Life After Genius

by M. Ann Jacoby

  Mead yanks the tie out of his hand, loosens the collar. “No, thanks. Besides, they’re probably here already.”

  Herman shrugs. “Okay, it’s your funeral,” he says, as if he knows Mead’s mother well, as if he knows what she will say, and heads out of the bathroom.

  Mead looks in the mirror and watches him go. Relieved. The way he always feels when Herman leaves. Even after the trip out east. Which was by far and away the nicest thing anyone has ever done for Mead. And yet he still finds himself feeling wary whenever Herman is around. On guard. Against what he is not quite sure. There was that incident in the men’s room with the two pairs of shoes. But Mead has no proof that it was Herman. Or Dr. Kustrup. And then there was that time in the basement of Bell Labs when Herman was looking at Mead all weird and stuff. But then people have been looking at Mead like that his whole life. What he has got to do is stop assuming that the world is out to get him. He’s been trying to work on it, trying to improve his social skills the way Dr. Kustrup suggested instead of hiding in the stacks of the library all the time; he just hasn’t yet found the right opportunity.

  Mead turns his attention back to his reflection, to his tie. He sees his mother take one look at him and shake her head, much as Herman just did. Only she won’t shrug and walk away, she’ll make stabs at him all through lunch. Tell him that he needs to get a haircut, to tuck in his shirt, to hike up his pants so the cuffs won’t drag on the ground. That he should sit up straight, chew with his mouth closed, and get his elbows off the table. All things of which Mead is guilty, it’s true. He does let his shirt hang out and his cuffs drag, he does slouch at the table and talk with food in his mouth, but he only does these things when his mother is around, to bug her.

  Mead pulls off the tie, tosses it into the trash, and steps out into the hall just as Herman is starting up the stairs. He looks back when Mead pokes his head out the door.

  “You got anything up there that’ll match this shirt?”

  Herman smiles. “Go to your room. I’ll be right back.”

  SHE’S SITTING ON FORSBECK’S BED, the unmade bed. She probably assumes that it belongs to her son but Mead made his bed this morning. He makes it every morning, something he started doing as soon as he moved out of his mother’s house. It grosses him out, the fact that his mother is sitting on his roommate’s soiled bedsheets, home to dust mites, mildew, sweat, and millions of microscopic Forsbecks that met with certain death last night thanks to the Penthouse magazine that Mead’s roommate “reads” every night before drifting off to sleep. It grosses him out but at the same time it pleases him.

  “There you are,” she says. “Your father and I were beginning to think you’d taken off again. Without notice. He’s sitting downstairs in the car, keeping an eye out for your whereabouts.”

  Mead glances at his watch. It’s a quarter to twelve. He had no idea he’d been in the bathroom that long. He wonders who let his mother in the building, how she found her way to his room. “I’m sorry, Mother. I’ve apologized for that like a million times. What else do you want me to do?”

  She gets up off the bed, pulling herself to her full height that, even in heels, only brings the top of her head to Mead’s chin. But what she lacks in stature, she makes up for in tone. “For starters, you could write your aunt and uncle a letter.”

  “I sent them a condolence card.”

  “A card? He’s your cousin, Teddy. Or was. The closest thing you’ll ever have to a brother. I think you can do better than a card.”

  It’s all his fault, that’s what she is really trying to say. That he wasn’t where he was supposed to be and now his cousin is dead. “Fine, I’ll write a letter. I’ll apologize for my existence. Will that make you happy?”

  “I don’t appreciate the sarcasm, Teddy.”

  “Was I being sarcastic? I didn’t notice. I mean I’ve been kind of busy, Mother. I have a paper to write by the end of the year. For the dean. That’s why I was out there. I was doing research, collecting important data. I was working, Mother, not goofing off. This paper is to take the place of my final exams and I have to hand in a comprehensive outline of it on Monday. That’s in three days.”

  “This week. I want you to write that letter this week,” his mother says, then grabs the collar of his shirt and adds, “Why aren’t you wearing a tie?”

  HERMAN APPEARS IN THE DOORWAY at that very moment, holding a Pierre Cardin tie, a navy blue and maroon number that probably cost as much as the dress suit Mead’s mother is wearing. And she wears nice clothes. The woman does all her shopping at Marshall Field’s right here in Chicago. Albeit mostly by mail. Herman has changed out of his bathrobe into a pair of pressed trousers and a shirt that he is still buttoning up when he hands Mead the tie and says, “You ran off in a hurry and left this in my room.”

  Mead’s mother looks horrified, always at the ready to believe the worst about her son. As if Herman just handed him a pair of boxer shorts instead of a tie. Mead sighs and says, “He’s kidding, Mother. It’s a loan. He’s loaning me one of his ties.”

  “Ah,” Herman says, “so this must be the mother of the genius. Mead talks about you all the time, Mrs. Fegley. It’s an honor to finally meet.” And he takes her hand, as he took his own mother’s hand, and kisses the back of it.

  He’s lying, of course. Mead has barely said a word about his mother to Herman. And the few words he has said have been anything but complimentary. But it’s a lie that Mead appreciates, especially when he sees the effect it has on her.

  “And who might you be?” she asks like a preteen girl with a sudden crush.

  “Herman Weinstein, ma’am. The thoughtless soul who whisked your son off at a moment’s notice without once entertaining the notion that his absence would cause such a stir or result in such a horrible and unspeakable outcome. May I extend to you my deepest condolences on your recent loss. I truly, truly am sorry.” And the whole time he’s talking, he’s holding her manicured hand between his two manicured hands, as if cupping a baby bird. Even for Herman, he’s laying it on pretty thick. So thick that Mead fears he might gag. But his mother doesn’t seem to notice the affectation. Or perhaps she doesn’t care. She laps up his attention like an alley cat that hasn’t seen milk in a month and says, “Oh, so you must be Teddy’s friend from out east. The one from Princeton. Herman, did you say?”

  He looks at Mead and smiles. “So you’ve told them about me then.”

  Mead blushes for reasons he is not quite sure. He is either embarrassed for himself or for his mother or for them both, it’s hard to say. “No. Yes. I mean I had to explain where I was when I disappeared. How I paid for the round-trip airfare. How I got access to the Cray X-MP.”

  “My father was very impressed with your son, Mrs. Fegley. And the man is not easily impressed, believe you me.”

  This is news to Mead. He had no idea he had impressed Mr. Weinstein. But which one? The one in Princeton, the one married to Mrs. Weinstein, the one with connections to the Institute for Advanced Study? Or the other one, the one who works at Bell Labs, Herman’s biological father? Either way, Mead is pleased to learn that he —Theodore Mead Fegley of High Grove, Illinois —was able to impress such powerful and important men. Especially considering how little time he spent in their presence. Of course, they both knew why Mead was out there, that he spent two weeks in the basement of Bell Labs cranking out the largest number of zeta zeros known to man. Herman most certainly told them. And Earl would have backed up this claim. It’s probably a good thing Mead didn’t spend more time in their presence. If he had, they might have picked up on the fact that he doesn’t much care for them personally. As father figures, they both suck. Big time. But Mead isn’t looking for a father figure; he already has a perfectly good one. What he needs are influential men with important connections who can get him into that Institute in Princeton. And either Mr. Weinstein will fit that bill quite nicely.

  Unless, of course, Herman is lying.

  “I’d love it if you could
join us for lunch,” Mead’s mother says. “As a way of our thanking you for your generosity toward our son.”

  “Herman can’t join us,” Mead says. “He has to go to class. This is a university, after all, Mother, not a country club.”

  “I’d love to,” Herman says.

  “Wonderful,” Mead’s mother says.

  IT FEELS STRANGE SITTING IN THE BACK of his father’s Cadillac with Herman Weinstein seated next to him. Like two parallel planes intersecting. An impossibility in the world of mathematics. And yet here Mead sits, straddled between two separate worlds that were never intended to meet. It feels wrong, like something bad is going to happen. Like his mother is going to pull out a photo album and show Herman baby pictures of her son. Or tell him about the time Mead was four and ran around the backyard in nothing but his birthday suit. Embarrassing stuff. The kind of stuff you hope to leave behind when you pack your bags and move three hundred miles away from your parents. When you change your name from Teddy to Mead in hopes that you are finished with the past. Or maybe Herman will mention something about the scantily clad girls in the unisex bathrooms. Or the marijuana smoke that slips out from under closed doors on the weekend. Stuff Mead would prefer his parents not know about, stuff they wouldn’t understand, stuff his mother would automatically assume he was taking part in.

  But his fears are unwarranted. Herman is utterly charming. He listens attentively as Mead’s mother tells him about her church group and about the bake sale they sponsor every June to raise money for the homeless. “Last year we raised nearly five thousand dollars,” she says, making it sound like five million. “Thanks to my husband, Lynn, who donated the twenty-five hundred.” And Mead realizes that he is witnessing something he has never seen before: his mother sucking up.

  He sits up higher in his seat for a better view. Mead is quite impressed by Herman’s performance because instead of coming back with a retort of one-upmanship, instead of mentioning that his mother sponsors a fund-raiser for AIDS that actually does pull in millions as opposed to thousands of dollars a year, instead he tells her how honorable her church work is, how he was brought up to view acts of charity —no matter how big or small —as more indicative of class than any amount of personal wealth.

  It doesn’t really matter what Herman says after that; Mead’s mother is sold. At the restaurant she lets him select her appetizer (crab soufflé) and entrée (veal roulade) and even lets him order a bottle of wine for the table (something French with a 1957 vintage) even though she rarely drinks alcohol because it makes her skin flush. It’s almost as if Mead and his father aren’t there, as if Herman and Mead’s mother are on a date.

  Mead’s father is a harder read. He doesn’t seem so much impressed with Herman as tolerant. Like another day at the office, another afternoon spent listening to the family of the deceased talk about whatever it is they need to talk about. He’s a man who has heard it all —and then some —and doesn’t need to listen anymore. A man so talented at not listening that you think he is even when he isn’t. Or maybe it’s the other way around: that he continues to listen even though he has no godly reason on earth to do so. A true saint. Either way, it isn’t until the check arrives —and the head waiter hands it to Herman —that Mead’s father speaks up. “This is my treat,” he says. “You’re a guest of my family.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Fegley,” Herman says, “but I really want to take this. It was such an honor to meet all of you, to meet Mead’s family, that I’d really like to pay. To thank you for this opportunity.”

  “That’s very nice,” Mead’s father says, “but it’s not the way I do things.” And he says it with an edge in his voice.

  Mead’s spoon is halfway to his mouth when his hand freezes. He glances past it at his mother, who looks equally surprised, who looks as if she’d like to hide under the table, who looks as if she is going to recriminate her husband as soon as they get back to their hotel room this evening, wagging her finger in his face and telling him how he embarrassed her in front of nobility. Or at least her perception of nobility.

  But Herman is smooth as a pat of butter on a warm roll. He simply hands the bill over to Mead’s father and says, “Thank you, sir. That’s very generous of you.”

  SINCE TOMORROW IS SATURDAY —and Mead has been loaded up with fresh guilt about Percy’s death being his fault —he accepts his mother’s invitation to accompany her and his father to the last day of the trade show. Even though he can think of about a million things he would rather do. Including clipping his toenails. It hardly seems like a fair exchange —attending a trade show to make up for the loss of his cousin’s life —but it is all Mead has to bring to the table at the moment. He would be attending it today too, if not for his afternoon class. Which he may not get to on time if his mother doesn’t zip it and let her new best friend, Herman, exit the car. Mead fears she is going to invite him to the trade show too, but something holds her back. Perhaps some residual embarrassment about what her husband does for a living, as if burying people were any less glamorous than producing glass bottles for a fruit juice company.

  “We’ll swing by and pick you up at nine,” Mead’s father says before heading back to their hotel.

  SINCE MEAD IS GOING TO BE LOSING A FULL DAY —a day he should be using to write that outline for the dean instead of attending a trade show —he skips dinner and goes directly from his Friday afternoon class to the library, where he throws himself into his work, not even bothering to look up from the table until the overhead lights flicker to signal closing time. Mead scoops up his papers and stuffs them into his blue-and-green plaid suitcase, then drags it over to the exit and waits for his turn in line. The students ahead of him hand their backpacks, one at a time, to the librarian so she can peek inside and make sure they aren’t trying to smuggle out any reference books or microfiche discs. When it’s his turn, Mead places his suitcase on the counter and unzips the top. But the librarian doesn’t bother to rifle through his papers. She has seen both them and the suitcase before. Every night since Mead got back from New Jersey. Instead she says, “If you don’t mind my asking, what is all of this for? It looks as if you’re on a quest to solve the mystery of life.”

  “Not life,” Mead says. “The Riemann Hypothesis.”

  “Well, it must be very important; why else would a nice-looking young man such as yourself devote so many of his Friday nights to solving it?”

  Mead lifts his head and looks —really looks —at the librarian for the first time. She appears to be in her mid to late twenties. Not pretty, exactly, not in a glossy magazine sort of way, but pretty enough. With a clear complexion and large round eyes. He imagines her waking up every morning and greeting the new day with a smile, as if expecting it to be yet another amazing and wonderful adventure.

  “At the end of this quarter I will be giving a presentation of my paper to my fellow students. If you would like to attend, I could probably arrange for that to happen.”

  “The end of the quarter,” she says. “That’s still several weeks off. Maybe one night you could take me out for a cup of coffee and give me the condensed version.”

  Drops of sweat break out across Mead’s upper lip. Is the librarian flirting with him? Or is she just being nice? The way Cynthia was just being nice. “I think you should know,” he says, “that I’m only eighteen.”

  She smiles. “Theodore … that is your name, isn’t it? Theodore?”

  “Mead,” he says, figuring she must have gotten his name off his library card. “I prefer to go by my middle name, Mead.”

  “Okay, Mead. I’m only guessing here, but I get the feeling you’re a lot more mature than your age suggests. I mean, I’ve seen a lot of eighteen-and nineteen-and even twenty-year-old students wandering around this campus, and not one of them seems to treat their time here at the university as seriously as you do. Am I right?”

  It is as if she already knows him.

  “Anyway,” she says and zips his suitcase shut for him. “I’ll be
looking for that invitation to your lecture. I’d love to hear it.”

  MEAD LUGS HIS SUITCASE UP THE STEPS of the dorm one at a time. For some reason, it feels ten times heavier than it did this morning. Or even an hour ago. At the top of the stairs, he sets it down and sits on top of it as rock and roll music gallops down the hall and tramples over him like a herd of stampeding buffalo across an open field.

  Every Friday night for the past three years it has been the same old thing: Mead sitting alone at the desk in his room while the rest of the boys and girls in his dorm pair off. A mating ritual that includes loud music, too much alcohol, and copious amounts of coffee the following morning. And to think that tonight he could have done something different. He could have taken the librarian up on her offer and taken her out for a cup of coffee. He could have talked to her about his trip out east and the wealth of statistical data he collected that all but proves the Riemann Hypothesis. Something in which she seems to be genuinely interested. But no, he had to make her feel foolish for even having brought it up. “I’m only eighteen.” That’s what he said, assuming that she would find him too young. Only it didn’t faze her. Not one bit. She said he seemed mature. So why didn’t he say something else? Why did he clam up? He blew it, plain and simple. And he didn’t even have the sense to get her name.

  A couple of boys stumble through the front door and up the stairs past Mead, smelling like vats of beer. The taller one, a blond in ripped jeans, trips over the corner of Mead’s suitcase and falls to the floor. “Hey, buddy,” he says, “either take that thing back to your room or move out.” And his friend laughs as if this were funny.

  Mead could always go back to the library. She might not have left yet. She might still be there turning off lights, putting books back in the stacks. Perhaps he can catch up with her in the parking lot, before she gets into her car and drives off. Yeah, right. He’ll chase her down in a dark parking lot like a stalker or a deranged lunatic. Great idea.