Life After Genius (26 page)

Herman turns back to face the courtyard, draws deeply on his cigarette. “I don’t know. My father came up with that one on his own. He would love to die important, to have his name immortalized in the indexes of encyclopedias and history books. But since he himself has been unable to accomplish anything truly great, it has now fallen on the shoulders of his two sons to do it for him.”

“But you aren’t working on it. You should’ve set him straight.”

Herman is hunched forward on the sill like a gargoyle perched high up on a church steeple looking down on the people below. From a distance he might look menacing, but up close you can’t miss the wry grin on his face. “My father has big dreams, Fegley. He believes he can make anything happen just by wishing it so. Who am I to dissuade him from such lofty notions?”

And suddenly Mead knows —or at least he thinks he knows —why Herman didn’t set his father straight. He sits down on the bed and says, “When I was in seventh grade, I got a C on a science report. I won’t go into all the gory details as to how that came about, just suffice it to say that my mother was none too pleased and decided to let me know exactly how she felt about my lackluster performance by taking me to meet the ghosts of my future should I decide to continue down said path. Should you ever be curious to check out the basement of a city morgue, let me forewarn you that, contrary to popular belief, there is no comfort in numbers.”

Herman turns to look at Mead, then back out the window. “Your mother sounds like a real bitch.”

“Your father sounds like a real sonofabitch.”

Herman laughs. “He started me on piano lessons when I was five. I’d been practicing every day for three years when one day the old man comes home and his ears perk up and he’s like, ‘Shit, that’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard.’ You should’ve seen his face. I’d never seen him smile like that before. Man, was he proud.”

“You weren’t playing, were you?” Mead says.

Herman inhales deeply on the cigarette. “Blindsided by a three-year-old. Can you believe it? He’d picked it all up by ear. Shit, I didn’t even know the little guy was listening.”

And so Mead lets the subject of the Riemann Hypothesis and who may or may not have been working on it pass.

I
T TAKES MEAD FOREVER TO FALL ASLEEP.
And when he finally does, it doesn’t stick. He wakes up two hours later with his mind racing, all hopped up on math, computing zeta zeros in his head using the Riemann-Siegel formula. He can hardly wait to meet this computer. He wonders what it looks like. How big it is. How fast it will work. But most of all, he wonders how on earth he is going to communicate with it, if there will be an interpreter, someone fluent in zeros and ones to translate for him. One week. The airline ticket Herman purchased for Mead has a return date of one week from today. Already Mead is anxious about the time and about the fact that there isn’t enough of it.

He throws back the covers, crawls out of bed, and paces about the room. It has begun to bother him again that Herman did not set his father straight on the Riemann Hypothesis. Did Mr. Weinstein really jump to the conclusion on his own that Herman and Mead are working together? Or did Herman lead his father to that conclusion? Mead would like to believe the former, would like to be able to take Herman at his word. But he cannot dismiss the notion that Herman might be snowing him. Trust in his fellow man does not come to Mead naturally; he has had a good many years of personal experience to build up a convincing argument to the contrary. Especially when it comes to his peers. And so he decides that the only way to clear his mind of doubt, the only way to be certain that Herman is being honest with him, is to seek out Mr. Weinstein and set the record straight himself.

Mead paces over to the window and looks out and, as the gods would have it, sees standing below him in the courtyard none other than Mr. Weinstein, smoking a cigarette and pacing back and forth himself. Unable to refuse such an opportunity, Mead quickly steps into a pair of trousers, exits the bedroom, and makes his way along the hall. Hurrying down the stairs, he does his best not to make any noise. The last thing Mead wants to do is alert Herman to his intention. He feels the need to get to Mr. Weinstein and tell him the truth before Herman figures out what is going on, before the guy has a chance to make Mead feel guilty for not taking him at his word.

At the bottom of the stairs, however, Mead stops up short. He hears talking and thinks that perhaps Herman has already gotten to Mr. Weinstein. That perhaps he, too, was having trouble falling and staying asleep because of what may or may not have been said but obviously got misinterpreted. Perhaps he is clearing up the situation right now, making things right with Mr. Weinstein. Then Mead hears laughter —canned laughter —and realizes that the talking is not coming from the courtyard but from a television set. He rounds the bottom of the banister, peers into the study, and sees the backs of two heads. Hears a giggle and recognizes it as belonging to Neil. Recognizes the mop of black hair on the second television viewer as Herman. And for some reason it makes Mead mad that Herman is down here watching TV with the little brother he is supposed to hate when he is supposed to be clearing up an important matter that could adversely affect his budding friendship with yours truly.

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.”