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  “You never fail to exceed my expectations, Rosalie,” he said, as if the syllables of my name gave him pleasure. The way he pronounced it—slow and drawn out, twangy, with an impish flair—it was almost like a new name entirely.

  The other infant tests were wrapping up, Curt and I had each embarked on our individual graduate projects, and Watson was eager for something more involving, something that would carry him through the holidays and into the next year, and even more important: something that would make a real scientific mark. He knew he needed the right subject. The pediatric ward had its share of children with significant medical problems (we only rarely used those) and babies born to mothers who couldn’t afford care elsewhere, but those babies usually left the home quickly. Much harder was finding an infant who was normal and healthy but who would stay for months, who could be used for more than one trial.

  Which brought us finally, in early December, after a few less-promising selections and another delay as we waited for the filming expenses to be approved, to “Albert B.” John had come up with the pseudonym—part honor, part joke, a cross between my middle name, Alberta (one letter different from my father’s name), and his own middle name, Broadus. We hadn’t bothered with pseudonyms in most trials, but then again, we usually worked with infants we saw only once. If all went well, we’d work with this particular subject for as long as necessary to prove John’s hypothesis, and we’d be writing about him in considerable detail, not just adding him to checklists and charts. Nine months old, the infant still lived at the home next door because his mother was an on-site wet nurse. It mattered greatly that Albert was suitable, if this work was to be started soon.

  Which brings me to that day, when Albert was new to us, in a month when I was still new to the lab, uncertain of myself, of Watson, of everything.

  “What do you think?”

  “He seems . . . healthy.”

  And then, the return of the camera technician, so we could get started, demonstrating on film that Albert had no fear.

  That day in December, Albert stared, dully at first, at the leashed monkey being dragged in front of his line of vision, and at the rat crawling even closer, toward his legs. Drool glistening on his lower lip, attention focusing, he slowly and finally reached for the rat. As he did, later, for the dog. Even for the small fire kindled in the laboratory pan. I kept my hand just behind his hips, steadying him slightly as he leaned forward or side to side.

  When Watson came close or jumped around, Albert became more still, scrutinizing the big male face that approached and then drew far away, the face that even returned once with a Santa mask. A stolid, imperturbable baby. No tears from our stoic Albert. And also no smiles.

  “What do you think?”

  “He seems . . . healthy.”

  Albert showed only a little curiosity, a little puzzlement. And by the end: simple fatigue. Albert’s head started to nod, chin falling to his chest. He was ready to go back to the ward next door. But not yet.

  “Are you getting all this?” Dr. Watson asked Scottie, the filmographer. I could hear the excitement in his voice and the pleasure of evidence documented, of assumptions confirmed.

  Now, the next step: stimulating a fear response. We tried pulling a blanket sharply out from under Albert, but even when he toppled forward or to the side, he barely responded. I was still more comfortable with animals than babies, but even so, I’d cradled and dangled my share of infants since October, and most of them had broken into tears easily and automatically. Admittedly, most of them were just days or weeks old.

  We yanked and prodded and tried startling Albert, but this baby was stubbornly indifferent. Up until now, it had made our work easier. But I could see from Watson’s concerned expression that a baby who refused to get upset would doom the entire experiment. Fortunately, he had something even more jarring up his sleeve.

  It was my job to distract Albert’s gaze. Behind the infant’s head, unseen, Watson held a steel bar and a hammer. It was not subtle, but we didn’t need subtlety. Watson struck the metal, making a clang so loud it made my molars hurt.

  Albert inhaled sharply and flung his arms upward.

  I distracted him again. Again, from the invisible place behind Albert’s head, the earsplitting clang of steel.

  This time, Albert turned down his lower lip. I stole a glance at Watson, whose eyebrows were furrowed.

  A third time: clang, clang, clang!

  Albert broke into sobs, leaned to one side, and toppled forward, his heavy head leading the rest of his slow-moving body as he tried to crawl away. I exchanged a smile with Watson, both of us momentarily distracted and terribly, unashamedly proud of ourselves. Then came the nearly spontaneous realization that our subject’s terror had put him into full flight. “Come back, come back!” I grabbed Albert around one chubby leg and pulled him toward the center of the mattress, lightly speckled with his tears, while we laughed and congratulated ourselves, our elation too great to be diminished by anything or anyone.

  Chapter 7

  The Volstead Act had passed in October, extending the deprivations of the temporary Wartime Prohibition Act, and in mid-December it must have been—our family’s holidays just starting, and Christmas still over a week away—two of Watson’s old Chicago friends, Robert Tarr and Henry Follett, blew into town. They bounded into the lab, coats dripping, carrying the smell of tangy harbor-front air with them. Outside, streetlights gleamed on damp December pavement, where the barest snowfall had melted earlier that day, yielding again to early winter rain.

  “It’s just dinnertime, John,” Robert said after the boisterous pleasantries had been exchanged. “You’ve got to eat, don’t you? We came a long way, old boy.”

  While Watson made excuses, Robert conferred upon me an unearned wink. I’d been just about to offer to take their coats, but I decided against it and consciously turned back to my work.

  “You got any coffee around here?” Robert said to the room at large.

  John saved me the awkward moment of trying to decide whether I should play the expected hostessing role. “Aw, you don’t want coffee. This time of day it’ll give you the jitters.”

  They went into Watson’s private resting office for just a few minutes. I heard the slide of his bottom desk drawer, which often meant a few inches of the specially permitted rye whiskey was being portioned out. They must have drained their tumblers quickly, because they were back in the main room just minutes later. I was writing up some results and planned to stay late. John’s eye cast about desperately before landing on me.

  “Please, Rosalie,” he said. “That can wait until Monday. Come along.”

  When I started to protest, Henry asked, “You’re not one of those girls who doesn’t eat, are you? Because we know how much girls worry about their figures.”

  But I was already on my feet, heading across the room to grab my overcoat off the hook. “Not this girl, and not this figure.” I made to push my hands into my sleeves quickly, before anyone insisted on helping. “I’m famished.”

  When John smiled at me, I knew I’d said the right thing, especially when he whispered in my ear as we crossed the Hopkins lawn: “Don’t ever let them treat you like a secretary. You’re a researcher, and my right-hand man, even if you’re a woman. They’ll catch on.”

  We walked half a mile to a steakhouse John knew about—a dark place with small sconces set into the papered walls, red leather benches and bulky chairs, dark wood tables, and steak knives already set out on top of each red napkin. After we’d ordered—all the same meal, no need to see a menu, just steak and potatoes, “and if there’s any green vegetable on the plate, I won’t eat it,” Robert informed the waiter, who had already been jeered at for trying to talk them into soup—the volume continued, unabated.

  The rain had started up again just before we’d ducked into the restaurant, and Watson’s uncovered hair—he had a strange aver
sion to hats—was slick, his eyeglasses spotted with steam. He was bent over at the moment, wiping the round lenses with a handkerchief, while Robert and Henry erupted into laughter about some old shared memory of a college prank. When I sensed the presence of a large man behind my seat, leaning over my shoulder to get a better look at John, I thought it was a restaurant employee coming to tell the three men to modulate their voices.

  Suddenly, an unfamiliar hand reached around and clapped John hard on the ear. John whirled and stood, knocking over his own chair. I gasped and struggled to push back my own heavy chair to get clear of the action. Henry was quick thinking and swept the steak knives clear of the stranger’s grasp. We all had a chance to look at the ruffian: not tall, but broad, with a messy black forelock. Mashed nose. Brawny forearms with the cuffs rolled up.

  Next thing, John was rearing back to deliver a punch that connected squarely with the stranger’s cheek. Something cracked, either in the man’s face or in John’s hand.

  The stranger bellowed in agony and then brayed with even greater rage at his sudden imprisonment as John’s two friends—both sailor or longshoreman types, one bald and the other ginger haired—each took an arm and dragged him backward, out of the restaurant. We were left standing around our table, silent and incredulous, the dark restaurant claustrophobic now, the red walls closing in. John picked up the chair, shaking a little as he struggled to slow his breaths. Robert mopped up a puddle of spilled water and righted the salt and pepper shakers. A waiter hurried over, consulting in hushed tones with Henry, while a busboy replaced the silverware that had been swept onto the floor.

  With his left hand covering his ringing ear, John apologized to all of us, “How ridiculous. I’m truly sorry.”

  Then he looked directly to me. “Darling, I can’t bear to think of you going home hungry.”

  Maybe his head was ringing so hard he’d confused me for someone else, like his wife. Or maybe the fright of the experience had laid bare his feelings. Darling. He’d never talked to me that way.

  “Stay and eat,” he said. “Keep these two troublemakers company.”

  Troublemakers? He was the one who had just punched a man. I half-expected police to show up, but none did.

  “I couldn’t.”

  “You will,” he said, dropping several bills on the table, then cautiously pushing his tender arm into his overcoat sleeve. “Or I’ll give you the silent treatment Monday. Scout’s honor. And I can always get a report from Henry later.”

  Robert followed John out the door and helped him get into a taxi, making sure the brute wasn’t waiting out on the corner, before coming back inside. I didn’t want to stay, but I was feeling nauseated and shocked. I’d never actually seen a real fistfight. The sped-up blurry images of that man appearing—just a shadow at first, a looming presence, and then the swinging hand, a wide clenched fist and ropy forearm covered with dark hair—were still playing behind my eyes. I hope I didn’t feel excited, but maybe I did: pulse still pounding in my throat, hands shaking.

  “A little something to settle your nerves?” Henry suggested, and pulled from beneath the table a flask of golden liquor, covertly pouring two inches into my empty water glass.

  When the four steaks were delivered—one of them placed in front of John’s now-empty seat, just next to my overloaded plate—Henry turned to me. “You said you were famished.”

  Now finally, with the relief surging through us and the steam rising out of our potatoes and the red juice pooling under our steaks, we all resumed talking. The two men’s tongues had been loosened ever since their first tumblers of lab whiskey, a sneaky fresh round had loosened them further, and I gratefully joined them, needing to be indignant.

  Of course, the irate stranger had been a cuckold. (A husband or boyfriend of some nurse? Not Essie—she wasn’t even married. Then which one?)

  “Men astonish me,” I said, halfway through my steak.

  “Only men? Women can get pretty crazy, too,” Robert assured me. “John’s love life is proof of that.”

  They looked at each other, then at me. Did I want to know? Of course I did.

  “Mary Ickes,” Henry started.

  “No—Vida Sutton,” Robert corrected him. “She was first. And last.”

  Vida was a University of Chicago student, it was explained to me in gleeful mock whispers, who had refused John’s advances. Mary Ickes was another student, nineteen years old at the time and enrolled in one of his Introduction to Psychology classes, and as legend had it—it was John’s version of the story, after all—she had spent an exam period mooning over him, resigning herself to failure by writing nothing but a love poem into the copy book. When he came to pick up the exams, she handed in her mostly empty pages, blushing.

  I wanted to know: “Did he fail her?”

  “That’s not the point,” Henry assured me. “He started dating her, of course.”

  Of course? So far, I was doing a better job of understanding Washburn’s amoebas and Curt’s rats than understanding John Watson or men in general.

  Mary’s family, including her lawyer brother, Harold, was involved in Chicago politics. The ambitious Ickes clan considered John an uncouth, social-climbing, backwoods Southerner. Perhaps it was the element of resistance that added a forbidden quality to their Romeo-and-Juliet relationship, because Mary and John wed secretly, in the year 1903, the day after Christmas—or maybe it was 1905, Robert suggested, unless that was only the public wedding. The dates were muddled, maybe intentionally so, since eight months after the 1905 wedding, Mary Junior, better known as Polly, was born.

  The story from John, from Mary’s brother, and even from Mary herself years later was that they never should have married in the first place. Vida Sutton thought so, too. She showed up again in Chicago some four years later to say she’d made a mistake by rejecting John and letting Mary have him. Mary’s brother even hired a private detective to report on John’s and Vida’s clandestine meetings. Then Harold Ickes went to the president of the University of Chicago and asked him to fire John. There wasn’t sufficient proof.

  Harold tried to talk his sister into suing for divorce. John considered whether that outcome might be better than the marriage that had soured from nearly the beginning. But other voices, including some of John’s academic mentors, intervened—recommending patience, fidelity, renewal, and commitment to their two young children.

  I nodded silently, glad that Robert and Henry weren’t asking my opinion.

  When John was lured to the East Coast and Johns Hopkins about a year later, it seemed like more than a major career advance, Robert explained. It was also a chance to start over, to let the memories of a scandal fade away, to learn from one’s mistakes. Even John’s white rats at University of Chicago had managed to learn by trial and error, after all.

  “More whiskey?” Henry asked.

  I fumbled in my purse, the alcohol gone to my head, a wad of dollar bills in my hand, the room spinning as I stood.

  “No, no,” Robert protested. “John left plenty. We’ve got the rest covered. Put that away.”

  It was five or fifteen minutes later when Henry said, “Let’s put you in a cab.” His strong hand gripped my elbows, helping me down a small flight of carpeted stairs, out to the street and the cool, blissfully fresh air. “We’ll take you home.”

  “Let’s just stand here for a minute. Air is all I need.”

  I let them find me a cab, but refused to let them come along for the ride, and I could tell this parting of ways was their preference as well. They still had the rest of the evening left, and more anti-Prohibition reveling to do.

  Henry pecked me on the cheek just before opening my taxi door, and he relayed his best wishes to John.

  “You’re a nice girl,” Robert called as the door was closing. “Nicer than most of the ones John finds. Be careful.”

  I woke the next day to a sou
r stomach and a splitting headache made worse by my mother’s insistent shaking.

  “Don’t you remember, Rosalie? One o’clock?”

  “No,” I said, trying to pull free and bury my head in the pillow. “It’s Saturday for heaven’s sake.”

  She let go of my sleeve and went to my closet, where she started yanking dresses from hangers.

  “You did forget. Well you’re not getting out of this at such short notice.”

  “I can’t.”

  “You mean you won’t. A week ago, that would have meant something. But not when the poor boy is already more than halfway to Baltimore.”

  An hour later, fortified by a cup of black coffee and one hard-boiled egg, and wearing a sort of sailor-suit dress that made me look all of fourteen, I was seated in our front parlor, barely listening to the conversation between our guest and my parents, red spots playing across my eyelids when I let them mercifully close for stolen seconds.

  The requisite questions—health and well-being of each sibling, update on his parents’ vacation in France—were ticked off the list, and any moment now, Benjamin Fertig would rise from his seat and invite me out the door, where our chaperone-free date would begin. In the motor car, Benny, whom I’d known since childhood from synagogue and hadn’t seen since my junior year at Vassar, would finally get a chance to turn and look me squarely in the eye, and tell me with a gee-whiz smile that I looked pretty, and now we could finally really get to know each other again, and he’d thought of me a lot since that summer sail two years ago.