Mead turns and marches off in the direction of the courtyard, more determined than ever to clear things up with Mr. Weinstein, to keep Herman from getting even one ounce of credit for something he has not earned.
The door to the courtyard is open. Mead steps through it and finds Mr. Weinstein sitting on the stone bench next to the koi pond, still smoking. He thinks how different the man is from his own father, who goes to bed every night at ten. Who never sits at the head of even his own table. Who has never once made Mead feel guilty that he chose college and mathematics over undertaking and furniture. Who seems not the least bit interested in seeking greatness of any kind. Whose very livelihood has undoubtedly destroyed any possible notion of immortality. And he wonders which is harder: to have a bitch as a mother or a sonofabitch as a father?
Mr. Weinstein looks up. “Mead,” he says. “I see that we suffer from the same affliction: insomnia.”
“Oh, I don’t suffer from insomnia, sir. I have a clear conscience.”
“And what do you mean by that, Mead? Are you implying that I don’t?”
“What? No, sir.” Mr. Weinstein is twisting around Mead’s words, making it sound as if he means something he does not. But this shouldn’t surprise Mead. Herman does the same thing. Mead can see now that the apple has not fallen too far from the tree. “I didn’t mean it that way, sir. I just meant —”
Mr. Weinstein laughs. An affected laugh. Just like Herman. “Relax, Mead, I’m just teasing. So tell me, what rouses a young man such as yourself —one with a crystal-clear conscience —out of sleep in the middle of the night?”
“I’m glad you asked me that, sir, because the thing is, I wanted to talk to you about something that was said at the dinner table tonight, an impression that somehow got made that is incorrect. I don’t want to point any fingers. I don’t want to overstep my boundaries and make assumptions for which I have no proof. Let’s just suffice it to say that you seem to be under the misconception that —”
“You talk just like him, you know.”
“Excuse me, sir?”
“Einstein. He also had this rambling, roundabout manner of speaking. Never quite getting to the point. It happens a lot with geniuses because their minds work faster than their tongues. I met him once, you know. Einstein. Has Herman ever told you that story?”
“No, sir. I’m sure it’s quite interesting, sir, but I came out here to —”
“I was eight and had my own paper route. I used to carry the newspapers in this little red wagon of mine. So I’m out doing my rounds one morning when I pass this crazy old man with wild white hair who’s talking to himself, having a conversation with someone who isn’t there. Anyway, when he sees my wagon full of papers, he picks one up, hands me a dime, and keeps going. And the whole time he just keeps talking to this person who isn’t there. Well, I was too afraid to say anything but now I’m worried because I know that when I get to the end of my route I won’t have a newspaper for Mrs. Bechtel. Only she doesn’t get mad; she laughs and says, ‘Don’t you know who that was? Why that was Mr. Albert Einstein. Hold on to that dime, son, it’s been touched by the hand of greatness. It may hold special powers.’ ” Mr. Weinstein looks at Mead. “You know where that dime is now?” he asks, but before Mead can respond, he answers the question himself. “I had it framed and gave it to my son.”
My son, he says. Singular case. As if he has only one. Mead does not ask Mr. Weinstein which son he is referring to because he’s pretty sure he already knows. The answer as obvious as all those awards and trophies and photographs sitting on all the fireplace mantels.
“But I’m sorry, Mead,” Mr. Weinstein says, “I interrupted you. You said you came out here to tell me something, to clear up some matter from supper. Please go ahead. I’m all ears.”
Mead stands up. “It was nothing, sir. I just wanted to thank you for having me to your house. Thank you,” he says and ducks back into the house. As Mead passes by the study on the way back to his room, he notices that the TV has been turned off, the room now empty. He wonders if Herman overheard any of the conversation Mead had with his father. If he stood in the shadows and said to himself, “See, Fegley, I told you my dad was a prick, do you believe me now?”
A SEAT BELT FEELS WOEFULLY INSUFFICIENT when you are hurtling along at speeds topping one hundred miles an hour. With the top down. Which is how fast Herman is driving as he weaves his silver Mercedes-Benz sports coupe in and out and around all the other cars on the highway. As if they were cones on an obstacle course. Where are the police? This is what Mead would like to know as Herman brings them within inches of their lives on at least four separate occasions. And the odd thing is, the expression on his face is set and grim, his knuckles white as he grips the steering wheel. He does not seem to be enjoying this any more than Mead is. And yet he keeps the gas pedal pressed flat to the floor, hurtling himself at full speed into the future.
“You really ought to slow down,” Mead says.
“What?” Herman yells over the rushing wind.
“I saw you,” Mead yells back. “Last night. Watching TV with your brother.”
“You should have joined us.”
“I didn’t want to intrude.”
“We were just watching TV, Fegley, not having sex.”
“Why do you do that?”
“Do what? Have sex?”
No, Mead says to himself, why do you turn every serious conversation I try to have with you into a joke? Why do you insist on keeping me at arm’s length? Why are you such a nice guy one moment and a total prick the next? But Mead realizes that he already knows why. He met him last night.
A loud siren pierces the air, causing Mead to turn around in his seat. A patrol car is following close behind them, its overhead lights flashing. Mead is filled with a sense of righteousness and relief, glad that Herman is being pulled over. After all, the guy was going at least forty miles an hour over the speed limit. He might have gotten into an accident and killed them both. He should be punished. And, heaven knows, the guy can well afford to pay the ticket.
“Shit,” Herman says as he pulls to a stop on the shoulder of the highway. “Let me do all the talking, Fegley, okay?”
No problem. Mead intends to sit here and enjoy the show.
The police officer emerges from his car. He appears to be in his mid-thirties, in the prime of his life. He probably has a wife and two kids at home. A law-abiding man. The heart and soul of this great country of ours. He walks up to Herman’s side of the car and says, “You two boys enjoying yourselves?”
“Good morning, Officer Keats,” Herman says, reading the man’s name off his lapel. “First off, I want to apologize for my reckless driving. You see, my friend here is visiting from out of state. He has an important meeting to attend and I’m afraid I overslept. As a result, he is now running late and, as his host, I feel personally responsible. I was just trying to make up for lost time.”
“That’s quite noble of you,” the officer says. “May I see your driver’s license and registration, please?”
“Of course,” Herman says and proceeds to pull out his wallet. “I’d really like to make this up to you, Officer. To apologize for my lapse in good judgment. It is highly out of character for me to be so reckless. I want to personally thank you for doing your job and pulling me over to give me this warning. And I promise, sir, that I have learned my lesson, that I will abide by all traffic laws from now on.” And he hands to the officer his license and registration and two hundred-dollar bills. Mead can hardly believe his eyes. Shit. Herman is probably going to go to jail for this. For bribing a police officer. And Mead will have no option but to go with him. Double shit. He can see it all now. His one phone call home to tell his parents that he is sitting in some jail somewhere in New Jersey, his begging them to wire him bail money so he can get to Bell Labs. Promising to explain it all to them later. The minutes and hours ticking away. Shit and double shit. At this rate Mead may never lay eyes on that supercomputer at all!
>
Only that isn’t what happens. The officer looks at Herman’s driver’s license and registration, then hands them back to him. “Everything seems to be in order here,” he says, the two hundred dollars having magically disappeared. “You boys drive carefully now and have a good day.”
“Thank you, Officer Keats,” Herman says. “We sure will.” Then he starts up his Mercedes-Benz sports coupe and pulls back onto the highway.
Mead doesn’t know what to say so he says nothing. He is horrified. Not only did Herman break the law once, but twice! And got away with it! This isn’t right, this isn’t right at all. Mead doesn’t care how big of a prick the guy’s father is; it doesn’t give him the right to break the law.
“What’s wrong, Fegley?” Herman says. “Why the long face?”
“You know damn well what’s wrong, Weinstein. What you did back there was criminal. Just because you got away with it doesn’t make it right.”
“You sound ungrateful, Fegley. I was only trying to help because I know how eager you are to get to Bell Labs. But if you want me to turn around and take you back, I’ll do it. Right now. Just say the word and we can catch the next flight to Chicago. It’s up to you.” And as he is talking, he pulls the car back over into the slow lane and signals as if to get off at the next exit.
He’s grandstanding, of course. Acting like a spoiled brat. Punishing Mead for calling him out on his imbecilic behavior. “Very amusing, Weinstein. You’ve made your point.”
“What point? I’m serious. The last thing I want to do is offend your sense of right and wrong. I think we should go back. I really do.” And he exits off the highway.
He isn’t serious. He can’t be. What would be the point of flying Mead all the way out here only to turn around and take him right back? It doesn’t make sense. Even for someone as rich as Herman. Mead gets the feeling, however, that he isn’t bluffing. That, if Mead were to indeed ask, Herman would take him directly back to the airport. No questions asked. Which Mead finds baffling. Utterly confounding. But then very little about Herman makes sense to Mead.
“So what’s it going to be, Fegley? Do you want to blow off this opportunity? Stick to your high moral ground? It’s totally up to you. Just tell me what to do. Your wish is my command.”
But Mead doesn’t want to go back. He can’t go back empty-handed. He has to get to that computer, otherwise he won’t have a paper to present to the dean.
“So? Speak up now, Fegley, or forever hold your peace.”
Shit. Why is Herman being such a prick? Mead isn’t the one who just broke the law. Twice. Herman is. How dare he try to bring Mead down to his level. There is nothing immoral about what Mead is doing, nothing at all. He’s not breaking any laws. This wasn’t even his idea; it was Herman’s! Mead crosses his arms over his chest. He should have set the record straight with Mr. Weinstein last night when he had the chance. Came up with it on his own. Bullshit! There is no doubt in Mead’s mind that Herman told his father that they were working on the Riemann Hypothesis together. Not one ounce. Mead is so mad at himself right now he could spit.
“Come on, Fegley. Show me what you’re made of. Yes? No? It’s your call.”
“Fuck you,” Mead says.
Herman cups his hand over his ear. “Excuse me?”
“I said shut up and get back on the highway.”
Herman circles the car around and accelerates back onto the interstate. “I would have done it, you know,” he says. “I would have taken you back. I want you to remember that. I really would have.”
“I said shut the fuck up.”
MEAD RECOGNIZES HIM RIGHT AWAY. The other man in the portrait, the more handsome one standing behind Mrs. Weinstein. The name on his desk reads GERALD WEINSTEIN but Herman just calls him Jerry. As in Uncle Jerry.
Uncle Jerry throws his arms around Herman and gives him a bear hug, the kind of hug one athlete bestows upon another after a goal is scored or a basket is made. A hug that is more congratulatory than nurturing. Herman does his best to return the gesture but looks uncomfortable at best. Uncle Jerry then shakes Mead’s hand —a vigorous up-and-down shake —and says, “Good morning, good morning, you’re here bright and early.” He glances at his watch. “It isn’t even nine yet. I like that. You must be a good influence on our Herman. I’ve rarely known him to be up before noon.” And he laughs, as if he has just told a joke. At least he isn’t as mean as the other Mr. Weinstein.
Uncle Jerry is a president here at Bell Labs. Not the president, but one of many presidents who oversee various divisions. A tall, slender man who does not look like Herman exactly but has a manner about him that reminds Mead of Herman. The way he cocks his head, just slightly to the right, so that even when he is looking directly at you he does not quite make eye contact. “So you’re the young genius who’s going to give our Cray X-MP a run for her money,” Jerry says. “Herman tells me that you only have a few days, so why don’t we get you downstairs and get you started.” And he leads them back down the hall toward the elevator.
Uncle Jerry takes them down to the basement, better known here at Bell Labs as the Lower Level, and introduces Mead to Earl Bellisfield, the tech guy. Then Jerry vigorously shakes Mead’s hand again, wishes him luck, and says, “It was a pleasure meeting you, Mead. At first, I was quite disappointed when Herman told me he was standing me up, that he didn’t want to go skiing with his dear old uncle over spring break as usual. I thought he must have met a girl and fallen in love. Then he told me what the real reason was and, I have to say, I couldn’t be more pleased.” Jerry steps back into the elevator. “Stop by my office at the end of the day. I’d like to take you both out to dinner this evening.” Then the doors close.
Mead turns to Herman. “And what exactly did you tell him?”
“What do you think?”
“I honestly don’t know what to think.”
“Relax, Fegley. I just told him that I wanted to do a favor for a friend.”
EARL BELLISFIELD IS A NERVOUS CHARACTER whose shirt won’t stay tucked in and he doesn’t care. “She’s right in here,” he says and opens a set of double doors into a room that is literally filled with computer. Wall-to-wall. Floor-to-ceiling. Mead has never seen anything like it. He wishes Dr. Alexander were here to see it with him. If he was, surely he would take that outmoded mechanical computing device he has languishing in his basement and set it out on the curb for the garbage man. Mead’s fingers are tingling, as are his toes. He is short of breath. Light-headed. Afraid that if he does not sit down right now he is going to faint. That’s how excited he is. How amazed he is to be standing here. In this room. In front of this gigantic supercomputer. It’s the same way Dr. Alexander must have felt as he sat in that lecture hall at King’s College fifty-odd years ago and listened to Alan Turing talk about his vision of a mechanical computing machine.
“Here,” Earl says and offers Mead a sweatshirt. “You might want to put this on. We have to keep it cool in here for the Cray X-MP. She gets temperamental when she gets overheated.” But Mead waves it away. “I’m used to the cold,” he says. “My father is an undertaker.”
So Earl gets right down to business. He sits Mead in front of the keyboard and proceeds to teach him the language of the computer. It’s like trying to learn Russian. In one day. Mead stares at a stream of letters and symbols that have no meaning to him whatsoever. It is frustrating, repetitive, demanding, and boring all at once. And Mead loves it.
Herman taps him on the shoulder and offers him a sandwich. “Not now,” Mead says. “I’m busy. I’ll eat later.”
“It is later,” Herman says. “It’s almost five.”
“Five o’clock?” Mead cannot believe it. He just sat down. Almost a whole day went by just like that. “This is taking too long, Earl,” he says. “I only have a limited amount of time. Can’t I just tell you what I want the computer to do and have you type it in for me?”
“Sure,” Earl says and gets up out of his chair. “But it’ll have to wait till
tomorrow. I’ve gotta take off. The wife doesn’t like it when I get home late. It’s just about now that the kids start driving her nuts. I’ll be back in the morning, though. First thing. I’ll key it in for you then.”
“Yeah, come on, Fegley,” Herman says. “Screw the sandwich. I say we call it a day. There’s this great steakhouse in town. Best T-bones north of the Mason-Dixon line. It’ll be Uncle Jerry’s treat. You can relax and start fresh in the morning.”
“You go,” Mead says. “I’m staying.”
“Don’t be crazy, Fegley. You’ve been going at this for eight hours straight.”
“And I’ll go at it for eight more if that’s what it takes.”
Mead turns back to the keyboard and types in more code. He refuses to look up. At either Earl or Herman. If they want to leave, fine, but he’s staying. They will have to have him bodily removed because he won’t go voluntarily. He’s got only five days left and over a million zeros to compute.
“Two hours, Fegley,” Herman says. “Give my uncle two hours of your time and I promise, I’ll fix it so you can stay the whole night. Twenty-four hours a day all week. But you’ve got to give me something to work with. Please.”
It almost sounds as if he’s begging. But that is not why Mead gives in. He gives in because he needs the twenty-four-hour days. And because he trusts that Herman will get him back within the promised two-hour limit, the way he did after the concert with Dr. Kustrup. “Okay,” Mead says. “But just tonight.”
UNCLE JERRY ISN’T ALONE. Sitting at the table with him is a young woman. A pretty young thing who pops up out of her chair when she sees Herman, throws her arms around his neck, and plants a big old kiss on his lips. He must have one every place he goes. A different girlfriend in each city. Princeton, Chicago, Paris, Zurich. This one is prettier than Cynthia in Chicago. Or at least she works harder at it, with streaked hair, lots of eye shadow, and a plunging neckline. Mead wonders where Herman met her —if they went to high school together or met at a fund-raiser —but not enough to actually ask. He might mention it to Cynthia, though, next time he runs into her on campus. You know, that he met Herman’s other girlfriend. Just so she has all the facts.
Life After Genius Page 21
