Miracle Man Blog Tour
William R. Leibowitz has been practicing entertainment/media law in New York City for a number of years. He has represented numerous renowned entertainers and many entertainment and media notable companies. William has a Bachelor of Science degree from New York University (magna cum laude, Phi Beta Kappa) and a law degree from Columbia University.
William wrote Miracle Man because of its humanistic and spiritual messages and because he feels that in our current times--when meritless celebrity has eclipsed accomplishment and the only heroes are those based on comic books, the world needs a real hero--and that, of course, is Robert James Austin, the protagonist in Miracle Man.
REVERED REVILED REMARKABLE
The victim of an unspeakable crime, an infant rises to become a new type of superhero. Unlike any that have come before him, he is not a fanciful creation of animators, he is real.
So begins the saga of Robert James Austin, the greatest genius in human history. But where did his extraordinary intelligence come from?
As agents of corporate greed vie with rabid anti-Western radicals to destroy him, an obsessive government leader launches a bizarre covert mission to exploit his intellect. Yet Austin’s greatest fear is not of this world.
Aided by two exceptional women, one of whom will become his unlikely lover, Austin struggles against abandonment and betrayal. But the forces that oppose him are more powerful than even he can understand.
“Miracle Man” was named by Amazon as one of the Top 100 Novels of 2015 and one of Amazon’s Top 10 Thrillers for 2015. It’s been an Amazon Best Seller, and a winner of a national Best Thriller award.
I’m looking to do this tour in order to maintain and increase visibility, momentum and sales. The book has almost 650 Amazon reviews with a 4.3 overall rating.
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Excerpt
Prologue
A tall figure wearing a black-hooded slicker walked quickly through the night carrying a large garbage bag. His pale face was wet with rain. He had picked a deserted part of town. Old warehouse buildings were being gutted so they could be converted into apartments for non-existent buyers. There were no stores, no restaurants and no people.
“Who’d wanna live in this shit place?” he muttered to himself. Even the nice neighborhoods of this dismal city had more “For Sale” signs than you could count.
He was disgusted with himself and disgusted with her, but they were too young to be burdened. Life was already hard enough. He shook his head incredulously. She had been so damn sexy, funny, full of life. Why the hell couldn’t she leave well enough alone? She should have had some control.
He wanted to scream-out down the ugly street, “It’s her fucking fault that I’m in the rain in this crap neighborhood trying to evade the police.”
But he knew he hadn’t tried to slow her down either. He kept giving her the drugs and she kept getting kinkier and kinkier and more dependent on him and that’s how he liked it. She was adventurous and creative beyond her years. Freaky and bizarre. He had been enthralled, amazed. The higher she got, the wilder she was. Nothing was out of bounds. Everything was in the game.
And so, they went farther and farther out there. Together. With the help of the chemicals. They were co-conspirators, co-sponsors of their mutual dissipation. How far they had traveled without ever leaving their cruddy little city. They were so far ahead of all the other kids.
He squinted, and his mind reeled. He tried to remember in what month of their senior year in high school the drugs became more important to her than he was. And in what month did her face start looking so tired, her complexion prefacing the ravages to follow, her breath becoming foul as her teeth and gums deteriorated. And in what month did her need for the drugs outstrip his and her cash resources.
He stopped walking and raised his hooded head to the sky so that the rain would pelt him full-on in the face. He was hoping that somehow this would make him feel absolved. It didn’t. He shuddered as he clutched the shiny black bag, the increasingly cold wet wind blowing hard against him. He didn’t even want to try to figure out how many guys she had sex with for the drugs.
The puddle-ridden deserted street had three large dumpsters on it. One was almost empty. It seemed huge and metallic and didn’t appeal to him. The second was two-thirds full. He peered into it, but was repulsed by the odor, and he was pretty sure he saw the quick moving figures of rodents foraging in the mess. The third was piled above the brim with construction debris.
Holding the plastic bag, he climbed up on the rusty lip of the third dumpster. Stretching forward, he placed the bag on top of some large garbage bags which were just a few feet inside of the dumpster’s rim. As he climbed down, his body looked bent and crooked and his face was ashen. Tears streamed down his cheeks and bounced off his hands. He barely could annunciate, “Please forgive me,” as he shuffled away, head bowed and snot dripping from his nose.
1
Edith and Peter Austin sat stiffly in the worn wooden chairs of Dr. Ronald Draper’s waiting room as if they were being graded on their posture by the receptionist. Edith’s round cherubic face was framed by graying hair that was neatly swept back and pinned. Her dress was a loose fitting simple floral print that she had purchased at a clearance sale at JC Penney. Their four year old son, Bobby, sat between them, his shiny black dress shoes swinging from legs too short to touch the floor. Edith brushed the boy’s long sandy hair away from his light blue eyes that were intensely focused on the blank wall in front of him. Peter, dressed in his construction foreman’s clothes, yawned deeply having been up since five in the morning, his weathered face wrinkled well beyond his years. Looking down at his heavy work boots, he placed his hand firmly on Edith’s knee to quiet her quivering leg. When they were finally shown into Draper’s office, the receptionist signaled that Bobby should stay with her.
Ronald Draper was the Head of the Department of Child Psychology at Mount Sinai Hospital. A short portly man in his late forties, the few remaining strands of his brown hair were caked with pomade and combed straight across his narrow head. His dark eyes appeared abnormally large as a result of the strong lenses in his eye glasses and his short goatee accentuated his receding chin. Glancing at his wrist watch while he greeted Peter and Edith, Draper motioned for them to take a seat on the chairs facing his cluttered desk. Draper had been referred by Bobby’s pediatrician when Bobby’s condition didn’t improve.
“Describe to me exactly what you’re concerned about,” Draper said.
Edith cleared her throat. “It started about a year ago. At any time, without warning, Bobby will get quiet and withdrawn. Then he’ll go over to his little chair and sit down, or he’ll lie down on the window seat in the living room. He’ll stare directly in front of him as if in a trance and then his lids will close halfway. His body will be motionless. Maybe his eyes will blink occasionally. That’s it. This can go on for as much as forty minutes each time it happens. When visitors to our house have seen it, they thought Bobby was catatonic.”
Draper looked up from the notes he was taking. “When Bobby comes to, do you ask him about it?”
Edith’s hands fidgeted. “Yes. He says, ‘I was just thinking about some things.’ Then, when I ask him what things, he says, ‘those things I’m reading about.’”
Draper’s eyes narrowed. “Did you say, things he was reading about?”
Edith nodded.
“He’s four, correct?”
Edith nodded again and Draper scribbled more notes.
“Do you question him further?”
“I ask him why he gets so quiet and still. I’ve told him it’s real spooky.”
“And how does he respond to that, Mrs. Austin?”
Edith shook her head. “He says he’s just concentrating.”
“And what other issues are there?”
“Bobby always slept much less than other children, even as an infant. And he never took naps. Then, starting about a year ago, almost every night, he has terrible nightmares. He comes running into our bed crying hysterically. He’s so agitated he’ll be shaking and sometimes even wets himself.”
Draper put his pen down and leaned back in his worn leather chair, which squeaked loudly. “And what did your pediatrician, Dr. Stafford, say about all this?”
As Edith was about to reply, Peter squeezed her hand and said, “Dr. Stafford told us not to worry. He said Bobby’s smart and imaginative and bad dreams are common at this age for kids like him. And he said Bobby’s trances are caused by his lack of sleep, that they’re just a sleep substitute—like some kind of ‘waking nap.’ He told us Bobby will outgrow these problems. We thought the time had come to see a specialist.”
Tapping his pen against his folder, Draper asked Edith and Peter to bring Bobby into his office and wait in the reception area so he could speak with the boy alone. “I’m sure we won’t be long,” he said.
His chin resting in his hand, Draper looked at the four year old who sat in front of him with his long hair and piercing light blue eyes. “So, Robert. I understand that you enjoy reading.”
“It’s the passion of my life, Doctor.”
Draper laughed. “The passion of your life. That’s quite a dramatic statement. And what are you reading now?”
“Well, I only like to read non-fiction, particularly, astronomy, physics, math and chemistry. I’ve also just started reading a book called ‘Gray’s Anatomy.’”
“Gray’s Anatomy?” Draper barely covered his mouth as he yawned, recalling how many times he had met with toddlers who supposedly read the New York Times. In his experience, driven parents were usually the ones who caused their kids’ problems. “That’s a book most medical students dread. It seems awfully advanced for a child of your age.” Walking over to his bookcase, Draper stretched to reach the top shelf and pulled down a heavy tome. Blowing the dust off the binding, he said, “So, is this the book that you’ve been reading?”
Bobby smiled. “Yes, that’s it.”
“How did you get a copy?”
“I asked my Dad to get it for me from the library and he did.”
“And why did you want it?”
“I’m curious about the human body.”
“Oh, is that so? Well, let’s have you read for me, and then I’ll ask you some questions about what you read.”
Smiling smugly as he randomly opened to a page in the middle of the book, Draper put the volume down on a table in front of Bobby. Bobby stood on his toes so that he could see the page. The four year old began to read the tiny print fluently, complete with the proper pronunciation of medical Latin terms. His eyes narrowing, Draper scratched his chin. “Ok, Bobby. Now reading words on a page is one thing. But understanding them is quite another. So tell me the meaning of what you just read.”
Bobby gave Draper a dissertation on not only what he had just read, but how it tied it into aspects of the first five chapters of the book which he had read previously on his own. By memory, Bobby also directed Draper to specific pages of the book identifying what diagrams Draper would find that supported what Bobby was saying.
Glassy eyed, Draper stared at the child as he grabbed the book and put it back on the shelf. “Bobby, that was very interesting. Your reading shows real promise. Now let’s do a few puzzles.”
Pulling out a Rubik’s cube from his desk drawer, Draper asked, “Have you ever seen one of these?”
Bobby shook his head. “What is it?”
Draper handed the cube to Bobby and explained the object of the game. “Just explore it. Take your time—there’s no rush.”
Bobby manipulated the cube with his tiny hands as he examined it from varying angles. “I think I get the idea.”
“OK, Bobby—try to solve it.”
Thirty seconds later, Bobby handed the solved puzzle to Draper.
Draper’s eyes widened as he massaged his eyebrows. “I see. Well, let me mix it up really good this time and have you try again.” Twenty seconds after being handed the cube a second time, Bobby was passing it back to Draper solved again. Beginning to perspire, Draper removed his suit jacket.
“Bobby, we’re going to play a little game. I’m going to slowly say a number, and then another number, and another after that—and so forth, and as I call them out I’m going to write them down. When I’m finished, I’m going to ask you to recite back whatever numbers in the list you can remember. Is that clear?”
“Sure Doctor,” replied Bobby.
“Ok, here we go”. At approximately one second intervals, Draper intoned, “729; 302; 128; 297; 186; 136; 423; 114; 169; 322; 873; 455; 388; 962; 666; 293; 725; 318; 131; 406.”
Bobby responded immediately with the full list in perfect order. He then asked Draper if he would like to hear it backwards. “Sure, why not,” replied Draper.
By the time Draper tired of this game, he was up to 80 numbers, each comprised of five digits. Bobby didn’t miss a single one. “Can we stop this game now please, Doctor? It’s getting pretty monotonous, don’t you think?”
Draper loosened his tie. He went through his remaining routines of tests and puzzles designed to gauge a person’s level of abstract mathematical reasoning, theoretical problem solving, linguistic nuances, and vocabulary. Rubbing his now oily face in his hands, he said, “Let’s take a break for a few minutes.”
“Why Doctor? I’m not tired.”
“Well, I am.”
Taking Bobby back to the waiting room, Draper apologized to Peter and Edith for the long period during which he had sequestered Bobby.
“Is everything alright, Doctor?” Edith asked.
“Why don’t you take Bobby to the cafeteria for a snack and meet me back here with him in thirty minutes,” Draper replied.
When the Austins returned to Draper’s office, Draper had two of his colleagues with him. He advised Peter and Edith that his associates would assist him in administering a few IQ tests to Bobby.
Peter’s eyes narrowed as he looked at Draper. “What does that have to do with the nightmares and trances, Doctor? We came here for those issues - not to have Bobby’s intelligence tested.”
“Be patient, please, Mr. Austin. Everything is inter-connected. We’re trying to get a complete picture.”
Draper and his associates, one a Ph.D in psychology and the other a Ph.D in education, administered three different types of intelligence tests to Bobby (utilizing abbreviated versions due to time constraints). First, the Slosson Intelligence Test, then the Wechsler Intelligence Scale for Children – Revised (WISC-R) and finally, the Stanford-Binet L-M.
By the time the exams were concluded, Draper’s shirt was untucked and perspiration stains protruded from beneath his arms even though the room was cool. He brought Bobby back to the reception area, and took Peter and Edith into a corner of the room, out of Bobby’s earshot. “Your child isn’t normal. Are any of your other children like this?”
2
At 2:00 the next afternoon, Draper stood in the Austin’s living room.
“So, Doctor, what exactly do you want to see? Although, I’m not sure why you need to see anything,” said Edith, her brow furrowed.
“It would be very helpful if I could see Robert’s bedroom and the family room you mentioned, the books in the house, and the items that Robert plays with.”
“And the point of all that, Doctor? How does that relate to why we came to see you?”
“Mrs. Austin, as I told your husband—everything is interconnected.”
First, Edith showed Draper the living room book shelves on which Bobby’s college level text books were piled. Draper examined the stacks of treatises on astrophysics, mathematics and bio-chemistry that Bobby had printed-out from the internet which were strewn on a low table next to the computer. Draper photographed them as Edith described how Bobby would stand, surrounded by open books that he would read in an ongoing rotation, his concentration level so intense that he was oblivious to all household noises and activities.
Then came the family room where Edith showed Draper Bobby’s Lego constructions and explained how in a non-stop frenetic four hours of unbroken concentration, he would construct, without directions or diagrams, Lego projects comprised of 5000 individual pieces that would perfectly replicate the pictures on the Lego box.
As he snapped a few photos of the Lego creations, Draper’s face looked pale. “When did you first notice that your son was –shall we say — precocious?”
Edith smiled. “It started early. Bobby taught himself from the kids’ DVDs that we played on TV while he was in his playpen. He loved when we read to him and showed him pictures. He starting talking at five months, and his vocabulary grew quickly. By eleven months, he was a good speller. When Bobby was one, Peter found out by accident that he could already read, and by fifteen months he was reading and understanding fifth grade level books. At two, he was doing complicated arithmetic, all in his head. He got better at it every day.”
Examining Bobby’s bedroom, Draper thought he was in a college dorm. Open textbooks were piled everywhere. There was a large blackboard leaning against a wall that was covered with what Draper recognized as lengthy trigonometry equations, scribbled in the immature hand-writing of a four year old. Draper snapped a photo. On the floor were a few open boxes of plastic molecule building models—the kind that are used by pre-med students in college organic chemistry classes. Taped to one of the walls was a life-sized color diagram of a male human body which showed every muscle, bone and blood vessel in medical school level detail. In another corner of the room, was Bobby’s little five foot long junior bed with its railroad train-motif headboard, footboard, sheets and pillows, and a teddy bear dressed in a train conductor’s uniform sitting on the bed waiting for Bobby.
As Draper walked around the room taking photos, he almost tripped on some long strings that were tightly taped to pieces of furniture, each string at a different angle from the other, with paper circles of varying sizes hanging from them. He found a ruler and protractor on Bobby’s shelf and measured the angles and relative distances between the cut-out circles and the various strings from which they were suspended. Draper photographed it.
On the credenza, Draper picked up an odd looking home-made contraption that had instructions wrapped around it that were scribbled in a child’s handwriting. “What’s this?” Draper asked Edith.
“It’s a perpetual calendar that Bobby designed. If you follow the directions, it will let you do what Bobby does in his head.”
“What exactly?”
“It lets you figure out the day of the week on which any given date, past or future, would fall. Want to see how it works?” asked Edith.
“I can’t possibly believe that it’s accurate. I’ve never heard of such a thing.” Draper tested it out ten times.
“Robert designed this? When?”
“About a year and a half ago,” Edith replied.
Draper pulled out his camera and took a picture of it.
“Is there anything else I can show you, Doctor?” asked Edith.
“What I’ve seen is quite sufficient. Thank you for your hospitality.”
Several days later, at the Psychology Department’s weekly meeting, Draper said, “This boy, Robert Austin; there’s something unusual happening here. It doesn’t seem possible. But what I’ve recounted to you is fully accurate and not exaggerated, and Doctors Lewis and Mardin participated in the testing of the child.”
Draper then projected onto a screen the photographs he had taken in the Austin house and his list of measurements on the 3-D mobile made from string. Everyone stared at the photo of the mobile.
One of the psychologists said, “This is just a play thing the kid made, nothing more than that. Arts and crafts.” A part-time assistant of Draper, a graduate student in astrophysics, kept looking at the projection screen. He started to type into his laptop as he continued to view the projected photograph. He kept typing, looking at the projection screen, and pressing “enter” on his computer emphatically.
“Doctor Draper, with all due respect, I don’t think that mobile is meaningless arts and crafts. I’ll hook my computer up to the projection screen so I can show you something.” He was able to position on one side of the screen, Bobby’ mobile and juxtaposed on the other side of the screen, a scientifically accurate 3-D extrapolation diagram of the Andromeda Constellation which he had pulled off the internet. He super-imposed one side of the screen atop the other. There was a perfect match. Bobby’s string mobile perfectly represented the Constellation down to the exact degrees of spatial relationships between its components. Silence overtook the room.
3
Draper called Dr. Herman Knoll, the Chancellor of the city’s Board of Education, a recognized authority on gifted children.
“Dr. Knoll, I’ve discovered a highly unusual young boy. I would like the Board’s assistance in verifying the findings that my department has made.”
Knoll said, “I’ve never received this kind of request from Mt. Sinai before, so am I safe in assuming that this situation is really that special?”
“You are, Chancellor. I’m confident your time will not be wasted.”
“OK then. Send me your full report and I’ll review it with my staff. Then we’ll schedule an interview with the boy and his parents, and prepare to conduct our own tests.”
Two weeks after receiving Draper’s detailed report, Knoll called Draper.
“Well Doctor, Robert Austin does seem to be exceptional. But your conclusions appear extreme. Perhaps the Board’s experience over the years has brought us into contact with more highly gifted children than your department has encountered. You know, there are more children who are gifted in mathematics and science than you may think, and photographic memories are not that rare, particularly among the gifted.”
“But Robert isn’t just a child who can do calculations in his head and has a photographic memory. He has theoretical problem solving and mathematical reasoning abilities that are extraordinary, with very high powers of abstraction, conceptualization and synthesis. With all due respect, Doctor, in twenty-five years of being exposed to gifted children, I’ve never met anyone who comes even close to this boy. I’m aware of the differences —and I believe we’re talking here, not about ‘highly’ or ‘exceptionally’ gifted. I believe Robert fits into the category of ‘profound intelligence’ and we know how rare that is Doctor.”
“Coordinate with the parents and my secretary, and make an appointment. We’ll get to the bottom of it and see just how profound this boy really is.”
Dr. Draper didn’t have an easy time with Peter and Edith in getting them to agree to have Bobby tested by Knoll’s experts. But he did prevail, and after Knoll’s tests confirmed Draper’s conclusions, Draper had an even harder time when Knoll brought the Austin case to the attention of Raymond Massey, the dean of the State Board of Regents examiners. Massey wanted his experts to also examine Bobby. Exasperated, Peter told Draper, “Look Doctor. How many people have to test Bobby to confirm what Edith and I have known since he was five months old? My son is highly unusual. That’s obvious. He’s been tested enough. And we still haven’t gotten any answers to the questions we’re concerned about. His nightmares persist and so do his withdrawals. Does anybody care about that? Is anybody testing anything to fix that?”
“Mr. Austin, please. I understand your frustration. But you are asking us to help you with a boy that we are trying to truly understand. Hasn’t it occurred to you that his intelligence and these problems you are concerned about are products of each other—are interconnected in some way? The more we learn about Robert, the more likely we’ll be able to help him.”
Edith piped in, “You know, he’s not a guinea pig or a circus oddity. He’s our son and deserves to be helped.”
Draper nodded. “But we’re not hurting Robert. In fact, I think he somewhat enjoys these tests and interviews. He thinks they’re games. He’s entertained by them. The last thing he said to Dr. Knoll was, ‘So when are you guys going to give me some tough questions?’”
Edith and Peter relented and the experts of the State Regents Board subjected Bobby to six different intelligence tests including those designed for the most rarified levels. Their conclusions were the same as Draper and Knoll. Dean Massey summed it up in his report when he wrote, “The boy’s intelligence defies accurate measurement by any current means of testing. We can only determine Robert Austin’s minimum intelligence—we have no way of measuring its upper reaches—his real intelligence—because he quickly ‘ceilings-out’ on all of our test scales.”
Dean Massey knew what he had to do. In his thirty year career in education, he never had to even consider compliance with Intergovernmental Protocol 329. But it was obvious to him that he had to now. So Massey reported Robert James Austin to the OSSIS (the Office of Special Strategic Intelligence Services), a security agency of the Federal government. The discovery of profound intelligence is considered to be a matter of national security because such people are regarded as rare natural resources.
The director of the OSSIS, Orin Varneys, received from Massey, not only his report with copies of all the testing materials and results, but also the materials of Knoll and Draper. Director Varneys had more experience in these matters than any local or state authority, and he was quick to dismiss hyperbole. Intrinsically skeptical, Varneys was fond of saying, “Genius is a relative term and it’s used too loosely. Every educator and psychologist wants to discover the next Einstein, but we’re still waiting, aren’t we.”
4
The Austin family was enjoying one of their favorite weekend indulgences, a bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken with mashed potatoes, gravy, corn on the cob and coleslaw, when the phone rang. Edith picked it up.
A woman’s voice said, “Is Mr. or Mrs. Austin there, please?”
Edith answered, “Yes, this is Mrs. Austin.”
“Hold on for Director Varneys.”
“Who?”
“Hello Mrs. Austin. Is your husband home?”
“Who is this? Is this a crank call?” replied Edith.
Peter motioned to Edith and took hold of the phone. “Who is this?” he asked with annoyance.
“This is Director Varneys of the OSSIS.”
“We’re not interested in buying anything, and you shouldn’t disturb people on their weekends. I thought that became illegal.”
“Wait—don’t hang up. I’m not selling anything.” Peter slammed the phone into its cradle, and then a few seconds later picked it up and left it lying on its side so it would ring busy.
On Monday morning, an envelope was delivered to the Austin’s house by Fed Ex. No sender was indicated. Edith opened it. It was a letter on engraved stationary with the initials OSSIS at the top and a Washington, D.C. address.
Dear Mr. and Mrs. Austin:
I am sorry we were unable to speak when I telephoned you on Saturday. I can understand that my call was unexpected. I am the director of a U.S. government agency called the Office of Special Strategic Intelligence Services. We are, among other things, in charge of monitoring unusual intelligence assets. We have been advised by Drs. Draper, Knoll and Massey that your son, Robert James, may possibly be of importance to this office.
I can assure you that it is in your son’s best interests that you kindly cooperate with us.
Please call me when you receive this letter.
Very truly yours,
Orin Varneys
Edith did something she virtually never did because Peter didn’t like it. She called him at work. Edith’s voice was shaky as she read Peter the letter and he was annoyed that someone had upset her. Telling her to calm down, he asked her for Varneys’ phone number, which was printed on the letter, and said he’d call him during his lunch break.
When Varneys got on the phone, Peter said, “Mr. Varneys, we received your letter. I’m sorry I hung up on you the other day, but we get a lot of phone solicitations and you certainly sounded like one. What’s your letter all about?”
“Mr. Austin. Let me ask you a question. What’s the most valuable asset that the United States has?”
Peter replied, “A lot of things.”
“No. One thing is the most valuable. Human talent. Superior human talent and intelligence. From this, stems everything—economic dominance, military security, our entire way of life.”
Peter responded, “Well, we’re not the only country with smart people.”
“Exactly my point, Mr. Austin. Many of our competitors have extremely intelligent people. So all we can do is to try to keep ahead. That’s why my agency exists. To identify extraordinary human intelligence. And to nurture and protect it. And that’s why we’re interested in your son.”
“What do you want from us?”
“All we want is to fly you, Mrs. Austin and Robert to Rochester, Minnesota for a few days. All at taxpayer expense, of course. We’ll put you up in the best hotel, deluxe rental car, fine restaurants, everything. It will be a nice respite for you and the family.”
“Why Rochester, Minnesota?”
“That’s where the Mayo Clinic is located. We want Robert to spend some time with a doctor who does work for us there. Dr. John Uhlman. He’s chief of Psycho-Neurological Development at Mayo.”
“More tests on Bobby?”
“I assure you that these will be the last. Uhlman is the biggest expert in the U.S. —-probably in the world.”
“And what happens after that, Mr. Varneys?”
“Well, let’s just take one step at a time Mr. Austin.”
“Is ‘no’ a viable answer here?”
The silence lasted long enough for Peter to think the line had gone dead. Finally, he heard Varneys say, “It really is in your family’s best interests to work with me on this, Mr. Austin.”
5
Peter wasn’t happy about using up a week of his vacation time for a trip to Rochester, Minnesota, but the “Welcome to Rochester” website touted the attractions of the city and the family hadn’t been away together on an “airplane holiday” for two years, so Peter and Edith decided to make the most of it. They were candid with Bobby as to the purpose of the trip, but Bobby was excited by the prospect of the airplane travel and he loved airports. So two weeks after Peter had spoken to Director Varneys, the Austin family sat comfortably ensconced in business -class seats for the first time in their lives. After finishing a glass of red wine, Edith began to feel more relaxed. The alcohol had taken the edge off her apprehension over the trip. It’s all so weird, she thought. Director Varneys and his strange agency. And now the Mayo Clinic. As she grew sleepy from the wine, her head sunk into the pillow. Closing her eyes, she thought back to how it began — a voice-mail on her answering machine a little more than four years ago. The call was from Natalie Kimball, a social worker at the Bureau of Child Health and Welfare Services.
**** **** **** ****
“What did you want to speak to me about?” Edith asked, returning Kimball’s call.
“Mrs. Austin—would it be possible for us to talk in person? I’ll come to you so it won’t be inconvenient. It’s about an important matter.”
“Well, is there a problem? Did something happen to one of our children?”
“Nothing like that. It’s a good thing.”
The next morning at eleven, Kimball arrived at Edith and Peter’s home. A clapboard two story house with a small front yard in a tidy working class neighborhood, the house was built in the late 1930s and had that slightly crooked appearance that befalls old wooden houses as they settle in over the decades. Once through the door, Kimball’s face lit up and she smiled. Although a few years had passed since the last of the foster kids had lived there, the living room walls and shelves still paid tribute to the changing mix of twelve children who had called this house their home over a period of two decades. Sports trophies, academic awards, little ceramic sculptures, watercolor paintings and diplomas from kindergarten through college were on display. Countless games, childrens’ books and other juvenile treasures were piled high in open wooden storage boxes that Peter had built and decorated, which were stuffed into the corners of the room. Hanging in the dining room were numerous framed photos of Edith and Peter posing proudly over the years with each of the twelve foster children they had raised, a veritable time-line of Edith and Peter’s adult lives.
Edith made a pot of coffee and poured two cups as Kimball sat down at the kitchen table. A 44 year old spinster of Norwegian ancestry, Kimball’s frizzy grey strands were brushed tightly back culminating in an unflattering bun which sat like a meatball on her head. She wore no makeup and her face was prematurely aged. Dressing in dowdy clothing that would have been unstylish even if worn by a woman twenty years her senior, Kimball sipped her coffee and got right to the point.
“Mrs. Austin. Edith— if you don’t mind. I need your help. I know that you and your husband really care about kids. That’s so evident as I feel the magic in this house. A wonderful little infant who has had nothing but the worst of luck needs a break. Everyone’s afraid to take him in, but only because of their suspicions.”
“Ms. Kimball, Peter and I are too old to even think of taking in another child, let alone an infant. Pete’s almost sixty. He’s a few years away from retiring. We want to sell this house and move down south where it’s cheaper to live. We just can’t take on the responsibility. It wouldn’t even be fair to the child. Someone else better will come along. You’ll see. Be patient.”
Kimball’s eyes grew watery. “No there won’t. No one will come forward. You’re this baby’s only chance. This is the child that was in all those terrible newspaper articles. You read them—didn’t you? Doesn’t he —- more than anyone else you ever had in this house—-doesn’t he deserve a home?”
Edith’s face drained of color. “Oh my heavens. That poor little boy. Nobody has taken him yet?”
“Not for want of trying on my part. Edith, we can’t let this happen. Please. Think about it and talk to your husband.”
As Edith showed Natalie to the door, she rubbed her hand hard against the back of her neck, her jaw clenched tightly. “I can’t promise anything. Peter won’t like this.”
It was 6:15 in the evening when Peter walked through the front door and did what he always did. He hung his jacket on the wooden coat tree and went into the kitchen to get a cold beer from the refrigerator. But this evening, Edith didn’t greet him when he entered the house. Instead, he found her sitting at the kitchen table drinking a cup of tea with a dour expression on her face. Peter said, “What’s wrong? Why are you sitting here like that?”
“I have to talk to you about something. Sit down please.”
“Can’t it wait for later? I’m tired and I just want to relax and watch some TV before dinner.”
“Peter, do you remember that phone message from a Ms. Kimball at the Bureau of Child Welfare?”
“Did something happen to one of our kids? Did someone get hurt?”
“It’s not that. It’s that we’re not done yet. We’re just not done. Do you remember those horrible articles about that newborn?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, nobody wants him. Ms. Kimball says that we’re his only chance. She’s tried everything else.”
“Edith, we agreed no more kids. We’ve done twelve and we did it well and it was great. But we’re done now. Let someone else step up.”
“I can’t live with myself if we just turn away.”
“You read the articles. You know what the experts said. He’s an accident waiting to happen. That’s why nobody wants him. They’re not stupid. We don’t need our lives complicated like this now Edith. Enough already. Stop feeling that you have to take in every stray.”
Edith replied, “Let’s talk to the pediatrician and get the facts. People say awful things all the time. It doesn’t mean it’s true. Look what they said about Phillip, and look how he turned out. We couldn’t be more proud of him. And nobody was going to give him a chance.”
Peter’s eyes strayed to the dining room and to a photo hanging on the wall of the two of them proudly standing on either side of Philip in his college graduation robe.
“Peter, let’s just look at the baby. You know how we can tell what he’s really like just by looking. Let’s just look. And we don’t have to keep him forever. We can just get him started for a few years. Then, he’ll be older and the stigma will be gone. People won’t be afraid to take him then and we can still retire and move like we said we would.”
“Why are you doing this to me, Edith?” replied Peter as he walked out of the kitchen.
The Austin’s doorbell rang on Saturday at noon sharp. When Edith opened the door, there stood Kimball holding #2764, together with Dr. Edward Drummond, the chief pediatrician of the Bureau of Child Health and Welfare Services, whom Kimball had begged to accompany her. The visitors were led over to the living room sofa.
Edith called down to Peter who was in his basement workshop, “Peter, they’re here. Come up please.”
Peter appeared, his mouth twisted to one side and his eyes aimed at the floor. By this time, Edith was sitting in the easy chair cuddling the baby, and saying “You are such a beautiful baby boy. Just look at you. I never saw such pretty blue eyes on an infant.”
Kimball was beaming. Peter groaned. He pulled up a chair next to Drummond.
“Doctor, I have to be honest with you and I’m asking you to be honest and straight with me. What’s this kid’s health risks? We don’t need a train wreck in our lives.”
Drummond replied, “This baby has had more tests performed on him than an astronaut. He’s fine. Nobody comes with a guarantee, but all this media noise about him is just that—noise.”
Peter shook his head. “Would you take him in?”
“I certainly wouldn’t be afraid to, I can tell you that. Look at him, he’s alert, he’s active. He displays no problem signs.”
At this point in Peter’s life he didn’t want to be a foster parent to any child—and particularly not to an infant. But Peter saw that look on Edith’s face, that glow that had been missing for over three years since their home had become childless. Kids had been Edith’s life for virtually their entire marriage. They were the only thing she was interested in talking about. Children were her calling, her mission. Peter asked Kimball and Drummond to give him and Edith a few moments alone. He suggested that perhaps they’d like to go downstairs and see his workshop. They quickly complied.
“Edith, is this what you really want?”
“He’s so adorable. Look at those eyes. Look how alert he is. Look at those hands and feet. He’s perfect, Pete. We can’t turn him away.”
“Haven’t we had our fill, honey? And diapers and toilet training. Geez, Edith we’re too old for this.”
“I promise you. He’s the last one. He’ll be our lucky thirteen. You won’t even know he’s here. I’ll do all the heavy lifting. You’ll see. We won’t be sorry.”
Peter paced around the living room and then settled into his favorite chair facing out to the front yard. He was silent and just gazed out the window. Then he got up and walked over to Edith. ”We’ll try this out but only because I can see if we don’t, you’ll never forgive me. But at the first hint of trouble—that something’s wrong with him—out he goes. I’m not getting involved in a melodrama with this kid. I’m doing this against my better judgment. So first sign of a problem—we’re done. Is that a deal?”
“It’s a deal.”
“I’m asking you to promise me, Edith. Do we have an understanding between us here?”
“Yes, we do. Now let’s tell them,” Edith replied excitedly.
Peter called down to the basement, and Kimball and Drummond came upstairs. Edith’s voice sounded years younger and her smile almost touched her ears. “Ms. Kimball—how long will it take for you to do the paperwork? I think we still have a crib and a lot of other baby stuff packed away in the basement.”
Kimball’s eyes closed as if she were in prayer. “You two are my angels. God bless you both. What you are doing is…” Her voice broke and her words stopped. She stretched out her arms to their full length as she walked over to the couple. She hugged Edith, who was still holding the infant, and then she hugged Peter. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”
Dr. Drummond said, “Congratulations. I know you won’t be sorry. I have a sixth sense about babies. I’ve seen enough of them that’s for sure.”
Kimball took 2764 in her arms. “I’ll be back with the paperwork tomorrow. Will that give you enough time to put the nursery together?”
“Yes it will,” replied Edith, as her eyes commanded Peter to get started on the job immediately.
As Kimball and Drummond were halfway down the path to their car, she turned and shouted back to Edith, “And don’t forget; you have to think of a name for him so we can put it in the documents.”
When the car pulled away from the curb, Peter muttered under his breath, “Here we go again.”
“What should we name him? I want it to be something special,” said Edith.
All of the twelve kids that they had raised had come to them with names. 2764 was the first child that they would have the privilege of naming. Edith knew that Peter had always wanted a son to be named after him, but given Peter’s expressed reservations about 2764, on reflection she decided against that. The person she had always wanted to memorialize with a son of her own was her older brother, Robert, who had been killed in Vietnam at 19 years of age.
To Peter, the name James was special. He had first become enamored of it as a boy, voraciously reading Ian Fleming novels. “James” signified everything in life that Peter had fantasized about: an exciting career, sophistication, world travel, glamour, being a hero and an indisputable winner. James. That was the name for this infant who had had no luck so far. And so, when Edith and Peter sat down at the kitchen table to eat their roast chicken dinner, it was soon decided. The baby’s name would be Robert James. Robert James Austin. They smiled, kissed, and toasted the choice with their favorite chardonnay that Edith had purchased in the supermarket.
**** **** **** ****
The impact of the airplane touching down at Rochester International Airport jolted Edith out of her recollections and back to the present. As they disembarked, a tall athletically built man about thirty years of age with short blond hair, dressed in a conservative dark blue suit and tie, was standing at the gate.
“Hello, Mr. and Mrs. Austin. And this must be Robert. Welcome to Rochester.”
“How do you know who we are?” Peter asked, his eyes narrowing, as he looked the man over.
“Director Varneys asked me to meet you upon your arrival to be sure that everything went smoothly. I’ll be here for the duration of your stay. My name is Ray McDermott.”
“Where’s our rental car? We’re more than capable of finding our own way to the hotel,” replied Peter with obvious annoyance.
“That’ll be delivered to you at your hotel. Don’t concern yourself. Everything has been taken care of. You’ll be at the best hotel in Rochester and close to the Mayo Clinic. I’m staying there, too.”
**** **** **** ****
When McDermott opened the oversized double-doors to the Austin’s guest room, the two bedroom corner suite glistened. Its living room was three times larger than the Austins’ own, and there was a stunning two hundred seventy degree view of the city from glass walls on all sides.
“I guess when Varneys said the hotel would be nice, he meant it,” Peter said.
“This is amazing,” Edith added.
“Awesome,” Bobby said.
McDermott’s green eyes sparkled. “I know the director will be glad you’re pleased. On the desk, you’ll find a note from him. The concierge will recommend the best restaurants and attractions for you—-just ask—and remember that arrangements have been made in advance so that everything is paid for. You’ll also find Robert’s schedule on the desk, and here’s my card. If you need anything, just call me. I’m in room 317. Have a good day.”
Peter went over to the yew wood desk that stood by the wall of windows. He picked up an envelope addressed to him. The letter was on the same engraved OSSIS stationary as the letter that had been Fed Ex’d to them only two weeks earlier. It read:
Dear Mr. and Mrs. Austin:
Thank you for accepting our invitation to visit Rochester, Minnesota for Robert to meet with Dr. Uhlman. Your cooperation is appreciated. We will endeavor to make your stay as enjoyable and memorable as possible. If during the course of your visit, you have any questions or concerns, please do not hesitate to contact me.
Very truly yours,
Orin Varneys
Director
Edith picked up another envelope from the desk that was labeled “Schedule.” Inside was a piece of paper with the following list:
Monday—-10:00 AM –11:00 AM—-introductory meeting of the Austin family with Dr. Uhlman
11:00 AM-12:30 PM Robert/Dr. Uhlman
12:30 PM-1:30 PM Lunch recess
1:30—-4:30 PM Robert/Dr. Uhlman
The schedule for Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday was the same: 10:00 AM-4:30 PM Robert/Dr. Uhlman, with only a one hour lunch break each day. Friday had only one item scheduled: 10:00 AM—Noon: Austin Parents/Dr. Uhlman
Edith frowned as she showed Peter the schedule. “Well, they sure are intent on getting their money’s worth. Except for today, Bobby hardly has any free time.”
Peter’s face reddened as he took the schedule in his hand and read it. “That’s a hell of a lot of time for them to want a four and a half year old to spend with a shrink.”
“Don’t worry,” said Bobby. “I’ll try to move this grand inquisitor along quickly so we have more time to have fun. It will be fine, you’ll see. I’ll bore him. He’ll want to finish early.”
6
The Austin family arrived at the Mayo Clinic office of Dr. John Uhlman on Monday at 9:45 AM. To be sure that they didn’t get lost on the huge Mayo Clinic campus, McDermott met them in the lobby of the hotel and delivered them to the doctor’s office.
“I’ve never been in a doctor’s office in which we’re the only people waiting in the reception area. It’s so quiet and private,” Edith said to Peter.
“I guess Uhlman isn’t on the HMO list,” said Peter.
Bobby sat contentedly in a corner reading a copy of the New England Journal of Medicine which he found on a table with other publications. At precisely 10:00 AM, Uhlman’s secretary brought the Austin family into Uhlman’s spacious wood panelled office. As they made themselves comfortable on the three leather guest chairs in front of Uhlman’s huge mahogany desk, Peter scanned the diplomas and other framed documents hanging on the wall. A bachelor of science from Dartmouth College, summa cum laude; Phi Beta Kappa certificate; M.D. from Stanford University; Ph.D in Education from Columbia University; Board of Diplomates Psychiatry; Board of Diplomates Neurology.
“Good morning, Mr. and Mrs. Austin. And good morning to you, Robert. It’s a pleasure to meet you all,” Uhlman said. He was a large heavy-set man with a particularly big head that looked all the more imposing shaved and shined as it was. He was wearing a stiffly pressed white lab technician’s coat which gave him the appearance of a butcher in a gourmet meat market, especially since his hands were massive and inelegant. His oversized ears were blood red and protruded prominently and his large nose was flattened as if from a pugilist’s blow. All of these imposing features were incongruous with his small closely-set dark eyes which peered out at the Austins from behind the thick lenses of his glasses.
Sitting on the biggest leather executive chair that Peter had ever seen, Uhlman studiously looked at the Austins, as he said, “Let me explain what we’ll be doing here over the next few days. Robert is a special boy—we all know that. I’m going to spend a significant amount of time engaging Robert in discussions, games and other challenges. I’ve done this many times over the years with other children.”
Peter interjected, “Doctor, do you have Bobby’s records? There are a few items that Edith and I are looking for answers on.”
“I’m very familiar with Robert’s file. I’ll be looking into those areas also. We’re in no rush here. We’ll explore everything.”
“Doctor, I would appreciate it if we could move at a good pace as I’d like to finish early so I can explore Rochester with my parents,” said Bobby.
“We’ll see Robert. We have a lot of ground to cover.”
“Doctor, what exactly are you looking to find out?” asked Edith.
“Mrs. Austin, there is so much that we don’t know about the human mind. Children like Robert provide science with a unique opportunity. With children of this age, before they have been exposed to schools and other social influences, we have an opportunity to explore intelligence in its purest form.”
“Robert, what’s your favorite activity?” asked Uhlman.
“I like to learn about things, doctor,” replied Bobby.
“And what’s your least favorite activity?”
“Sleeping.”
“And what do you spend the most time doing?”
“Thinking,” said Bobby.
“Okay. There we have it. Mr. and Mrs. Austin — Robert and I are going to get started in a few minutes. He’ll be ready to be picked-up each afternoon at 4:30 here in my office. I’ll be seeing you at the end of the week, as you know.”
Uhlman took some time to just look at Bobby. There he sat, all forty-seven pounds of him, feet dangling in his shiny black dress shoes. A cute but unremarkable looking four and a half year old, whose only distinguishing physical characteristic was his striking eyes. He would blend into any pre-school play-room without difficulty. Uhlman tapped Bobby’s thick file. Could this child really be so unusual or was he just another in the ranks of the top one or two percent of the population that psychologists and educators routinely encounter? Why would this little boy be so special—why should he be? From what Uhlman had read, there was no reason to believe that this child had any extraordinary genetic inheritance. He was likely the progeny of, at best, mediocre genetic material—and very possibly sub-medicore. ‘Nature or nurture?’ What populist rubbish, Uhlman thought. There was no ‘nature’ here and no ‘nurture’ either. Bobby’s parents weren’t brilliant avant-garde educators who had devised a revolutionary learning program starting in the child’s infancy. Edith and Peter were ordinary people who provided nothing more than the average home environment. So what was this child? A genetic mutation –like a two-headed horse or a child born with four arms? Uhlman scratched his head, wondering if he should start getting religious. Leaning forward at his desk, he cradled his chin in the beefy palm of his left hand. There was so little that he and the others really understood. The more he studied and the more research he did, the more he realized how little about human intelligence was known.
“Are you aware, Robert, that you’ve caused quite a stir, quite a bit of curiosity among people like me?”
“Yes Doctor, I am.”
“Do you like being the center of attention?”
“I don’t really care but I think it upsets my parents.” “Do you know that you seem to be much smarter than most kids your age?”
“I don’t socialize much with other kids. I spend most of my time alone.”
“And why is that Robert?”
“Because I like to read and figure things out.”
“What scares you, Robert?”
“I don’t like to talk about that.”
Uhlman handed Bobby a Tootsie Roll. Bobby’s face lit-up like a jack-o-lantern.
“Robert, if the distance between two cities is sixty-five miles, how many steps must I take in going this distance, if each of my steps is three feet in length?”
Four seconds later, Bobby answered, “114, 400.”
“That’s correct Robert.”
“And how many minutes are there in fifty-two years assuming that there are 365 days in each year?”
“The answer is 27,331,200 minutes and 1,639,872,000 seconds,” replied Bobby almost instantly.
Uhlman reached for his scientific calculator. He hadn’t previously worked out the number of seconds since that wasn’t part of the question. The calculator confirmed Bobby’s answer. “And what is the cube root of 413,993,348,677?”
“Seven thousand, four hundred and fifty three.”
“Right again, Robert.”
“And what is 98235 multiplied by 73268 and divided by 6482?”
“1,110,652”, Bobby said.
Never in his life had Uhlman experienced what had just transpired. “How do you figure these things out in your head so quickly?”
“The answers just come to me, Doctor.”
“Do you like to do this kind of thing?”
“Not really. It’s kind of boring. I like to do real problem solving—you know, where you have to think a lot and figure something out.”
The calculations that Bobby had just done in his head were amazing, but Uhlman knew that they in themselves were not proof of profound intelligence. Throughout history, there were examples of certain people who had an astounding ability to do highly complex number calculations in their heads within seconds. In fact, some of these individuals were autistic or had various types of learning disabilities, or were what are commonly referred to as “idiot savants.” But what was unusual from a historical perspective, was that Bobby had this staggering calculating ability in addition to all of the other indicia of extraordinary intelligence that were documented in the reports of Draper, Knoll and Massey.
Uhlman then administered tests that were designed to measure a person’s capacity to reason abstractly in mathematics, logic, spatial relationships and linguistics. Uhlman started with exams designed for eight year olds and worked his way up to exams that were given in educational research labs to graduate students at MIT. Bobby’s mind danced through it all and he wasn’t even straining. His energy level was prodigious. He didn’t tire. His ingenuity and accuracy were uncanny. Uhlman had never witnessed comparable powers of focus and concentration. By the time 4:30 came and Peter and Edith arrived at Uhlman’s office to pick-up Bobby, Uhlman was exhausted.
“Are you okay, doctor?” Peter asked.
“Just a bit tired. It was an eventful day. You’ve got quite a boy here.”
“See you tomorrow, Doctor. Think up some good ones for me,” said Bobby cheerfully.
The next day, Uhlman had three of his colleagues join him. He and his crew had compiled a regime of eight different types of intelligence tests including the Stanford Benet Form L-M, the Stanford Benet Version SB-5, the Wechsler WISC SB-IV, and five other exams that were proprietary to the Mayo Clinic that had been especially designed by Uhlman and his staff over a period of years for the purpose of distinguishing among different cognitive levels of the highly gifted. Unlike many IQ tests, these were aimed at measuring abstract and theoretical reasoning abilities and the capacity to rapidly absorb, process and integrate complex concepts. The time period allotted for completion of the eight exams was six hours of total exam time, divided into three sections of two hours each, with a thirty minute break between sections. Bobby finished all eight exams in two and a half hours. Uhlman had never seen anyone read and process complicated directions and questions so quickly. It was as if he were scanning the pages. What Uhlman began to realize was that just as classical music geniuses were capable of running as many as six or seven different complex melody lines in their heads simultaneously and plotting their development and interaction at the same time, Bobby could do this with reasoning problems.
At lunch, Uhlman asked Bobby, “So how do you like these games we’re playing so far?”
“Better today than yesterday, Doctor. More interesting, but a lot of it is pretty obvious stuff. I guess you just want to be sure I can read directions accurately.”
“Well, okay then. What’s something interesting that you did recently?”
“A few months ago, I devised a new table of logarithms using a base of twelve instead of the normal ten. I thought that was fun,” replied Bobby.
“You did that by yourself?”
“Yeah, I’ll show it to you later if you want.”
“Good, I’d like that. I never heard of anyone doing that,” said Uhlman. “Have you ever done anything with the binary system?”
“Sure. I worked 2 to the 80th power. I used my blackboard. When it would fill up, I’d erase it and keep the figures in my head and start filling up the board again.”
“How long did that take?” Uhlman asked.
“About an hour.”
When Uhlman called an early end to the third day’s events, Bobby jumped up and down like he was on a pogo stick. Peter and Edith picked him up at 2:30 and the Austin family headed off to see the sites of Rochester. Uhlman then corralled the senior members of his department for a strategy session.
“Here’s what I want to do now with the Austin boy. He hasn’t studied—and by that I mean taught himself—mathematics beyond advanced algebra and trigonometry. Jesus Christ, that sounds crazy, doesn’t it? Anyway, tomorrow, I want to see if he can somehow solve problems that require knowledge of calculus, number theory, combinatorics and set theory. I think it’s impossible, but I have to find out.”
One of Uhlman’s staff responded, “Doctor, it’s not possible—-that’s why those mathematical disciplines were invented. They’re the only way to solve those kind of problems.”
“Compile a test. I need 20 problems to give Austin tomorrow.”
The following day, Uhlman sat with Bobby and said, “Robert, I know you like challenging games so I have 20 of them here. They’re tough ones and you’ll have to use a lot of ingenuity to figure them out. I want you to take your time, don’t rush, and don’t get discouraged.” Uhlman passed the exam over to Bobby and then walked to the other side of the room and sat down to observe.
“Doctor, is there a blackboard I can use?”
Uhlman went into an adjoining room, found a blackboard, and wheeled it in to the room Bobby was in. He adjusted the legs so that the board was as low as it could go. Bobby stared at the page of questions. Uhlman walked over to Bobby and saw that the boy appeared to be transfixed, his eyes half closed. This trance like state continued for thirty minutes until Bobby grabbed the exam paper and walked over to the blackboard. He wrote #1 and underlined it. Then he began to quickly fill the board with numbers, diagrams and equations, none of which Uhlman could follow. To Uhlman, it all seemed disjointed and fragmented. Bobby worked at an intense pace. As the blackboard became too crowded with Bobby’s notations, Bobby would erase what he had scribbled, and he’d fill the board again. Finally, he triumphantly circled something on the blackboard, put a check mark next to it and then copied the circled item on to the test paper as the answer to problem #1.
This same process continued uninterrupted for three hours as Bobby gradually worked his way through the 20 problems. Uhlman had no idea what Bobby was doing and whether or not the test answers would be correct, but he was astounded by the process and by Bobby’s indefatigable energy level and ability to concentrate. Finally, Uhlman interrupted Bobby and said, “Let’s take a lunch break. You must be tired.”
“No Doctor, I’m not. And I really don’t want to break now. I’m in the middle of this.”
Four more hours went by. Bobby had filled and erased the blackboard fifty-five times. As Bobby worked, Uhlman photographed the notations on the blackboard each time before it was erased. Finally, Bobby wrote his answer to the last problem, number twenty, on the exam sheet and handed it to Uhlman.
“Here it is, Doctor. Now, those questions were really interesting. Is it too late to get something to eat?”
Uhlman tousled Bobby’s hair, and then picked him up in his big arms. Holding him as they walked, he said, “No it’s not too late, little fella. You’re quite a guy.”
Bobby’s face flushed. “What did you just call me? You called me a name. What was it?”
“I called you ‘little fella.’” Bobby’s brow furrowed and he fell silent for a few minutes.
As they headed to the building’s cafeteria, Uhlman gave the exam paper to his assistant. Bobby selected a grilled cheese sandwich, apple juice and cherry Jello with whipped cream. Uhlman poured his fifth cup of coffee for the day.
“So, Robert, why don’t you like to sleep?”
“I often have very bad dreams.”
“What kind of dreams?”
“Very scary dreams. They’re horrible.”
“What happens in these dreams?”
Bobby squirmed in his chair as he looked down at the floor. “I don’t remember them in detail, but often I’m being chased in the dark. Then I fall and I continue to fall endlessly. And there are terrible odors. And people are screaming. And horrible faces are up against me.” Uhlman noticed that Bobby was gripping his spoon so tightly that his knuckles were white.
“Oh, that’s all? I have dreams like that every night, Robert. Don’t let that bother you—-that’s nothing. I thought you had really bad dreams.” Uhlman laughed, and then Bobby did too.
As Uhlman was returning to his office with Bobby for Peter and Edith’s pick-up, he was intercepted by one of his department heads.
“John, can I see you for a moment alone, please?”
Uhlman turned to Bobby and said, “Robert, you know where to go—through that door and you’ll see your parents in my office. I’ll be right there.”
“What’s up, Bill?” asked Uhlman.
“The twenty questions on the exam. He got them all correct.”
“I want a meeting with full staff in one hour. Tell everyone it’s going to be a late night,” said Uhlman.
7
The next morning at 8:30, Uhlman called Orin Varneys.
“Orin, I think we’ve hit the mother lode,” Uhlman said.
“What do you mean?”
“The Austin boy. I’ve never seen anything like it. He makes the kids at the Institute look like they’re retarded. I don’t think there’s ever been someone like this.”
“This could be what we’ve been waiting for,” said Varneys.
“He’s not even five years old yet. All of his growth is ahead of him. There’s no telling what he’ll be capable of,” said Uhlman.
“What’s the kid’s IQ?”
“I had the whole department work on it for days and we used computer extrapolations, but it doesn’t get us anywhere. We can’t get any kind of accurate figure. There’s nothing to compare him to. So it’s just a guess. But if you have to have a number, I’d say a minimum—and I stress the word –minimum—of 550.”
“That’s impossible. The highest ever on record—and that was presumed exaggerated—was 300.”
“That’s what I’m telling you, we’re dealing with a first here,” replied Uhlman.
“Is there any downside that you can see?”
“He suffers from very intense recurrent nightmares. That’s unusual in a child of his age. I’ve also witnessed him withdraw into a prolonged semi-conscious state which could be indicative of a proclivity to reality detachment.”
“Nightmares. What’s he afraid of?” asked Varneys.
“It’s hard to pinpoint, but he exhibits paranoid characteristics. All in all, he may be in the early stages of psychosis or dementia. It’s way too early to tell. It depends on how he develops. But a mind that powerful can not only create. It can also destroy.”
“Destroy what?” asked Varneys.
“Destroy himself,” replied Uhlman.
“When are you going to speak to the parents?”
“In about an hour. We have a meeting scheduled.”
“John, we can’t let this one get away. Make this happen.”
**** **** **** ****
Right on schedule, Peter and Edith walked into Uhlman’s reception area at 10:00 Friday morning for their “summation” meeting with him. Ray McDermott was taking Bobby around town to explore Rochester. It had been a pleasant holiday for them, staying in the luxurious hotel suite, ordering room service, watching the latest movies on “pay per view,” and eating at the nicest restaurants in the city.
“Well, where should I begin?” said Uhlman, folding his large hands and leaning forward in his chair. My staff and I subjected Robert to a battery of examinations, which were beyond rigorous. I would say unprecedented. And let me say that Robert was patient, polite, cooperative and in excellent humor throughout the process. He’s a real trooper, your boy. A delightful child.”
“It’s lovely to hear you say that,” said Edith, beaming.
Uhlman leaned further forward and tapped his desk with his forefinger for emphasis as he spoke. “The results of the exams are nothing short of astounding. Robert is like the Grand Canyon; he’s one-of-a-kind. I don’t believe there has ever been anyone who possesses the magnitude of raw intelligence that Robert has.”
“How can that be?” asked Peter as he shook his head from side to side.
Uhlman sat back in his chair. “Frankly, we don’t know. There’s no plausible explanation for something like this. The more we study human intelligence, the more we realize how little we know.”
“Well, what does that mean in practical terms?” Peter asked.
Uhlman handed Peter and Edith a sheet of paper. “Here’s a list of some of the great geniuses in history and their actual tested IQs, or comparative-history determined IQs, based on Catharine Cox’ renown analysis. These are widely accepted in the scientific community as being accurate.” Edith and Peter read the names and the corresponding number:
William Sidis: 300
Johann Von Goethe: 225
Leonardo da Vinci: 225
Kim Ung-Yong: 210
Nathan Leopold: 210
Hypatia: 210
Christopher Langan: 210
Emanuel Swedenborg: 205
Gottfried Leibniz: 205
Francis Galton: 200
Michael Kearney: 200
John Stuart Mill: 200
Hugo Grotius: 200
Thomas Wolsey: 200
Michael Grost: 200
Isaac Newton: 190
Albert Einstein: 180
Uhlman continued, “Now, in comparison, Robert’s IQ is so high that we here at Mayo can’t accurately quantify it, and Drs. Draper, Knoll and Massey reached the same conclusion. And I have to tell you, if you’ll excuse the immodesty, that my staff and I are at the pinnacle of expertise in the field of intelligence measurement.”
“Do you have any idea?” asked Peter.
“We can only begin to estimate Robert’s minimum intelligence. This we put at 550-600, but I’m confident that this is inordinately minimized. Now in IQ terms, every fifteen points higher is a standard deviation off the mean, which means that a 200 or 300 point differential in IQ between Robert and the highest person on the list, William Siddis, represents not just twice, but a quantum leap in the intelligence level. A veritable different species altogether.”
“How could this happen? It just doesn’t make any sense,” Edith said.
“We don’t know. My guess would be some kind of genetic mutation. We’re running DNA analysis from a piece of Robert’s hair.”
Peter shifted uneasily in his chair and pulled at his pants. “Doctor—is this a good thing or is there a dark side here for our son?”
“That’s a very good question, Mr. Austin.”
“The good, of course, is that Robert enjoys his intellect, as you know. He has an insatiable thirst for knowledge and loves to be challenged mentally. His potential is unlimited,” Uhlman said.
“And the bad side?” Edith asked, sitting rigidly, her back straight and her hands pressed tightly together.
Uhlman intertwined the fingers of his massive hands in front of him as he looked squarely at Peter and Edith. “Well—there are a few things. So far, Robert has been sheltered from society. He hasn’t attended school and he hasn’t been exposed to the media. So he has been able to thrive in the private sequestered environment that you’ve created for him. That will come tumbling down the moment Robert steps foot in school. That will be the beginning of the pain and hurt for him. The isolation, the frustration, and the taunts.”
“What are you talking about? He’ll be the star in school.” Peter flicked his right hand as if to brush away Uhlman’s comment.
“That’s not how it works, Mr. Austin. There are hundreds of treatises written on the subject. Robert will suffer mightily in a normal academic and social environment.”
Peter’s face was now red and his voice had grown louder. “Let’s change gears here for a moment. Did you investigate what we originally went to Dr. Draper for in the first place? The nightmares and trances?”
“Yes I did. Let me give you some background. Children who have exceptional intelligence also have what are called “Overexcitability Factors”. These were first identified and classified by the famed Polish psychiatrist, Dr. Kasimierz Dabrowski, who recognized five dimensions in which gifted children showed greater than normal psychic intensity. He called these intensities, OE’s—which are heightened levels of awareness and sensitivity to various stimuli. The greater the intelligence level, the more pronounced the OE. This has been proven in countless case studies. Robert, being of extraordinary intelligence, is also prone to extraordinary levels of OE. Of the five types of OEs, the two that are most relevant to Robert’s nightmares and trances are the ones which Dabrowski designated as “Imaginational” which are characterized by inventiveness, the ability to visualize clearly, dreaming, daydreaming, fantasy and magical thinking; and “Emotional”—an intensity of feeling and susceptibility to depression, anxiety and loneliness.
I believe that these OEs explain Robert’s problems. However, the ramifications are uncertain. He’s too young. Only time can tell.”
“What do you mean?” Peter asked.
“I had several discussions with Robert about his dreams. They evidence strong paranoia and irrational fears. That, coupled with the trances, points to the possibility of early stage dementia or psychosis, perhaps even schizophrenia,” Uhlman said.
“Oh, my God. Not my baby. Not my beautiful boy,” said Edith, her eyes instantly welling up with tears and her hands clenched together.
Uhlman walked over to them, pulled over a chair and sat down close as he bent forward. “Don’t assume the worst. There’s an equally good chance that as Robert matures, he’ll outgrow these problems and cope very well. We just don’t know. But one thing I can tell you is that a negative environment will exacerbate the problems and cause Robert to withdraw more and more, maybe to the point of no return.”
“This is awfully dismal. What do you suggest?” Peter asked.
“I heartily recommend that you place Robert in a special program that we have developed for extraordinary children.”
“Who is ‘we’?” Peter asked.
“The Mayo Clinic under my guidance and the OSSIS, working in conjunction with MIT and Harvard University. I’m talking about a private educational facility, by invitation only from Director Varneys. It’s called the Institute For Advanced Intelligence Studies. All costs are fully covered. It’s an education and social environment tailor-made for the most brilliant children in America.”
“Where is this school?” asked Edith.
“Newton, Massachusetts -- just outside of Boston. That gives the students easy access to MIT and Harvard, but at the same time gives them their own sixty acre private campus. It’s gorgeous. It’s the finest for the finest. Even the school food is delicious.”
“I wonder how Robert would do there?” asked Edith.
“Even there, he will stand-out prominently and dwarf all the other students. But the Institute’s as good as you can get. It’s the closest he’ll ever come to fitting in.”
Peter shifted in his chair, cocked a foot against the floor and glanced at the door. “Ok Doctor. Thank you for all of this. But we can’t make any snap decisions. And we’re also going to have to talk to Bobby.”
Uhlman’s voice was firm. “Think carefully about what I said—and do some research on the subject. I can promise you that no ordinary school—public or private-can handle Robert appropriately. And home schooling for a child of his resources is out of the question. Perhaps you should consult with Ms. Kimball.”
Hearing her name, Peter shot an icy glare at Uhlman as he took that to imply that he and Edith lacked final authority on the decision. Rising from his chair, Peter extended his hand to Edith signaling that she should do likewise.
“Thank you for your time,” said Peter, as they exited the office.
