Miracle Man

by William R. Leibowitz

  Joe and Bobby sat huddled next to each other under two deck blankets as Bobby extended his long legs and steered the boat’s wheel with his feet. Silence engulfed them for the remainder of the trip.

  20

  The next few months were intense for Bobby. He buried himself in his biophysics doctoral thesis, working at least eighteen hours a day seven days a week, finishing it two months after that last fateful trip on Dreamweaver. His thesis was considered so ground-breaking, it was published in its entirety in the Cambridge Quarterly Review and became the subject of protracted analsyis, accolades and international academic debate in the scientific community for the next two years. As soon as Bobby finished the document, he left the Institute and moved into Joe’s Brookline house full-time to help care for him. By then, physically Joe was a shadow of his former self. He had lost at least thirty pounds and looked twenty years older. His olive complexion had gone pale and pasty, his face was lined and gaunt, his body appeared small and fragile, and his hands boney with bulging veins like those of an old man. Joe’s elegant master bedroom had been converted into a veritable hospital room, complete with hospital bed, IV drips, vital-signs monitors, respirator, bed pans, and wheel chair. Because of his wealth, he had the privilege of fading away within the dignified confines of his home rather than in a hospital ward or hospice.

  Joe laughed. “You see, Bobby. It always pays to have a few bucks socked away so you can deteriorate in style. There’s no pine disinfectant smell here, linoleum floors, swinging doors or surly orderlies. I’m going out with panache.”

  “I don’t know how you can keep your sense of humor, Joe.”

  “Would I be better off without it?” Joe smiled at Bobby. “I’ve had a fantastic life, son. It could have been longer, but it could have been a lot shorter too. Particularly when I think about some of the crazy stuff I’ve done. I have only one regret.”

  “What’s that?”

  Joe grasped Bobby’s hand. “That I won’t live to see what you can do. What I know you will do.”

  Bobby shook his head and looked down at the floor. “Don’t say that, Joe. I’m a shooting star. Here today gone tomorrow. I’ll be a burnout like most of the others were.”

  Joe squeezed Bobby’s hand as hard as he could. His face reddened and his voice raised, the effort making it raspy. “Oh no you won’t Bobby. You will be what you make yourself be.”

  Bobby looked up at Joe with glassy eyes filled with love. Joe’s voice softened, as did his grip on Bobby’s hand. He smiled and continued, “If you let me down kid, I’ll come back and haunt the crap out of you and then you’ll really know what bad dreams are.” They both laughed, but the interchange seemed to have tired Joe. Bobby held a cup of crushed ice up to Joe’s lips and helped him put some into his mouth to hydrate him.

  The last few weeks of Joe’s life were horrific. He was fed intravenously and was on a constant morphine drip. Drifting in and out of consciousness, he slept most of the time. Bobby sat at his side for hours on end, holding Joe’s unrecognizable hand. He slept on a roll-away bed only ten feet away from Joe. Bobby missed talking to him so much that on a few occasions, he asked the nurse to stop the morphine drip so that Joe would regain consciousness. Bobby soon abandoned that when he saw that without the constant influx of mind numbing drugs, Joe would be in excruciating pain. It was unbearable for Bobby to watch Joe disappear from his life this way.

  “How much longer will this continue?” Bobby asked Joe’s attending physician.

  “We’re very close to the end now, son. His lungs and heart will shut down within twenty-four hours. We’ve done everything we could for him,” responded the doctor.

  Bobby’s eyes were wild. “No, you didn’t. Everybody just let him die. No one helped him.”

  “We did everything that modern medical science can do.”

  “Then modern medical science sucks. It stinks. It’s a big fucking joke. He shouldn’t be dying.” Bobby buried his face against the thin remnant of Joe’s chest.

  “I’ll be back in the early morning. You should then be ready to say your goodbyes. I’ll try to bring him out of it just for a few minutes then,” said the doctor as he packed his bag and made his exit.

  That night Bobby went to the bar in Joe’s library. It was a hand carved, polished mahogany bar, modeled after those found in English pubs. Bobby took two heavy crystal tumblers off the shelf, filled them with ice and generously poured Joe’s favorite single-malt scotch, an eighteen year old Macallan. He took the glasses into Joe’s bedroom, placed one on Joe’s lap as he slept and wrapped Joe’s claw-like hand around it.

  “Joe, I thought you might want a drink. God knows, I need one.” Bobby swallowed the smooth Scottish elixir, and then brought Joe’s glass up to Joe’s lips.

  “I know you can smell this Joe and you’re thanking me right now.” Bobby dipped his index finger into Joe’s glass and traced the scotch on to Joe’s lips.

  “A toast to you, Joe. You’ll always be my captain.”

  The next morning at eight, Joe’s doctor arrived back at the house. It was evident that he wanted to get this over with as quickly as possible and get on with his day. Bobby was annoyed by the doctor’s perfunctory attitude. So is this how it ends for all of us? thought Bobby. Is this all there is? The denouement to the life of an accomplished and loved man is that he just becomes an inconvenience in someone’s busy schedule.

  The doctor disconnected the morphine drip, and then gave Joe an injection. “This will make him lucid but still keep the pain at bay for a few minutes, but then the drip has to go back or he’ll go through the roof.”

  Joe’s eyes gradually opened. He looked at the physician and Bobby.

  “Joe, you don’t have much time,” the doctor said.

  Hearing these words, Joe’s facial muscles tensed and his eyes watered. The sadness of recognition that registered on Joe’s face was an image Bobby knew he would never forget. He stood by Joe’s bedside and bent over and kissed Joe’s forehead as he grasped Joe’s left hand.

  “Joe, I’ve been here the whole time. I never left. I’ve missed you so much.” Joe smiled.

  “Why do I smell scotch?” Joe asked.

  Bobby held up the tumbler so Joe could see it without having to crane his neck.

  “Macallan 18. I’ve taught you some valuable things, Bobby,” Joe said, as he chuckled.

  “Joe, do you remember the soca dance party on Cruz Beach? Wasn’t that amazing?”

  “I remember it like it was yesterday, Bobby. Those girls sure knew how to shake what the good Lord gave them.”

  Joe stiffened and his eyes glared. He bit his lower lip and clutched Bobby’s hand. “We have to put him back under,” said the doctor as he got ready to stab the needle of the morphine drip back into Joe’s IV.

  “Wait,” said Joe as he grimaced in pain.

  Bobby put his face against Joe’s as he cradled Joe’s head in his hands.

  “Joe, thank you for taking me into your life. I’ll love you forever.”

  With difficulty, through clenched teeth and uneasy breathing, Joe’s voice came out as only a weak whisper, “Bobby, don’t forget what I told you. I love you kid.”

  Within seconds after the morphine drip began to dispense its salutary poison, Joe’s eyes went dead.

  21

  Bobby didn’t attend Joe’s funeral. Three weeks after Joe’s death, OSSIS agents found him in a flop-house on Dudley Street in the Roxbury section of Boston. Bobby was disheveled and alcohol sodden. The agents brought him back to the Institute where Vanderslice had him cleaned-up and Verjee began a de-tox program. Uhlman flew to Boston and made arrangements to stay at the Institute for an indeterminate period of time.

  “Robert—what the hell’s going on? You had us all scared out of our wits.”

  Bobby didn’t look at Uhlman.
“I’m responsible for Joe’s death.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You gave me Joe and I let him die.”

  Uhlman shook his head. “Robert, you’re not making any sense.”

  Bobby’s eyes were flat and dull as he looked in Uhlman’s direction, but continued to avoid eye contact. “Joe told me when I was eleven years old that I could make a difference and use my intellect to help those kids in the oncology ward at the hospital, but I didn’t. I just went about my merry way with all the abstract math and science bullshit. That was eight years ago. I could have done a lot in eight years. It might have helped Joe in the end.”

  “You’ve been learning all these years. Gaining the tools, the knowledge. It takes time.”

  Looking down at the floor, Bobby wagged his head. “I could have done something. I waited too long”.

  “You can honor Joe by moving forward productively, or you can chuck it all and fall apart—and then it’s all been for nothing”.

  “I let him down,” said Bobby, barely audible.

  Uhlman walked over to Bobby and gently lifted Bobby’s chin with his large hand so he could look squarely into Bobby’s eyes. “You didn’t let him down. But you will if you destroy yourself with this nonsense.” As Uhlman spoke and he saw no reaction, his voice hardened with frustration. “Now get a grip and stop this self-pitying self-indulgence.”

  The harshness of Uhlman’s tone snapped Bobby out of his torpor. Glaring at Uhlman with startling intensity, Bobby yelled, “You can tell Director Varneys to go fuck himself. I’m done with anything he’s interested in. I’ll do what I want, when I want and how I want. NASA, the NSA and all the generals can figure things out for themselves.”

  Uhlman recoiled and broke eye contact. His shiny shaved head turned crimson and the veins on his right temple throbbed. “If you want to give that message to the director after all he’s done for you, then you can deliver it to him personally. I won’t be your courier. If it weren’t for him and the OSSIS, where the hell do you think you’d be? Do you think you’d have the knowledge you have? The opportunities you have? The facilities you have? Do you think you’d have four Ph.Ds at age 19 from the finest universities in America? There’s something called a ‘happy medium’ Robert—and you need to find it.”

  Bobby shot back, “I don’t have that luxury. I don’t know where this intellect came from and neither do you. It can disappear in a heartbeat for all we know, or I can go insane from my nightmares which get worse every day, or my next trance can last forever, or I can get hit by a car, or drop dead like anyone else can. I’m not going to waste any time while I have what I have. I’m going to find cures for diseases. That’s all I’m interested in. And that’s what Joe wanted.”

  Later that afternoon, Uhlman called Varneys to report.

  His voice low and menacing, Varneys responded, “I knew Manzini would prove to be a problem. I told you so at the outset. He was too liberal. Too much a do-gooder. And he poisoned Austin. He poisoned him, goddammit.”

  “Let Robert cool down for awhile. He’ll mellow out. We should give him some time,” Uhlman replied.

  Varneys voice was strained. “We had the kid in the palm of our hand and we blew it. Damn that Manzini. Filled his head up with all that crap. The kid was subverted in front of us. Now he wants to be Jonas Salk. John, I’m very disappointed in you. This is serious.”

  “Well, what do you want to do?”

  “Bring Austin to me,” ordered Varneys. “The gloves come off now. Either he plays ball and does what we need him to do, or he gets cut-off. I’m not running a chari ….” Uhlman didn’t wait for Varneys to finish.

  “No Orin. Now’s not the time. He’s not himself. He’s overcome by grief. Give him six months. Then we’ll see. There’s no rush.”

  There was silence on the other end of the line. Uhlman wiped the perspiration off his forehead.

  “Did you say ‘no’ to me?” asked Varneys.

  Uhlman’s voice turned honey smooth. “Orin, please. We want this to come out right. Let’s think with a clearer head than Austin.”

  “I’ll listen to you one more time. But I’m telling you that your credibility is wearing thin.”

  22

  Over the next few months, Bobby immersed himself in researching various diseases and the progress that had been made in science’s efforts to find cures. He was dismayed. Tens of billions of dollars had been spent on research and where were the cures? No major disease had been cured in decades. Research seemed to be fragmented, unfocused and uncoordinated, with much duplication of effort, and researchers going off on their own tangents, distracted by forays into matters of general academic interest. Cure research appeared to be a self-perpetuating industry of its own with no sense of urgency but lots of people making a living from it. And more often than not, the thrust was not to find a cure, but to create a treatment—a product that could be sold. Ongoing treatments with drugs rather than cures seemed to be the focal point. Keep selling those pills day after day rather than eradicate the need for them. Was that cynicism or reality? Bobby didn’t know.

  He decided that he would first concentrate his efforts on autoimmune diseases. He digested every treatise, article, analysis and laboratory report he could find. He slept little and worked on average, nineteen hours a day. Armed with an uncompromising sense of purpose, his mind was more focused than ever before. There was to be no respite for him.

  Bobby was once again living at the Institute, but he spent all his time encamped at MIT’s supercomputer labs, the most sophisticated of any university in the world. Five months after Bobby started to research neuromuscular diseases, he sat in his cubicle, head bowed, eyes closed, lost in thought. He had been sitting in the tiny room reading and running analyses on the computer for the past twenty hours straight. Several knocks had come on the cubicle door but Bobby was oblivious to them. Finally, the knocker, an undergrad who was assisting the University administrators as part of his financial aid package, stepped into the tiny office and poked Bobby’s shoulder to get his attention. Bobby swung around, startled. The undergrad apologized for the interruption, but asked Bobby to accompany him to the office of the dean of Graduate Studies, Jeffrey Bowles. When Bobby walked into Bowles’ office, Bowles wasn’t alone.

  “Robert, there’s someone here I want you to meet. An esteemed visitor, and a very good friend of this University. Meet General Aeurbach,” said Bowles.

  The bright autumn sunlight coming through Bowles’ large office windows reflected off the three brass stars on each of the general’s lapels. There were so many multi-colored ribbons on Aeurbach’s chest pocket that it looked like he was wearing a color palette from a paint store.

  Aeurbach smiled, which allowed his crooked yellow teeth to come into view as his thin lips parted. “You’re the one everyone’s talking about, you know.”

  “Who’s everyone?” Bobby asked.

  The general’s pale green eyes became animated. “Everyone is just about every scientist and mathematician who helps us out on problems we’re working on. They say that you’re the one to watch.”

  “I’m not sure I want to be watched.”

  The pasty complexion of Bowles’ pudgy face took on a pink hue as he said reverently, “General Aeurbach has been instrumental in securing tremendous financial support for MIT over the years which has greatly expanded our resources. In fact, the lab that you’ve been working in was funded through the general’s good auspices.”

  “That’s wonderful. Thank you general,” Bobby said.

  “And that’s why it behooves all of us—students and professors alike—- to help the general in every way we can.” Bowles nodded in enthusiastic agreement with himself.

  Aeurbach reached down to the floor and put his briefcase on his lap. This minimal amount of exercise caused his face and nec
k to turn blood red. Opening the briefcase, he removed a folder and said, “And that’s where you come in, Robert. I have here in this file some questions from our mathematicians who are working on a project for us. They seem to be stumped on a few things and could greatly benefit from your input. And then, there’s an equation that our physicists can’t seem to get passed the roadblocks on.”

  Bobby slowly shook his head. “I can’t do that, general. I’m spending all my time on one thing. I can’t get distracted.”

  The general’s eyebrows rose at the unfathomable prospect of being rebuffed, particularly by a twenty year old who had been on a government funded scholarship since he was five. The general’s voice grew louder. “And what the hell might that be? What’s more important than helping your country?”

  “I’m concentrating all my efforts on finding cures for diseses, sir.”

  Aeurbach’s eyes narrowed into slits as he stared at Bobby. “That doesn’t mean you have to be a one trick pony. There’s a lot of hours in a day.”

  Bobby scratched his left temple. “And I’m particularly disinterested in anything that has military applications.”

  “No one is asking you to build a bomb, boy. We just need your help with some arithmetic.”

  “Please don’t patronize me, general. It’s not just arithmetic. It’s those answers that make the applications possible.”

  Aeurbach grimaced and then scrunched up his nose as if there were a bad odor in the room.