Miracle Man (11 page)

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

W
hen 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.”

“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

T
he 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.

Uhlman, Vanderslice and Verjee were extremely pleased. With Joe’s guidance, Bobby had not only recovered but was thriving emotionally, and intellectually his powers were continuing to increase.

One day when they were eating dinner in Joe’s favorite Chinatown restaurant, Bobby asked, “So, when you’re not showing me the good life, what exactly do you do with your time?”

Joe laughed. “A variety of things. I read a lot. I tinker with my antique cars and I’m quite active in charitable pursuits.”

“Oh, like trying to make me into a real person?” said Bobby, as he drummed his chopsticks noisily on the table.

“And other things,” replied Joe as he signaled for the drumming to cease. “I try to be philanthropic financially, but I don’t think it’s enough to just write checks. I’m fortunate to have the time—so I like to spend it trying to do some good.”

“Doing what?”

Joe reached for a fortune cookie and broke it open. “Why don’t I take you along so you can see for yourself?”

“I’d like that,” said Bobby as he lined up the paper strips from six cookies and flipped them over repeatedly, comparing the Chinese writing with the English.

The next Saturday, Joe picked Bobby up at the Institute. He drove them to the Boston Children’s Hospital. Opening the trunk of his car, he removed four large plastic shopping bags which were overstuffed with toys and games. Joe handed two of the bags to Bobby.

“Now let’s spread a little happiness,” said Joe.

The elevator door opened on the fourth floor. The sign read, Oncology. They began their rounds. Bobby wasn’t prepared for this. He had never been exposed to the suffering of people afflicted with debilitating diseases, nevertheless children with cancer. As they moved from bed to bed giving out toys, Joe effortlessly kidded around with the patients, but Bobby had trouble holding back his emotions. Joe put his arm around him and took him aside. “Look Bobby. These kids know how sick they are. They don’t need to see that in your face. We’re here to help them feel better—not make them feel worse. So snap out of it. They want you to be happy so you can make them happy. Can you do that?”

Bobby nodded. “I’m going to borrow a pad and some pencils from the nurses’ station.” When Bobby re-entered the ward, he announced loudly, “Who likes comics?”

For the next hour, he went from bed to bed quickly drawing the patients’ favorite characters, and also throwing in caricatures of himself, Joe and the kids. Up till then, Joe wasn’t aware of Bobby’s artistic abilities.

These hospital visits became one of Bobby and Joe’s frequent activities and gradually, Bobby became comfortable with them.

“I wish I could do more,” he said to Joe as they were getting back into the car after a visit.

“Well, you can. You’re in a unique position to do more, a lot more. You have an extraordinary gift. I know you said it freaks you out because you don’t know where it came from, and you feel it possesses you rather than you possessing it—but the bottom-line is that you have it and no one else does.”

“So, what are you saying?” asked Bobby.

“What I’m saying is – it’s not important where your intelligence came from—what’s important is what you do with it.”

Bobby slumped into the passenger seat and stared at the car’s ceiling as he frowned. “Joe—I’m going to wake up one day and it’ll be gone—or I’ll be crazy. I’ll go into one of my trances and never come out.”

Joe grasped Bobby’s forearm and gave it a hard squeeze. Bobby looked at him, his eyes watery. “That’s ridiculous, Bobby. But if you really believe that, it’s all the more reason why you need to make some important decisions sooner rather than later.”

16

B
y age twelve, Bobby had been awarded both bachelor of science and master’s degrees, suma cum laude from MIT, through the Institute’s special interface with the university. At age fourteen, he received a Ph.D in mathematics from Harvard for his ground breaking doctoral thesis on automorphic forms, and at age sixteen, a Ph.D from MIT in astro-physics with a thesis on cosmic neutrinos that stunned the scientific community and started tongues wagging about it being Nobel prize worthy. The role reversal pattern of Bobby’s interaction with his teachers got more pronounced as time went on. His Ph.D oral examinations predictably landed-up with Bobby at the blackboard solving for the examining professors the problems they had been grappling with unsuccessfully for years.

Joe and Bobby’s relationship was life altering for them both. Bobby was the son that Joe had always wanted. He poured his time, affection and wisdom into Bobby who absorbed it all gratefully and returned his love. Though Director Varneys was wary of Joe and referred to him disparagingly as “the hippie,” Uhlman’s selection of Manzini proved to be messianic.