Miracle Man

by William R. Leibowitz

  Uhlman was unequivocal. “Robert’s mind is a finely tuned mechanism that we don’t understand at all. We can’t risk polluting it. Meds are problematic enough on ordinary people, and I’m not going to involve him in an analytic therapy that might open a pandora’s box in his head. You’re not aware of it—and you don’t need to know the details, but this child has a dark history.”

  11

  The sun reflected off the hard packed snow on the side of the highway. Peter sipped coffee from his travel mug as he steered the old Toyota Corolla while Edith passed him a donut.

  Edith was beaming. “Bobby’s going to be so surprised to see us.”

  Peter smiled as he accelerated to pass a slower car, his head bobbing to the country music on the radio.

  Edith’s eyes sparkled. “He’s doing so well at the Institute. I guess we made the right decision after all.”

  His mouth too full of donuts and coffee to respond, Peter nodded his head enthusiastically as he navigated the car around a bend in the road.

  Edith patted Peter’s knee. She loved to see him so happy and relaxed. He glanced over and smiled.

  “Oh my.” Edith’s voice sounded like she had seen the face of God. Her words stopped mid-sentence.

  12

  Harvard Yard was barren, unwelcoming and monastic on a nasty March day. Frozen sleet pelted the ground as Bobby looked out the window. Sitting in the office of the head of the astrophysics department, Bobby was bored as he read a pre-publication draft of the professor’s latest article. The inaccuracies were so evident to Bobby. They jumped off the page. Eager to be done with this task, Bobby made his corrections quickly, circling formulas and equations that he knew were wrong and scribbling revisions, as he had done many times in the past for his teachers. The renowned scholar sat next to Bobby, craning his neck to look at what Bobby was doing to his treatise, and asking Bobby to explain so that he understood what he had done wrong. That was the part that Bobby disliked the most, as it always took a lot of time for them to comprehend what he was saying. There was a knock at the door as Jason Winterthur, the dean of Harvard, walked in. A reprieve, Bobby hoped.

  “Professor, can you please give Robert and me a few minutes?”

  “Of course. No problem. I’ll go get my nineteenth cup of coffee. Maybe then I can keep up.”

  Once they had privacy, the dean said, “Robert, I just received word.” The dean placed his hand on the eleven year old boy’s shoulder as he softly said, “Your parents have been in a car accident. Apparently, they were on their way here to visit you. A trailer truck jack-knifed and slammed their car head-on. The officers said they died instantly. I am so sorry, Robert.”

  Bobby’s face drained of color as he crumpled to the old wooden floor. He lay there on his side sobbing and gasping for breath. Dean Winterthur knelt over him. As the pitiful sounds of the child resonated through the vacuous halls of the Jefferson building, students and professors rushed into the room to see what was going on. Despite everyone’s efforts, Bobby was inconsolable. He lay there crying for fifteen minutes, and then he was gone, silent. The Harvard medics rushed the unconscious boy to Massachusetts General Hospital. Dean Winterthur called Dean Vanderslice who politely chided him for not having had Bobby brought to the Institute’s own medical facility. Vanderslice called Uhlman who called Director Varneys.

  Varneys slammed his fist against his desk as he barked at Uhlman, “I want Austin out of that public hospital immediately. This is outrageous. Get him back to the Institute now.”

  “I’ll see how quickly I can get him released,” said Uhlman. “Mass General has strict protocols.”

  “I’ll take care of it myself,” Varneys snarled. “Meanwhile, get Vanderslice over there and tell her to take security with her. I don’t want anybody at that hospital touching Austin.”

  Within one hour of Uhlman’s hanging up the phone, Bobby was in an ambulance heading to the Institute, accompanied by Vanderslice. Four security guards followed in a black Lincoln Navigator. Bobby still had not regained consciousness. Via webcam, Uhlman supervised Bobby’s installation into a heavily equipped hospital room at the Institute. As he did this, he called Director Varneys.

  “We have him back now,” Uhlman said.

  “Now what the hell happened?” asked Varneys.

  “You remember we discussed Professor Dabrowski’s Overexcitability Factors and how the magnitude of those are directly proportional to intelligence?”

  “Yes, of course I remember,” replied Varneys.

  “Two of those OE’s came into play when Robert got the news of his parents’ death. ‘Psychomotor’ and ‘Emotional’. He was overcome. His mind just shut him down.”

  “When will it power him back up again?” asked Varneys.

  Massaging his forehead, Uhlman was hoping he could keep his headache from escalating to a migraine. “I don’t know. But I can tell you that this will have consequences.”

  Varneys face reddened. “Well, it’s your job to minimize them. The boy’s officially now a ward of the federal government. He’s in our hands. I’m having his background records sent to me. They’ll be sealed.”

  Dr. Uhlman, Dean Vanderslice, and three professors accompanied Bobby to his parents’ funeral. The twelve other foster children that Edith and Peter had raised were all there, as were their spouses and children, many friends, neighbors, Peter’s co-workers and Natalie Kimball. The Austin’s church, an unpretentious wood frame building with worn gray carpets and pews badly in need of refurbishment, was full. Because the accident had been so catastrophic, the caskets were closed. Never had Bobby felt so alone, except in his nightmares.

  As Kimball listened to the eulogy and stared at Bobby, her mind drifted back eleven years. She remembered how she had visited him at least once a day in the orphanage, usually on her way to work. She could still visualize him lying in a tiny crib in the cavernous ward, one in a triple- line of identical metal cribs numbering over fifty. Mantra like, Kimball had repeated to the infant, “Don’t worry. I won’t let anyone hurt you.” She recalled her conversation with Dr. Drummond of Child Welfare Services after he had completed his examination.

  “The good news is that the little boy —#2764— is a healthy baby who’s about two weeks old. Some antibiotics are needed as a precaution, but he’ll be fine.”

  “Wonderful,” Kimball replied. Is there any way you can speculate on what hospital he was born in?”

  “Well, that’s easy. I don’t have to speculate. He wasn’t born in any hospital. He didn’t even have a professional home birth. This kid was born the old fashioned way.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “There’s no question about it. His lungs are congested by the presence of amniotic fluid due to the absence or improper administration of pulmonary suctioning following birth and the umbilical cord was left several inches too long when it was cut.”

  At the end of the memorial service, Kimball came up to Bobby. “ I’m sure you don’t remember me Robert, but I just want to say that I’ve heard so much about your accomplishments and I’m very proud of you. I’m so sorry that we meet again under these circumstances.” Bobby stared at Kimball, his mind racing to recognize her. The face didn’t look familiar, but he recalled the voice. Just as he was about to start a conversation with her, Uhlman nodded to the two security guards who had accompanied them, and they ushered Bobby off to a waiting limousine.

  Since his parents’ death, Bobby had changed. He had become quiet, withdrawn, taciturn and joyless. His quick light-hearted banter and precocious sarcasm were gone. As the ensuing months rolled by, it was evident to everyone around him that he was suffering greatly. Dr. Verjee did his best to try to draw Bobby out and comfort him, but the boy had erected a barrier around himself, a fence to insulate himself from any more hurt. He buried himself ever more deeply in his work and it became his r
efuge. Most nights, the grad students in the adjoining bedroom heard him quietly crying. His trances became more frequent and lasted longer. Dr. Uhlman became increasingly concerned.

  “Orin, I’m worried about the Austin boy,” Uhlman said.

  “He’ll get over it. Everyone does. He’s still working, right?”

  “That’s not the point. He’s not headed in a good direction. Don’t forget his proclivity for reality detachment. He could shut down and check out, period. We have to do something affirmative,” Uhlman said.

  “What do you propose?”

  “We need to bring someone into his life who can rejuvenate him, help him get his spark back. His joie de vie. Someone who can be a surrogate parent, who he can relate to.”

  “I’m not starting up with any more foster parents if that’s what you have in mind,” replied Varneys.

  “What I’m thinking of, is to find him a mentor. Someone on a high intellectual level that he can relate to — not just another professor, someone who would spend real time with him and bring him back to the world of the living.”

  “I’ll support that in principle as long as that person keeps him focused where we want him, and doesn’t waste time. I don’t need some boy scout here. And I don’t want anybody who’s going to fill his head with nonsense.”

  “Let me work with one of your programming people and the database and I’ll see what I can find,” said Uhlman.

  “Okay, but remember our priorities.”

  Uhlman made a list of the key search criteria. The OSSIS data banks were among the most comprehensive in the nation, and within fifteen seconds of the programmer’s pressing “Enter,” Uhlman had a list of prioritized names and contact details.

  13

  Uhlman handed a thick red file to Joseph Manzini as they sat in the study of Manzini’s rambling Tudor style house in Brookline, a Boston suberb not far from the Institute.

  “Dr. Manzini, I can’t leave this file with you as its contents are highly confidential, so please read through it now. Take your time, I’m not in a rush. That will give you the background on what I’m here to discuss,” said Uhlman.

  Joseph Manzini was of Northern Italian ancestry. Standing five feet ten inches tall and of average build, he had an olive complexion and short black curly hair that was neatly coiffed behind a receding hair line. His nose was too prominent and imperfectly formed for him to be considered handsome but a broad smile illuminated his face and his warm brown eyes twinkled playfully. At 58 years old, his outgoing, high-energy personality was what one would expect in a matire’d at a fashionable bistro, rather than a renown bio-chemist. Manzini had risen to a prominent position in a major pharmaceutical company by virtue of his brilliant discoveries. Tired of corporate politics, he resigned from the company at forty-six, cashing-out hundreds of thousands of highly appreciated stock options that he had accumulated over twenty years on the job. His retirement was derailed when he was quickly recruited by Tufts University to chair its bio-chemistry graduate school program. Manzini held this position for nine years but then left so that he could spend all his time caring for his ailing wife. She passed away when he was fifty-six from Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis— Lou Gehrig’s disease.

  Manzini put on his reading glasses and began to read the reports of Dr. Draper, Chancellor Knoll, Dean Massey, Uhlman, Dean Vanderslice, Dr. Verjee, and lengthy assessment letters from six renown MIT and Harvard professors (all of whom Manzini knew personally). An hour later, Manzini scratched his head, sat back and let out a deep sigh.

  “This is incredible. Absolutely incredible. Hard to believe, in fact. But I guess this had to happen sooner or later. Einstein times 10. Thank God you found him. But what does this have to do with me?” Manzini asked.

  Uhlman leaned forward in his chair and looked intently at Manzini. “Robert has always had serious issues. You read my report. But since his parents’ death, I’m afraid he’s extremely vulnerable to a complete breakdown. He’s alone. He needs someone. He needs a mentor, someone with special qualities. We think that man is you.”

  Manzini’s eyes narrowed as he stood up and walked toward the bank of windows that overlooked an impressive garden with a large pond. Gazing at the ducks swimming serenely on the rippling surface of the water, he seemed oblivious to Uhlman’s presence. Finally, after a few minutes, he turned around and said, “This is all fascinating, Doctor, but I’m retired. I’m not looking for a job.”

  Uhlman’s eyes locked with Manzini’s. “This isn’t a job. It’s a unique opportunity to help a remarkable boy. You have no children, Dr. Manzini. Robert has no father. You can make your mark here. Who knows what affect you might have? Surely, he’s worth your time. And needless to say, a handsome salary has been authorized.”

  The words were barely out of Uhlman’s mouth when Manzini shot back, “I don’t need the money and I’d never accept a fee for doing something like this. God, if he ever found out, it would be devastating.”

  Manzini’s attention shifted to a framed photograph of his wife that sat on an antique credenza across the room. He walked over, picked it up and seemed to space out as he recalled her tireless good works. After awhile, he put the photo down. Taking a seat next to Uhlman, he leaned over the coffee table and picked up Bobby’s file and flicked through it again for over a quarter hour. “There has to be chemistry or it won’t work. I’ll agree to meet the boy.”

  Uhlman smiled. “Let me mention just one more thing. This is a long-term commitment. Robert can’t get close to someone again, only to have them leave. So if you were to accept, you’d have to be in it for the long-haul.”

  Manzini nodded.

  “Good. I’ll arrange a meeting for you with him tomorrow at the Institute. He’ll be most comfortable there—it’s been his home for the last six years. But remember, the boy you’ll meet is a shadow of the real Robert James Austin. It’s going to be your job to bring him back.”

  Still holding Bobby’s file, Manzini shook his head. “If I do this, I’m not going to do it to bring him back to what he was. I’ll do it to move him forward —know that before you give me the job.”

  14

  When Manzini met Bobby he immediately sensed the child’s extreme isolation. His despair and loneliness were apparent to him. Perhaps Manzini was particularly empathetic since only two years earlier, he had fallen into the abyss of depression when his wife passed away. Bobby could barely make eye contact with him. Manzini suggested to Uhlman that he leave the two of them alone while they took a walk.

  “Can I call you Bobby? Robert sounds so formal,” Manzini said.

  Bobby didn’t look up from the ground. “Sure. My parents called me Bobby. No one else does.”

  “I know how much you miss your parents.”

  Bobby glared at Manzini. “Why would you say that? You didn’t know them and you don’t know me.”

  Manzini’s face paled. “That’s true. But I know how much I miss my wife—and I know how it felt when she died two years ago—-and it still hurts now.”

  Pools of pain stared back at Manzini. Bobby kicked at the gravel path. “It hurts so much I can’t bear it. I can’t get away from it,” Bobby said almost in a whisper.

  “Don’t try. It’s supposed to hurt. That’s what love is.”

  The intensity of the gaze coming from the eleven year old’s piercing blue eyes seared Manzini. He had never felt anything like it.

  Finally, Bobby said, “So what are you? A philosopher, a motivational speaker or one of Director Varneys’ spooks?”

  They began to walk through the gardens, and now Bobby was looking at Manzini and not the ground.

  Pulling a leaf from a tree, Manzini twirled it between his fingers. “Well, I’m none of those things. I’m just a guy who grew up in a housing project in Roxbury and studied his butt off so one day I could own a fancy sailboat.�
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  “And do you own one?” Bobby asked, a small grin on his face.

  “You’ll have to see for yourself. But now it’s my turn to ask some questions. What’s your favorite music?”

  “I don’t really listen to music. I don’t have the time,” Bobby replied.

  Manzini shook his head and pursed his lips. “Well, that’s going to change in a hurry. And who are your four favorite painters?”

  “I don’t have any.”

  Manzini raised his eyebrows in an exaggerated manner. “There’s another thing that’s going to change real quickly. And in theater—-do you prefer comedies or dramas?”

  “I’ve never been to the theater.”

  “This is getting ridiculous,” said Manzini as he stopped walking, put his hands on Bobby’s shoulders and said with mock seriousness, “I’ve got my work cut out for me here. So, tomorrow we start. And by the way, call me, Joe.”

  15

  The wind blew through Bobby’s sandy brown hair as Joe’s vintage fifty-five foot sailboat, Dreamweaver, arced its course through the choppy waters of Boston’s North Shore coast. Joe guided Bobby in the principles of sailing and Bobby gladly assumed the role of first mate, as Joe’s state of the art sound system bathed them in a continuous stream of Joe’s favorite music from all genres. They munched on tuna and chicken salad sandwiches as the sun beat down on them and Joe regaled Bobby with funny anecdotes and his philosophic insights. Joe had brought Bobby shopping bags full of his favorite works of literary fiction which Bobby would read curled-up at night in his cozy state room. While Bobby could devour a thick math or science tome in an hour with total mastery of its contents, he would slowly savor the opuses of the literary greats. Sleeping on board the boat and awakening with Joe to greet the dawn was one of Bobby’s favorite activities. The smell of eggs and bacon frying and coffee brewing as the boat sailed in the Atlantic with no land in sight freed Bobby’s spirit. This, and frequent visits with Joe to art museums, concert halls and the theater were gradually transforming Bobby. They spent every weekend together, and usually saw each other at least once during the week, animatedly discussing philosophy, comparative religion, history and the arts—-everything other than science and math. In short order, Bobby became a veritable art scholar as he quickly absorbed hundreds of volumes of art history and analysis. Joe purchased an Ipod for Bobby and subscriptions to the best download and web streaming services, and from then on, Bobby was never without earphones as he explored jazz, world music, classical, R&B, blues, rock, pop, hip-hop, folk and every other genre of music he could find. Bobby had embraced life as never before and was developing, under Joe’s tutelage, into a multi-dimensional sophisticated and well-rounded adolescent.