The Rosie Project (Don Tillman #1)(48)

While we were talking, Gene entered. With Bianca! They waved to us then went upstairs to the private dining section. Incredible.

‘Gross,’ said Rosie.

‘He’s researching attraction to different nationalities.’

‘Right. I just pity his wife.’

I told Rosie that Gene and Claudia had an open marriage.

‘Lucky her,’ said Rosie. ‘Are you planning to offer the same deal to the winner of the Wife Project?’

‘Of course,’ I said.

‘Of course,’ said Rosie.

‘If that was what she wanted,’ I added in case Rosie had misinterpreted.

‘You think that’s likely?’

‘If I find a partner, which seems increasingly unlikely, I wouldn’t want a sexual relationship with anyone else. But I’m not good at understanding what other people want.’

‘Tell me something I don’t know,’ said Rosie for no obvious reason.

I quickly searched my mind for an interesting fact. ‘Ahhh … The testicles of drone bees and wasp spiders explode during sex.’

It was annoying that the first thing that occurred to me was related to sex. As a psychology graduate, Rosie may have made some sort of Freudian interpretation. But she looked at me and shook her head. Then she laughed. ‘I can’t afford to go to New York. But you’re not safe by yourself.’

There was a phone number listed for an M. Case in Moree. The woman who answered told me that Dr Case, Sr, whose name was confusingly also Geoffrey, had passed away some years ago and that his widow Margaret had been in the local nursing home with Alzheimer’s disease for the past two years. This was good news. Better that the mother was alive than the father – there is seldom any doubt about the identity of the biological mother.

I could have asked Rosie to come with me, but she had already agreed to the New York visit and I did not want to create an opportunity for a social error that might jeopardise the trip. I knew from my experience with Daphne that it would be easy to collect a DNA sample from a person with Alzheimer’s disease. I hired a car and packed swabs, cheek-scraper, zip-lock bags and tweezers. I also took a university business card from before I was promoted to associate professor. Doctor Don Tillman receives superior service in medical facilities.

Moree is one thousand two hundred and thirty kilometres from Melbourne. I collected the hire car at 3.43 p.m. after my last lecture on the Friday. The internet route-planner estimated fourteen hours and thirty-four minutes of driving each way.

When I was a university student, I had regularly driven to and from my parents’ home in Shepparton, and found that the long journeys had a similar effect to my market jogs. Research has shown that creativity is enhanced when performing straightforward mechanical tasks such as jogging, cooking and driving. Unobstructed thinking time is always useful.

I took the Hume Highway north, and used the precise speed indication on the GPS to set the cruise control to the exact speed limit, rather than relying on the artificially inflated figure provided by the speedometer. This would save me some minutes without the risk of law-breaking. Alone in the car, I had the feeling that my whole life had been transformed into an adventure, which would culminate in the trip to New York.

I had decided not to play podcasts on the journey in order to reduce cognitive load and encourage my subconscious to process its recent inputs. But after three hours I found myself becoming bored. I take little notice of my surroundings beyond the need to avoid accidents, and in any case the freeway was largely devoid of interest. The radio would be as distracting as podcasts, so I decided to purchase my first CD since the Bach experiment. The service station just short of the New South Wales border had a limited selection but I recognised a few albums from my father’s collection. I settled on Jackson Browne’s Running on Empty. With the repeat button on, it became the soundtrack to my driving and reflections over three days. Unlike many people, I am very comfortable with repetition. It was probably fortunate that I was driving alone.

With my unconscious failing to deliver anything, I attempted an objective analysis of the state of the Father Project.

What did I know?

I had tested forty-one of forty-four candidates. (And also several of those of incompatible ethnic appearance.) None had matched. There was the possibility that one of the seven Asperger’s survey respondents who had returned samples had sent someone else’s cheek scraping. I considered it unlikely. It would be easier simply not to participate, as Isaac Esler and Max Freyberg had done.

Rosie had identified four candidates as being known to her mother – Eamonn Hughes, Peter Enticott, Alan McPhee and, recently, Geoffrey Case. She had considered the first three as high probability, and this would also apply to Geoffrey Case. He was now clearly the most likely candidate.

The entire project was reliant on Rosie’s mother’s testimony that she had performed the critical sexual act at the graduation party. It was possible that she had lied because the biological father was someone less prestigious. This would explain her failure to reveal his identity.

Rosie’s mother had chosen to remain with Phil. This was my first new thought. It supported the idea that the biological father was less appealing or perhaps unavailable for marriage. It would be interesting to know whether Esler or Freyberg were already married or with partners at that time.

Geoffrey Case’s death occurred within months of Rosie’s birth and presumably the realisation that Phil was not the father. It might have taken some time for Rosie’s mother to organise a confirmatory DNA test, by which time Geoffrey Case might have been dead and hence unavailable as an alternative partner.