“Did I cause any embarrassment?”

Rosie had been concerned that I might make inappropriate comments during our tour of the World Trade Center site. Our guide, a former firefighter named Frank, who had lost many of his colleagues in the attack, was incredibly interesting, and I asked a number of technical questions that he answered intelligently and, it seemed to me, enthusiastically.

“You may have changed the tone a bit,” she said. “You sort of moved the attention away from the emotional impact.” So, I had reduced the sadness. Good.

Monday was allocated to visiting popular tourist sights. We had breakfast at Katz’s Deli, where a scene for a film called When Harry Met Sally was shot. We went to the top of the Empire State Building, famous as a location for An Affair to Remember. We visited MoMA and the Met, which were excellent.

We were back at the hotel early—4:32 p.m. “Back here at six thirty,” said Rosie.

“What are we having for dinner?”

“Hot dogs. We’re going to the baseball game.”

I never watch sports. Ever. e reasons are obvious—or should be to anyone who values their time. But my reconfigured mind, sustained by huge doses of positive reinforcement, accepted the proposition. I spent the next 118 minutes on the Internet, learning about the rules and the players.

On the subway, Rosie had some news for me. Before she left Melbourne, she had sent an email to Mary Keneally, a researcher working in her field at Columbia University. She had just received a reply that Mary could see her tomorrow. But she wouldn’t be able to make it to the Museum of Natural

History. She could come Wednesday, but would I be okay by myself tomorrow? Of course I would.

At Yankee Stadium we got beer and hot dogs. A man in a cap, estimated age thirty-five, estimated BMI forty (i.e., dangerously fat), sat beside me. He had three hot dogs! e source of the obesity was obvious.

e game started, and I had to explain to Rosie what was happening. It was fascinating to see how the rules worked in a real game. Every time there was an event on the field, Fat Baseball Fan would make an annotation in his book. ere were runners on second and third when Curtis Granderson came to the plate and Fat Baseball Fan spoke to me. “If he bats in both of these guys, he’ll be heading the league on RBI. What are the odds?”

I didn’t know what the odds were. All I could tell him was that they were somewhere between 9.9 and 27.2 percent based on the batting average and percentage of home runs listed in the profile I had read. I had not had time to memorize the statistics for doubles and triples. Fat Baseball Fan nevertheless seemed impressed and we began a very interesting conversation. He showed me how to mark the program with symbols to represent the various events, and how the more sophisticated statistics worked. I had no idea sports could be so intellectually stimulating.

Rosie got more beer and hot dogs and Fat Baseball Fan started to tell me about Joe DiMaggio’s “streak” in 1941, which he claimed was a uniquely odds-defying achievement. I was doubtful, and the conversation was just getting interesting when the game ended, so he suggested we take the subway to a bar in Midtown. As Rosie was in charge of the schedule, I asked for her opinion, and she agreed.

e bar was noisy and there was more baseball playing on a large television screen. Some other men, who did not appear to have previously met Fat Baseball Fan, joined our discussion. We drank a lot of beer and talked about baseball statistics. Rosie sat on a stool with her drink and observed. It was late when Fat Baseball Fan, whose actual name was Dave, said he had to go home. We exchanged email addresses and I considered that I had made a new friend.

Walking back to the hotel, I realized that I had behaved in stereotypical male fashion, drinking beer in a bar, watching television, and talking about sports. It is generally known that women have a negative attitude to such behavior. I asked Rosie if I had offended her.

“Not at all. I had fun watching you being a guy—fitting in.”

I told her that this was a highly unusual response from a feminist but that it would make her a very attractive partner to conventional men.

“If I was interested in conventional men.”

It seemed a good opportunity to ask a question about Rosie’s personal life.

“Do you have a boyfriend?” I hoped I had used an appropriate term. “Sure, I just haven’t unpacked him from my suitcase,” she said, obviously

making a joke. I laughed, then pointed out that she hadn’t actually answered my question.

“Don,” she said, “don’t you think that if I had a boyfriend, you might have heard about him by now?”

It seemed to me entirely possible that I would not have heard about him. I had asked Rosie very few personal questions outside the Father Project. I did not know any of her friends, except perhaps Stefan, who I had concluded was not her boyfriend. Of course, it would have been traditional to bring any partner to the faculty ball, and not to offer me sex afterward, but not everyone was bound by such conventions. Gene was the perfect example. It was plausible that Rosie had a boyfriend who did not like dancing or socializing with academics, was out of town at the time, or was in an open relationship with her. She had no reason to tell me. In my own life, I had rarely mentioned Daphne or my sister to Gene and Claudia or vice versa. ey belonged to different parts of my life. I explained this to Rosie.

“Short answer, no,” she said. We walked a bit further. “Long answer: you asked what I meant about being fucked up by my father. Psychology 101— our first relationship with a male is with our fathers. It affects how we relate to men forever. So, lucky me, I get a choice of two. Phil, who’s fucked in the head, or my real father, who walked away from me and my mother. And I get this choice when I’m twelve years old and Phil sits me down and has this ‘I wish your mother could be here to tell you’ talk with me. You know, just the standard stuff your dad tells you at twelve—‘I’m not your dad, your mother, who died before you could know her properly, isn’t the perfect person you thought she was, and you’re only here because of your mother being easy, and I wish you weren’t so I could go off and have a life.’”

“He said that to you?”

“Not in those words. But that’s what he meant.”

I thought it highly unlikely that a twelve-year-old—even a female future psychology student—could correctly deduce an adult male’s unspoken thoughts. Sometimes it is better to be aware of one’s incompetence in these matters, as I am, than to have a false sense of expertise.

“So I don’t trust men. I don’t believe they’re what they say they are. I’m afraid they’re going to let me down. at’s my summary from seven years of studying psychology.”

is seemed a very poor result for seven years of effort, but I assumed she was omitting the more general knowledge provided by the course.

“You want to meet tomorrow evening?” said Rosie. “We can do whatever you want to do.”

I had been thinking about my plans for the next day.

“I know someone at Columbia,” I said. “Maybe we could go there together.”

“What about the museum?”

“I’ve already compressed four visits into two. I can compress two into one.” ere was no logic in this, but I had drunk a lot of beer, and I just felt like going to Columbia. Go with the flow.

“See you at eight—and don’t be late,” said Rosie. en she kissed me. It was not a passionate kiss; it was on the cheek, but it was disturbing. Neither positive nor negative, just disturbing.

I emailed David Borenstein at Columbia, then Skyped Claudia and told her about the day, omitting the kiss.

“Sounds like she’s made a big effort,” said Claudia.

is was obviously true. Rosie had managed to select activities that I would normally have avoided but enjoyed immensely. “And you’re giving her the guided tour of the Museum of Natural History on Wednesday?”

“No, I’m going to look at the crustaceans and the Antarctic flora and fauna.”

“Try again,” said Claudia.