Unknown - The Genius

An accent, an inch of waistline, a recalcitrant husband—the problems she fought always had clear and concrete solutions. She likewise approached the problem of the girl with a level head and a steady hand. This, too, was merely another problem to solve; the real question was how. The Home gave her her answer. Dr. Fetchett told them that such a decision was not uncommon, and she took comfort in knowing that she was following a well-beaten path. For every hurdle rising higher.

What she finds so troubling about the latest turns of events, this abomination, is the sense that she has stalled. Or worse—begun to sink. She sees now that the problem of the girl will never be solved, not as long as people have the capacity to reproduce themselves. Family is the problem that recurs.

IN AUGUST, DAVID RETURNS FROM BERLIN. He entertains his parents with stories of his travels, and shares his firsthand account of the rising political turmoil. Louis, who has been following the news closely, speculates about their economic effects. Several high-ranking officers in his Frankfurt branch have been forced out of their jobs, a trend that Louis disapproves of. Jewish or not, they were fine businessmen, and nobody with half a brain can believe that stripping a nation of its most qualified and experienced workers will lead to greater prosperity.

Having left at so young an age, Bertha has no strong feelings about the annexation of Austria or the breaking of synagogue windows, events that she does not regard as having any direct impact on her. She is happy to have her son back, to have the tableau of her life reestablished. Lately, she and Louis have spoken even less than usual, and his willfulness angers her. He has never fought back as hard as he is fighting now.

His chief complaint is that she has not gone to visit the girl. He goes every two weeks. Would it kill her, he wants to know, to show her face?

But she can’t. There are so many reasons why. Somebody needs to stay at home. What if a guest drops by unannounced. They couldn’t both be out of the house, now could they? People would want to know where the Mullers had gone in the thick of summer. The Mullers live fashionably, and what they do influences the whole crowd of Good People. Inquiries would be made; a rumor would ignite. One of them, at least, has to stay behind, and she is the more reasonable choice.

Besides, how could she help? Having been pregnant herself, Bertha knows that it is a highly individualized form of suffering. She knows how to soothe only one pregnant woman: herself. Whereas the doctor has soothed hundreds. Let him do his job.

And most of all she is afraid, afraid of feeling the way she felt for those few short minutes at the Home, afraid of feeling the way she felt during the drive back to New York, afraid of having her heart once again turned upside down.

Would it kill her to show her face?

It might.

One night they are eating when a maid appears with a folded note, which she places on the table. Madam. Bertha is about to scold her for interrupting dinner when she notices that the note has opened slightly, revealing at the bottom the name E. F. Fetchett, M.D. She slides it under the base of her wineglass.

After dinner she sequesters herself in her sewing room.

Dear Mr. and Mrs. Muller—

Kindly request your immediate attention by telephone.

Sincerely,

E. F. Fetchett, M.D.

She picks up the line and asks for Tarrytown four-eight-oh-five-eight.

The doctor answers. In the background there are sounds.

“This is Mrs. Louis Muller,” she says.

“Labor has begun. I thought you might want to know.”

Bertha fingers the phone cord. “Mrs. Muller?” “I’m here.”

“Will you be present for the birth?”

She looks at the clock. It is eight thirty. “Will she last til tomorrow morning?”

“I don’t think so, no.”

“Then I won’t be present,” she says, and hangs up.

THE NEXT MORNING, she orders a picnic packed. She and David spend the day in Central Park.

WHEN LOUIS RETURNS FROM TARRYTOWN late that night, he looks as though he has run the entire distance on foot. His tie is gone, his shirt sweat-stained and missing studs. He goes directly to his suite and shuts the door.

“What’s wrong with Father?”

“He’s ill. Did you have a good time today?”

“Yeah.”

“Excuse me? I didn’t understand that.”

“Yes.”

“Yes what.”

“Yes, Mother.”

“You’re welcome. Who loves you more than anyone else in the world?” “You do, Mother.”

“That’s right. What are you doing after supper?”

“Practicing my violin.”

“And?”

“Reading.”

“And?”

“Listening to the Yankee game.”

“I don’t remember that being on the agenda.”

“Can we put it on the agenda? Please?”

“Practice first.”

“Yes, Mother. May I be excused?”

“Certainly.”

He lays down his napkin. Good boy.

“Mother?”

“Yes, David.”

“Can I visit Father?”

“Not tonight.”

“Will you please tell him that I hope he feels better?”

“I certainly will.”

When he is gone, Bertha lingers at the table, rubbing her temples. The maid asks if she would like anything else.

“I am going to see my husband. I don’t want to be disturbed under any circumstances. Is that clear?”

“Yessum.”

She steps in the elevator and girds herself for battle.

HE ARRIVED IN THE VILLAGE as the heat peaked. The air blurry with gnats, the sweet rot of manure, half-naked children throwing water at one another. The chauffeur steered along the rutted road and forked onto the rural byway leading to the cottage they chose—Bertha chose—their advance halted by a cattleguard and a swing-arm gate that necessitates stopping the car, getting out, opening the gate, driving through, and stopping again to close the gate behind. Louis ordered the chauffeur to leave it open. He didn’t care who might wander in. Let them.

As he stepped inside the cottage, he felt nauseated and dizzy, and his instinct was to reach for his wife’s arm. Since his last visit, the place had been converted into an operating theater. A pile of bedsheets, rank with antiseptic and bodily fluids. The quiet disturbed him: shouldn’t there be crying? Ruth herself barely made any noise as a newborn, and he had always understood that to be symptomatic of her condition. What if her child is the same way? What untold miseries will he endure?

Dr. Fetchett looked cadaverous, although he had only good things to say. The baby was a boy, his heartbeat strong and regular. The mother’s health was excellent; better, in fact, than many normal mothers after a similar ordeal. In the interest of cleaning up, they had moved both mother and child to the neighboring cottage, where nurses were attending to her.

“How is she, is she happy?”

The doctor rubbed his cheek thoughtfully. “Who can say, really.”

They went first to see the baby. Red and squashed and swaddled; black, spiky hair on the top of his head. Utterly ordinary.

Actually, he looked a little like Bertha.

Dr. Fetchett explains that it is indeed possible for a mongoloid mother to have a normal child. “Of course, we can’t say for sure that other problems won’t arise down the line. I say that not to disturb you but because I’m trying to prepare you for any eventuality.”

Louis asked to hold him. In his arms the baby felt like paper.

“Should he be that red?”

“It’s normal.”

At first he is relieved. Normal, normal, everything normal. But the longer he holds the sleeping boy in his arms, the more clearly he comes to see that normalcy is the worst curse of all. If the child is normal, he represents a claim on the estate and a threat to David’s sovereignty. Louis can only imagine what Bertha might do.