American Genius: A Comedy

by Lynne Tillman

  My father had no stomach for the sight of blood, either, but I didn't know this, along with many other things about him when, as a small child, I saw his penis as he urinated or when he took me to Thanksgiving parades. I remember the parades better than his penis, but I remember both vaguely, and I couldn't describe his penis at all, maybe because he held it in his hands when he urinated, and I can't detail the parades, which we attended for some years, though I can't say how many, since I retain only sensations about both, along with an image or two. He is standing at the toilet, I am standing to his side, his left side, and the parades are crowded, noisy, colorful, there's movement everywhere, it's cold and I'm bustling with life, my father smiles, excited, his face is flushed with pleasure and red from the cold day. He had a full face like mine now, and, like a child, he loved parades and carnivals.

  When my mother, in anger, pushed her arm through a glass storm door, which led to our patio with its smoky gray and blue slate tiles, cutting her arm badly, there was blood everywhere. My father, who was a good driver and proud of it, though he wasn't proud of much, certainly not his two children, was unable to drive her to the hospital, since he was faint. I didn't see my mother push her arm through the glass door, fighting and furious with my father, who became dizzy, but even so he accompanied her to the hospital. Her arm swathed in towels, or in a tourniquet of some sort, but bleeding profusely, she drove herself and him, he almost fainted beside her, to the emergency room. When a Christian Scientist bleeds, bandages must be allowed, and if the girl in the infirmary had cut her arm badly, white gauze strips would have been bound around her little arm, to stanch the flow, but since those who believe in divine intervention and miracles like the Red Sea's parting do not allow medicine, they could reject bandages. They might rely on prayer to make the blood clot quickly, though why anyone would is another mystery, and the little girl could have bled to death, which might have been a better fate than having been forced to linger in an infirmary sickbed all summer, unable to play under the sun, but eventually to die, in any case.

  Sometime ago I found it especially hard to leave the breakfast room, since I was caught in an unfolding drama or a scene which suggested its possibility, when the demanding man's recitation of his dream provoked interpretations, which he sought as if he were starving, though he'd eaten plenty, and also the young married man seemed especially upset reading the paper, all of which didn't augur well for my peace of mind. He slapped the newspaper's pages open and then, turning to another page, shook his head and looked around, priming himself for the telephone, positioning his body so that his ear was directed toward the old, wooden booths, and he kept glancing toward the hallway that led to them, since his wife or mother might call soon, since they must miss him, the way he was missing them. He told me at dinner one night, where he liked company and ate with his usual gusto, no matter what he was served, but without the newspaper in front of him, that human beings create all of their own problems and that the universe itself was perfect and beautiful; and just as breakfast reached its end, everyone finished, those of us who hadn't yet fled watched the newcomers arrive, two men, who were accompanied by one of the staff, the most effervescent of a generally sedate crew. The new, white man, Henry, was a melange of pigment, with light acne around his nose, stubble on his chin and above his lips, and a rash, which turned out to be sycosis, a chronic inflammation of the hair follicles, especially of the beard and scalp, and he was thin and short, while the other new resident, Arthur, was black, several shades darker, but his skin, in places, was mottled, especially on his cheeks, and he was taller but rounder, with a slash of red like a ribbon at his throat from, I believed, a recent shave, and just as when I arrived, many heads involuntarily looked up and then, voluntarily, down, mine did, too, much as I didn't want to but was helpless against the effect of new stimuli, as if I had a nervous system like a leaf and was exhibiting a tropism. I heard them say each other's names familiarly; maybe, I thought, they'd arrived as a couple, sometimes that was permitted, with some goal established between them. The whiter one, Henry, has thinning blond-gray hair, the darker one, Arthur, a full head of longish, loose and braided black hair, and both trod on the floor in a lively, determined manner. Later, they explained they were partners in every aspect of their lives, they had no secrets from each other, which discomforted me in my skin, but they must keep secrets from others, and they finished each others' sentences, so at first and in some ways it was hard to separate them, even though they were physically quite different. They had met in dental school, where they trained to he orthodontists, after Arthur had quit studying physics in order to be in a less abstract world. Their project, if they had one, was maintained in secrecy, Arthur had frail lungs, Henry acid reflux disease and an ulcer, and they never wanted to talk about their work, since they came for a break. Both had a penchant for poetry, Arthur especially, he might have been writing some, but I forced them to talk about teeth once, by telling them that orthodontists were teeth designers and sculptors of the mouth, but I didn't admit that if I were a dentist, oral surgeon, or orthodontist, which I couldn't be, because of the spilling of blood, I'd be tempted to take out teeth and not put them back in, to set teeth crooked, but in a beautiful way, and then remove my handiwork and start all over again.

  The demanding man groaned and slapped at a buzzing fly that had settled on the table, but didn't hit it, and everyone else was silent as the two new men, partners, walked into the kitchen, to tell the cook what they would and wouldn't eat. I wondered in a mild way whether these people would be boons or obstacles in my life, but then the tall balding man slapped the table hard and killed a large, bluebonnet fly, and Contesa muttered, "Beautiful specimen." To what she referred I wasn't positive, since either the fly or the new men might have been in her sightline. When the men disappeared into the cook's theater, I knew they would instantly establish a good or bad rapport, which would likely worsen or ameliorate during their time here, with the cook and the kitchen staff, since certain attitudes shift before they settle and harden. "Beautiful specimen," Contesa repeated, as we all rose from the table. The phone rang, clamoring, finally, for the young married man who raced to it, while Contesa scooped the dead blue and black fly off the table. The newcomers might have precipitated the drama, for the tall balding man sputtered and then uncharacteristically pushed or shoved the demanding man, who was lingering around balefully, and one of the staff saw the incident, scurried over to them, and guided them, presumably, to the director's office. None of us said a word, Contesa's gray eyes found mine, but the disconsolate anorectic clutched her friend's arm and shuddered. Another fly buzzed around me, and I slapped it harder than I meant, killing it. The disconsolate women frowned at me, and I left the dining room soon after, without being introduced to the two men, whose partnership I envied and disliked.

  During the summer, at camp or at home, mosquitoes buzzed close around me, and I had extreme, allergic reactions to their bites, fat, pink welts budding on my legs and arms, and later I required antihistamines whenever bitten, but back then calamine lotion regularly dotted my body, its hot pink a humorous retort to my tanned legs, chest, back, and arms. I tanned under the sun for hours when I was young, listening to the ocean or rock and roll on a portable radio set close to my ear, but mostly I listened to the waves as they tossed themselves thoughtlessly against the sand, landing and lapping patiently and repetitively, then retreating, and I had a feeling of contented exhaustion, so complete and good that I knew it wouldn't last, that the best things don't last, and that I should try to preserve a moment which would, like a wave, retreat, but unlike a wave, maybe never come back. I associate this happy exhaustion only with going to the beach, lying on the sand after swimming in the ocean, whose waves sometimes dragged me under, compelling me to acknowledge forces much bigger than myself, whose will I couldn't shake or dent, of walking under a hot sun on the wet sand, leaving footprints whose impressions faded quickly, and letting the ocean nip at my toes and ankles, when standi
ng at the edge of the ocean and the world I knew. The waves crept higher and higher, almost to my tanned knees, depositing a salty residue on my skin, and I thought I never wanted to be anywhere else but at the foot of the ocean and wished I could advance and recede like a wave.

  There was always a pink mark on the back of one leg, a birthmark that my father called a cherry, which seemed to please him, either the word "cherry" or the fact that I had one or something else which was unimportant or which has gone with him to his ocean grave off the coast of Maine where his shards were tossed over the side of a sleek, white yacht, by his wife, his daughter, his wife's sister, his only living friend, who was also on his way out, as my mother noted, but not his prodigal son, as my father had regularly referred to him, nearly with pleasure, as if citing the Bible condoned his son's absence or made it palatable, because it was traditional and historical. He told me the cherry birthmark would be a way to identify me always, though it puzzled me why I would need to be identified, and I imagined terrible fates for myself, when it would become necessary to flip my limp body over and find the cherry, so as to he able to record, with certainty, that I was who I was. But in the years since, I often forget I have a cherry on the very top and back of my upper thigh and usually can't remember which leg it is on, but I do know that it could be used to distinguish me from others in time of war, or if I suddenly fell down in the street, unconscious, and did not know anymore who I was. I have never told a doctor about it, or friends, and it may be scarcely noticeable, since, as I've grown, it must have grown smaller, comparatively, and it might even have completely disappeared, which would he sad, as if much more had also vanished, and that's true, it has, so I don't want to look for the cherry, since with its diminution or demise, my father, along with everything else from the past, is deader.

  The cherry isn't part of my medical records, since our family doctor, whose visits when I had sore throats were never welcome, but who was a good man, with a face I vaguely recall, especially because of his black, bristly moustache, and whose ministrations I remember better, since once he tricked me with the pain-free rubber needle and could have noted my reaction in his file on me, along with my sore throats, childhood inoculations, allergic response to mosquito bites, sensitive skin, must he dead for a long time. His files must be lost or were discarded after his death, and unless I pointedly remark, Please note the cherry birthmark on the back of my upper thigh, and record that in my file, no one will know about it, it wouldn't identify me. My mother wouldn't remember it, she is not who she was, though she knows her name, often is lucid, and realizes, sadly, that she is incapacitated, but as her memory falters, she knows less of herself and others. One day when she was exceptionally present, she asked rhetorically: If I can't remember, who am I? It's not an uncommon idea, but a poignant observation, the kind I hadn't ever heard her make, she was, throughout my childhood, usually blunt and even brutal in her expressions. Some years before her illness or condition presented itself undeniably, before she and I knew her brain was under pressure from an abundance of trapped fluid, we walked past a store in front of which a man, the apparent owner, stood, when my mother uncharacteristically commented, "I think I know that man. He looks helpless. He's waiting for customers." But even then, as I took note of her unique, jarring comment, I didn't understand it might have indicated or been a harbinger of her own incipient helplessness.

  It was my father who first made me conscious of the cherry on the back of my upper thigh. My father paid attention to color, because he had an eye and was in the textile business, and, once, when the Polish woman was gently rubbing my face, in preparation for the steaming my skin needed, the probing of my oil-clogged pores, when she squeezed out any impurities she found, I told her about my father's business. I don't imagine she was truly interested, but I felt that her interest, if it was interest, maybe involvement, in skin, was akin to my father's in fabrics. He had looked, I explained to her, through a special magnifying instrument to measure the warp and weft of every fabric he designed and had manufactured, he weighed individual, single threads with another simple machine, and early on I knew that even a thread, which appeared to be unimportant and without substance, had weight.

  In a fabric warehouse, rolls of fabric, which are worlds in a world, beg to be touched. Satin, moire, voile, faille. Jacquard, cotton, silk, brocade. Opaque, transparent, or semi-transparent lengths of cloth. Possibilities array themselves in colors, patterns, warps and wefts, weights and textures, while description doesn't account for what my fingers realize, which is uncategorizable. With a flourish, the polished salesman pulls out a bolt I have indicated, carries it on his shoulder or in his arms, like a body, and then pulling and stretching the fabric across a long wooden table, which usually has scissors and threads over it, it's always messy in a fabric ware house, the salesperson spreads a length of material across it, so that its details may be seen and appreciated, and any mistake in the weave might be caught, and then he, rarely she, grabs a tape measure and cuts the material. It is an event, the gestures and cutting of the material, a high, almost noble, moment in the warehouse, when, I have noticed, other salespeople will stop what they are doing to watch, attentively, a fellow salesman unfurl the bolt, wield the stubby scissors and cut the cloth. The salesman also always pulls out a little more material, making a display of this, too, in a ritual or tradition that all of them follow and which is habitually mentioned to a client, or else you would feel cheated, everyone wants and expects a little hit more than the yards paid for. I could easily stay with these mute bolts of cloth for hours and hours, but I never do, because I'm busy, rushing, so I stay as long as I permit myself, gently fingering the cloth, careful not to stain or otherwise damage the material, and occasionally buying some yards for friends who sew; I don't, but my mother did, and often I merely want to have in my possession the redolent fabric, which appeals to a cosmopolitan primitive.

  The span between breakfast and lunch is inconstant, unnervingly patternless, random. Theoretically, mathematically, randomness is impossible to produce, though on the ground there are traffic patterns, which come close to it, they are unpredictable because of error and accidents, but in most other things, especially numbers, there arrives a discernible pattern or logic. Generally, there is always less time between breakfast and lunch than between lunch and dinner. No one will go hungry, every resident knows that food will be supplied here, that lunch will ultimately arrive at our various doorsteps or we can visit the kitchen, but we don't know precisely when lunch might be ready, because each day something occurs that may change the schedule of the male kitchen helper, rumored to be a college dropout or recently expelled, who usually brings it to each of us on bicycle. When that happens, as it does each day, almost without fail, so he is part of my day and habit, I have to decide whether to say hello to him, which might alter my and his late morning rhythms. He pretends that he doesn't see us residents, so he won't startle or annoy anyone, but I always see him, unless I'm tending the fire or in the bathroom, where I worry that the curtain won't block me from view, and he might see me seated in an awkward, all too human pose. I tell myself it doesn't matter if he does, but I also know that this view could become the one he'll remember best, especially if it's silly or sad, and he could report my behavior to the cook or assistant cook, financial officer, to the janitor or groundskeeper, or, if it's especially peculiar, he might inform the director of the community, who could be called upon to speak with me privately and even caution me or put me on probation, which has happened but not yet to me. The staff talks about us the way we residents talk about them. The boy is handsome, especially on his bicycle, his long, strong legs, similar to other legs I've known, move automatically, and they distract me, since I particularly like long, strong legs, and recall those of a Dutchman, who, on a certain summer's night, wore white satin trousers. We took pills that turned us to rubber, I awoke surrounded by others having sex or making love on the floor, wanted to go home, he followed and kept coming round, I los
t interest, bored even with his legs, which in retrospect aren't boring, and I wonder if they are as strong as they were then, if he cares for his body and exercises daily. It's easy to be distracted, especially if you relish the past, dislike it, or wonder at its other, unchosen possibilities and also if you collect things, including mementoes, and deduce or speculate about the multitude of outcomes. Since I have good hand/eye coordination and reflexes, a slow pulse, and can run fast, I could've become a long distance runner, but I didn't, which I regret abstractly, I played tennis but didn't relax my studies at the age of ten to practice eight hours a day, to train for the circuit, though training my body and thinking only of a backhand, forehand, when to approach the net and other techniques, might be the life I should have led rather than the one I do, and it still appeals to me. I am often sedentary, except I work standing up or squatting, and go for energetic walks and solitary night swims. I played chess, rode a dirt hike, liked multiplying and adding sums, memorized encyclopedia and dictionary listings, to keep my brain agile, was adept at setting my friends' hair in curlers and tweezing their eyebrows, and I also enjoyed squeezing the pimples on the back of one boyfriend; I liked to draw, jump rope, dance, perform acrobatics, but heights made me dizzy, so jumping over horses in gym didn't make sense as an activity. Instead I preferred to walk backward, do somersaults, act like a horse or dog or cat, even a vegetable, in dance class, read philosophy, American history, especially, and stories, and could diagnose medical problems, which, like my mother, I often accomplish with an accuracy some call intuition, though I don't believe in intuition. But unlike her, I faint at the sight of blood gushing from a gash, so I couldn't have been a doctor, and lose interest in reading some medical research material, though I'm attracted to the study of skin and genetics, especially as a model for the humanities and social sciences, since some aspect of your fate is carried in code from another's body to yours, though the body's not a stable foundation, as it reflects human ideas about it. It is, in a sense, both transparent and opaque, since, with study, like my dermatologist, you could read its signals, though a brain scan, an MRI, may be read differently by neurologists, whose knowledge is imperfect, or the object of their knowledge remains defiant, the sum greater than its parts, the parts in need of and subject to interpretation. Genetics proposes that people aren't merely the sum of their parts, which somehow reassures me, we're bits and pieces, and parts of bodies no longer have to be the bodies' own parts, heads might be grafted, and there could one day be full-body transplants. Human beings lie in shreds of DNA in laboratories, studies for the future, designs for betterperforming bodies, like car models in Californian and Japanese labs.