the Carl problem.’

‘Then if you ever work out what I did, I hope you’ll at least understand. Even if you don’t forgive me.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Carl wouldn’t have believed that story coming from anyone but you.’

‘Why aren’t you at work?’ asked Rosie on the Monday morning. It was 9.12 a.m. and she was preparing breakfast for herself. It appeared healthy, which was probably inevitable as the fridge contained only pregnancy-compatible foodstuffs. Her shape was, as expected, changing; it was currently consistent with the diagrams in The Book for the fifth month of pregnancy. I was seeing variations of the world’s most beautiful woman. It was like listening to a new version of a favourite song. ‘Satisfaction’, sung by Cat Power.

‘I’ve scheduled the full day off. To attend the second sonogram examination,’ I said. I had not mentioned it previously in order to maximise the impact of my improved level of participation. A surprise.

‘I didn’t say anything to you about a sonogram,’ said Rosie.

‘You’re not having one?’

‘I had it last week.’

‘Ahead of schedule?’

‘Twenty-two weeks. Like you insisted a couple of months ago.’

‘Correct. Last week was twenty-one weeks and some variable number of days.’ We had agreed: twenty-two weeks and zero days.

‘Fuck,’ said Rosie. ‘I ask you to come and you don’t show up, and now I don’t ask and you take the day off.’ She turned away and filled the kettle. ‘You didn’t really want to come with me, did you, Don? You didn’t come to the last one.’

‘That was an error. Which I wanted to rectify.’

‘Why?’

‘It’s generally accepted that men should attend sonogram examinations. I was unaware of that convention. I’m sorry about the mistake.’

‘I don’t want you to come because it’s generally accepted.’

‘You didn’t want me to come?’

Rosie poured hot water onto a ‘herbal’ tea bag (in fact not herbal but fruit-based and caffeine-free).

‘Don, we’re at cross-purposes. It’s not your fault, but you’re not really interested, are you?’

‘Incorrect. Human reproduction is incredibly interesting. The pregnancy has prompted me to acquire knowledge—’

‘You know, it’s kicking. It moves around. I watched it on the screen. I can feel it when I’m lying in bed.’

‘Excellent. Movement is normally experienced from approximately eighteen weeks.’

‘I know,’ she said. ‘I’m living it.’

I made a mental note to record the information on the Week 18 tile. Gene’s fall into the bath had smudged some of my earlier diagrams, but the recent tiles had escaped. Rosie was looking at me as if she expected something further.

‘A good sign that things are progressing normally. Which the sonogram would have confirmed.’ I was making an assumption. ‘Is everything proceeding normally?’

‘Thanks for asking. All components are in place according to schedule.’ She sipped her fruit tea. ‘You know, they can tell whether it’s a boy or a girl,’ she said.

‘Not always. It depends on the position.’

‘Well, it was in the right position.’

I had an idea. ‘Do you want to go to the Natural History Museum? It will be less busy on a weekday.’

‘No thanks. I’ll do some reading. You go. Do you want to know if we’re having a boy or a girl?’

I could not see how the information would be useful at this point, except to encourage purchasing of gender-specific products, which I was sure Rosie would regard as sexist. My mother had already asked what colour socks to purchase.

‘No,’ I said. I am more competent at interpreting Rosie’s expressions than those of other people, due to practice. I detected sadness or disappointment—definitely a negative response. ‘I’ve changed my mind. Yes. What gender?’

‘I don’t know. They could tell but I didn’t want to know.’

Rosie had engineered a surprise for herself. It solved the socks problem.

I collected my backpack from my bathroom-office. On the way out, Rosie stopped me, took my hand, and put it on her belly, which was now noticeably distended. ‘Feel, it’s kicking.’

I felt and confirmed the fact. It had been some time since I had touched Rosie, and my brain formed the thought of purchasing a triple-espresso coffee and a blueberry muffin. But they were both on the banned substances list.