Prizes

  She continued her interrogation at breakfast.

  “Did your dad ever find out you were really a daring young diver?”

  “Yes,” Adam said, his face revealing some of his deeply repressed sadness. “He was studying the only section of the paper he ever read, and discovered I was competing in the state championships. He showed up with two of his drinking buddies. But they had never been to a meet, and cheered in all the wrong places. It made me so nervous, I dove like a whale and really screwed up my point total.”

  She could tell from his eyes that the memory of his failure still plagued him.

  “After that, all I wanted to do was get the hell away from home. And at that point my only chance was getting an academic scholarship. My grades were better than my diving. Ever hear of Shimer College?”

  “Frankly, no.”

  “Nobody has. But it’s a small, progressive offshoot of the University of Chicago. They believed if you could pass their test, you were ready for college. It was a kind of incubator for premeds anxious to save a few years. I was so keen to be a doctor that I worked as an orderly in Michael Reese Hospital in the summers—which gave me a respectable excuse for not going home. I channeled my anger into studying, and by some miracle I got into Harvard Med.”

  “No doubt with the goal of keeping women from dying of toxemia,” Toni suggested gently.

  “And saving babies,” Adam added. “I was a grand old man of nineteen. I may have been academically prepared, but I was a social misfit. Especially among all those smooth Ivy League graduates who’d never even heard of Shimer. I suppose that’s why I only felt at home with the other lab rats.”

  “Is that how you met Max?”

  Adam nodded. “I finally found a father I respected. While I was finishing my residency in OB/GYN, Max wangled me a research fellowship. He didn’t just teach me immunology, he taught me life. I mean, the first time I was invited to his house for dinner, I knew that Max and Lisl had the kind of relationship that gave marriage a good name.

  “She’s a Kleinian analyst—does wonders with children. They took me under their wing. She introduced me to the late quartets of Beethoven.”

  “They’re really difficult,” Toni remarked.

  “Yeah,” Adam agreed, again impressed by the breadth of her knowledge. “And most especially since I didn’t even know the early quartets.”

  “Do they have any kids?” Toni asked.

  “Me, I guess.”

  “Then you gave them something very special too.”

  “I hope so, and if I ever qualify for the title of human being, it’s because of their generosity.”

  “And?” Toni queried.

  “And now it’s your turn to be up close and personal,” he responded, hoping his candor had eased her own inhibitions.

  But she suddenly pleaded lateness for work, she had to be at the Department of Justice in fifteen minutes. They would talk again that evening. Adam let go reluctantly, half suspecting that she would use the day to rebuild her psychic barricades.

  He was right. It had been like dancing with someone at a costume ball who went home without taking off her mask. And, ironically, though he knew the intimate details of Toni’s life, he knew less than nothing about the woman herself. Indeed, when the time came for him to go back to Boston, he could not resist venting his frustration with a farewell dig:

  “Well, Toni, it’s been nice not knowing you.”

  Naturally, he did not leave until the third blood tests came through. They were—in Penrose’s words—“squeaky clean.” He and Adam agreed that it was safe to tell the patient that his recovery was certain.

  Hartnell was overwhelmed. After spending an hour with his beloved “Skipper,” he summoned Adam for a private conversation.

  “Now you listen, Coopersmith, and listen good. I’ve got a hell of a lot of influence, and thanks to your chief, I’m going to be around to wield it for a long time. I owe him. Now tell me, what would Max Rudolph want most in the world?”

  Adam moved closer to the bed and said almost in a whisper, “The humanoid mouse is just one of Max’s many scientific achievements. I don’t think anyone alive deserves the Nobel Prize more.”

  “No problem,” the Boss murmured.

  5

  ISABEL

  Once more the demons had been awakened in Raymond da Costa. After his son had gone off to school and his wife to work, he was free to nurture his daughter’s genius.

  One of the advantages of his nonacademic appointment in the Physics Department was that he was not obliged to punch a time clock. Therefore, except for his obligatory presence during certain afternoon lab hours, he could build the apparatus for use by the physics professors even late at night if he wished. And, indeed, this freedom was an important aspect of the new regimen he began.

  He was constantly testing Isabel, desperate to see how far the horizon of her intelligence stretched.

  When they were on the floor playing with various blocks, he placed half a dozen of the red wooden cubes in a row, under which he placed another line with three white ones.

  “Isabel, how many red boxes are there?”

  She counted to six cheerfully.

  “How many white ones?”

  “Three.”

  “But how many are there altogether?”

  She pondered for a moment and then answered, “Nine.”

  “I’ve read the books, honey,” Raymond reported that evening to Muriel. “And the association of different colored shapes as a group is a skill they expect from a seven-year-old.”

  Muriel smiled. “Are you sure you didn’t coach her?”

  “Don’t be silly. I’ll let you see for yourself.”

  Isabel had been playing in the living room when he summoned her, and placing a big leaf of drawing paper on the table, wrote:

  6 + 5 =

  She took the paper and immediately scribbled 11.

  Raymond glanced at his wife. “Well,” he remarked with pride, “we have a budding Einstein, don’t we?”

  “No,” she corrected him, “we have a flowering Isabel da Costa.”

  At first both of them took delight in Isabel’s gift. Except now and then Muriel felt a twinge of guilt at the thought of her poor, sweet but ordinary Peter, who was sent off to school every morning like a package.

  This time, having been blessed with a truly gifted child, Raymond intended to encourage her learning as much as possible. He resented having to surrender Isabel to some brainless nursery for three hours each morning. But since her mother insisted that she needed the playtime for her social development, Ray disguised his displeasure and rescheduled his afternoon commitments at the lab.

  He reread Piaget, which made him passionately curious to learn when his daughter’s mind would be capable of making the connection to abstract thought. He devised a simple test.

  “Isabel, I’m picking a number, but I’m not going to tell you what it is. I’ll call it x.”

  “Okay,” she replied enthusiastically.

  He took a piece of paper and scribbled:

  x + 5 = 12

  x = 12 –5

  x = 7

  “Do you understand, darling?”

  “Sure.”

  “Now I’ll write a secret formula: x + 7 = 4 + 11

  “So—what does x stand for?”

  The little girl pondered for a moment and then blithely announced, “Eight.”

  Raymond gaped. She had not merely crossed the threshold of abstract thought, but pirouetted through it like a ballerina.

  From this apocalyptic moment onward, life in the da Costa household changed. Isabel became like a princess in a fairy tale—an almost divine creature guarded by a fierce dragon. And Raymond breathed fire on anyone who dared approach Isabel with the innocent hope of becoming her friend.

  Muriel concurred that their daughter was a prodigy, but was determined that she would not become a freak. She tried to insulate Isabel’s genius with as much normalcy as possible. This int
ensified her confrontations with Ray.

  They were at loggerheads on the question of sending her to elementary school.

  “Elementary school will just hold her back,” he argued. “Don’t you think that would be unfair to her?”

  Yet, at this point, his wife had misgivings. “Raymond, I don’t doubt that Isabel would learn more with you as a teacher. But what’s she going to do about friends?”

  “What do you mean?” he demanded.

  “She needs playmates her own age. That is, if you expect her to grow up to be normal.”

  He did not, as she had feared, lose his temper.

  “Look, honey,” he reasoned quietly. “ ‘Normal’ is simply not an adjective that applies to Isabel. There are no real precedents for someone with her ability. Believe me, she enjoys the time we spend together. In fact, her appetite is insatiable. She can’t seem to learn enough.”

  Muriel did some painful soul-searching. Despite everything, she loved her husband and wanted to preserve their marriage. To continue disputing his every move would put an unnatural strain not only on them, but on both the children.

  It was far from easy, but she realized there was no alternative. Though inwardly angry, she kept a stoic silence when Raymond took the inevitable step and informed the Board of Education that he would no longer send his daughter to school, but was himself assuming full responsibility for her education.

  She simply stayed firm and, despite Ray’s grumbling, enrolled Isabel in grammar school with her peers.

  With the proviso—and with Ray there was always a proviso—that the moment Isabel came home from school, she would be under his exclusive tutelage. With no distractions.

  Of course, Muriel took pride in her daughter’s intelligence. But she was equally aware of Isabel’s ability to relate to children of her own age. She could still discuss Winnie the Pooh with her nursery school classmates. There was only one difference: Isabel had read the book herself.

  Two afternoons a week, Muriel would see pupils at home—children who were learning the rudiments of the violin—sometimes lending them Peter’s long discarded quarter-size fiddle.

  One day Muriel left the violin on the coffee table. And while Ray was grading lab papers and she was preparing dinner, Isabel picked it up. Copying the others she had seen taking lessons, she placed the instrument under her neck, grasped the bow, and scraped it across the strings.

  The result was a raucous screech that brought Muriel from the kitchen to the living room door. There she stopped to observe her daughter without being seen.

  After a few more attempts, Isabel was able to bow an A string, which grew clearer with every stroke. She then began to explore the string with her first finger until she found a B. She did not, of course, know its name, but was satisfied that it sounded right.

  It was not long before her experiments yielded a C-sharp—two steps higher.

  At this point her mother could hide no longer. She entered the room and remarked as casually as she could, “That sounds lovely, dear. Now you can use just those three notes to play ‘Frère Jacques.’ Here, let me show you.”

  Muriel went to the piano and conducted and accompanied Isabel in her melodic debut.

  She was too ecstatic to keep this discovery from Ray. Although he was excited, he was worried that Muriel might now try to seduce the girl into the realm of music.

  “Gosh, that’s fantastic, honey,” he murmured. “Do you realize that she’s not much older than Mozart was when he just picked up the violin and began to play?”

  “I know,” she responded, regretting his allusion.

  “But did you know that he was also a mathematical genius? His father made the crucial decision that someone of his son’s age could never have made.”

  “Which you are now making for Isabel?” she asked.

  “Precisely.”

  “Don’t you think that’s a bit unfair—not to mention presumptuous?” she said, fighting back. “Who’s to say that Isabel couldn’t go further in—”

  Her husband slammed the table and stood up. “I don’t want to hear any more of this,” he thundered. “The girl’s a scientist, and maybe even—yes, I’ll say it—another Einstein.”

  Muriel was incensed. “Did you know that Einstein was also a fine violinist?”

  “Yes, darling,” he answered facetiously. “But it was a hobby, a kind of recreation from his God-given task of explaining the universe.”

  “Am I hearing you right?” she asked, barely able to control herself. “Are you implying the Almighty has decreed that our daughter will become a scientist?”

  “I’m not implying anything,” Raymond shot back. “I’m simply saying that I won’t let anything stand in the way of my daughter’s development. That’s it, Muriel, the discussion is closed.”

  August 10

  There are two invisible people haunting our house, and the way my parents talk about them, you’d think they were members of the family.

  One is “Albert Einstein,” who’s come to mean the same as genius (another word I keep hearing and which makes me very nervous).

  I looked him up in the Encyclopedia Britannica and read that his ideas were so extraordinary that at first people refused to believe them. Dad did his best to explain them to me—apologizing that he himself had trouble understanding some of them.

  But I feel very uncomfortable when he predicts that someday I’ll make these kinds of discoveries.

  Frankly—and I’m almost ashamed to admit this—I’d rather be compared to Brooke Shields.

  If I could have my greatest dream come true, it would be to look like her. People say I already have her cheekbones, and now all I need is the rest.

  Then, when I try to take refuge with Mom in the kitchen, she starts to “chat” about the music.

  That’s where the other ghost comes in. His name is Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart.

  He lived in the eighteenth century and was—as people like to call me and make me cringe—a “prodigy.”

  Mom told me he played in a violin trio with grownups when he was only my age (which makes me seem slow, thank God).

  Dad goes crazy whenever Mom mentions Mozart. And he must have been listening because about half an hour later, when we were practicing Bach’s Air on a G String, Dad came rushing in, all excited, carrying a very old book which describes Mozart covering all the furniture in his house with pieces of paper on which he had written his calculations.

  Fortunately, Mom and Dad came to an agreement that I could do an hour of music a day and—as a special treat—two on the weekends.

  Peter watched them fight without saying a word. Later, he came to my room and said, “Boy, am I glad I’m not smart.”

  By her ninth birthday Isabel was so well-grounded in mathematics that Ray could introduce her to the sacred temple in which he was merely a humble acolyte. He presented her with the same copy of Physics for Students of Science and Engineering by Resnick and Halliday that he himself had used in college.

  She immediately began to read the first chapter.

  “This is terrific, Dad. I wish you had given it to me sooner.”

  Though he was elated by Isabel’s reaction and longed to plunge into physics with her, Ray had apparatus to build for Professor Stevenson that was due the next day. He never used to leave things to the last minute, but he had different priorities now. Recharging himself with black coffee, he set out for the university after the eleven P.M. news.

  He returned on the fringe of morning and wearily turned the key in the lock. He could hear the sound of classical music emanating from the living room. And the lamps were still on.

  Dammit, do they think I’m made of money? he thought to himself.

  He entered irritably, only to find Isabel sprawled out on the living room floor, candy wrappers scattered everywhere. She had propped the textbook against the sofa and was working furiously with a pad and pencil.

  “Hi, Dad,” she called cheerfully. “How are things at the lab?”


  “The same boring stuff,” he replied. Then added, “Shouldn’t you be asleep? It’s almost time for the big bad wolf to knock on your door for morning studies.”

  “I don’t care.” She smiled. “I’ve been having a great time. The problems at the ends of the chapters are really neat.”

  Chapters? How many had she read? He sat down beside her on a hassock and asked, “Tell me what you’ve learned.”

  “Well, since I did the linear motion chapter, I know that acceleration is the first derivative of the velocity.”

  “And what’s the derivative?”

  “Well,” she answered eagerly, “take for example a ball you throw into the air. Its initial speed greatly slows down when it leaves your hand because of gravity, and comes to a stop at the peak height of its path. Then gravity pulls it back down again faster and faster until it hits the ground.”

  Of course, Raymond thought to himself, she’s a quick learner. He knew she had a photographic memory. But how much did she understand?

  He probed carefully. “How come you have all these different speeds?”

  “Oh well,” she volleyed back. “At first the ball gets faster from your upward throw, and it takes time for gravity to determine its speed completely. So the acceleration is the rate of change of the velocity. And that, Dad, is the first derivative. Any questions?”

  “No,” he murmured barely audibly, “no questions.”

  April 20

  Sometimes, when Dad is working really late at the university, Peter taps on my door and we sneak down to the kitchen and raid the fridge. Then we sit and talk about all kinds of stuff.

  He asks me if I miss the “outside world,” so I sort of joke that I see it through a telescope when we do astronomy. But I know what he means.

  He told me that he was going to a summer camp that specializes in soccer.

  I know he’s dying to make the school team, and I think our folks are just great to give him this chance to excel in something I can’t do at all

  He’s so excited at the prospect that every chance he gets he uses our garage door as a goal and kicks the ball against it. Unfortunately, Dad started to notice the scuff marks and really bawled him out.