Life After Genius (33 page)

Herman smiles. “So what’s with the suitcase?”

“Forsbeck has an overnight guest. Can I crash on your spare bed?”

M
EAD HEARS A NOISE AND LOOKS UP
. The librarian is shelving books, pushing one of those carts all libraries have down the aisle. She smiles at Mead and goes about her business as if everything is normal. Only it isn’t, because she is naked. All the way naked. Not even any shoes on. Mead glances around to see if anyone else in the library has noticed, but no one has. So he gets up and starts to take off his shirt, so he can cover her up. But before he can get his shirt off, the shelves begin to tremble and books start to fall off them, start to tumble down on top of the naked librarian, burying her alive. Mead leaps into action and starts digging through the books, throwing them off to the left and the right, digging as fast as he can. But no matter how much he digs, he can’t find the librarian.

M
EAD WAKES WITH A START
, his heart pounding in his chest. He sits up and looks over at Herman, who is sound asleep in the next bed, not a troubling thought in his head. It is inconceivable to Mead that anyone could inflict the kind of harm that was inflicted upon Cynthia and then sleep so soundly. Two weeks. Mead spent the better part of two weeks with Herman at Bell Labs and never once saw even a hint of violence in his behavior. Even after his father made that derogatory statement about him at the dinner table, even after his other father flaunted his very young wife in his face. Mead pulls the sheets up to his chin and watches Herman sleep until he himself slips back into unconsciousness. He finds himself in the library again, the librarian shelving books. Naked. He walks over to her to check out her breasts. Which are perfect. Not a bruise in sight. He places his hands over them to cover them up. To protect them. To protect her. She smiles and says, “Thank you, Theodore.”

Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap.

Mead opens his eyes and squints across the room at Herman, who is still sound asleep. So Mead rolls away, closes his eyes, and tries to fall back to sleep himself, to pick up his dream where it left off, with the librarian’s breasts in his hands. He reaches down under the bedcovers and wraps his hand around Little Teddy, who isn’t so little at the moment. He runs his finger over the tip and imagines he is rubbing it over one of her nipples.

Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap.

The bed behind Mead squeaks as Herman gets out of it. Apparently someone is knocking at his door. Then Mead remembers. His parents. They were going to stop by and pick him up at nine. He drops his dick and sits up in bed. “Shit, what time is it?” he says. “Is it after nine?”

Herman is standing over Mead, naked under an open robe. His little soldier at attention. Only it’s not so little. You would think that having been born good looking and rich would have been enough, but no, Herman apparently lucked out in the endowment department, too. He closes the front of his robe over his tumid member but it remains all too obvious.

“Don’t answer the door,” Mead says.

“Why not?” Herman asks.

“Because. It might be my mother.”

“Your mother? Why would your mother come knocking on my door?”

It’s a good question, one for which Mead does not have a ready answer. He glances at his wristwatch. It’s nine-fifteen. Plenty of time for her to have dropped by his room, found him missing, and started a manhunt. And since Herman was the individual responsible for the disappearance of her son the first time around, it only makes sense that she would start with him the second time around.

As Herman reaches for the doorknob, Mead leaps out of bed and grabs his wrist. “I said don’t open the door.”

Herman looks down and smiles. Mead follows his gaze and sees that his own dick is peeking out from between the folds of his boxer shorts. Mortified, he goes to put himself away, his hand still inside his shorts when Herman pulls open the door.

T
HE CHARLEMAGNE,
referred to on the order form as Model No. 5163-2XB, is made out of redwood culled from the
Sequoia sempervirens
in California. The farming of sequoias is strictly regulated by the Federal Bureau of Conservation and Wildlife and, for that reason, only a couple hundred are cut down each year, making the Charlemagne a truly rare and special casket for the most discerning customer.

This is the spiel the salesman rattles off as Mead and his parents look on. The top-of-the-line casket has been polished to a shine and set upon a revolving pedestal. Like a new car at the automotive show, it is cordoned off with velvet rope. A pretty lady in a sparkly evening gown —and way too much makeup —stands next to the Charlemagne and smiles broadly as she opens the lid to show Mead and his parents the satin-lined interior, then runs her hand over the fabric in a suggestive way. The salesman then unhooks the rope and invites Mead and his folks inside for a closer look.

His father raps his knuckles against the side of the casket and asks the salesman what kind of a warranty comes with it. His mother runs her hand over the fabric, in much the same manner as the pretty lady, and declares it to be soft. Mead stands behind them both, looks at his wristwatch for something like the twentieth time in the past five minutes, and says, “My roommate had an overnight guest, that’s why I was upstairs.”

The pretty lady in the sparkly gown overhears Mead and raises her eyebrows. The salesman pretends he is deaf. Mead’s mother turns around and says, “Not now, Teddy. This is neither the time nor place for such a discussion.”

“You said the same thing in the car. And in the parking lot. You’re making this into a bigger deal than it is by not letting me explain.”

Mead’s father asks how much the Charlemagne costs. The salesman hands him a glossy brochure and says that he can knock ten percent off the total price if an order of six or more caskets is placed at one time.

“Okay,” Mead’s mother says, “so explain to me why I didn’t see any girl in the room when your roommate answered the door. I had a clear view of that boy’s bed and there wasn’t anything in it but a magazine.”

“So she must’ve left sometime in the middle of the night or early this morning. But she was there last night, Mother. I saw her. Or at least I saw her socks.”

“Her socks?”

“Yes, she was wearing Miss Kitty socks,” Mead says, as if this detail alone should be proof enough that he is telling the truth.

“Then why was your suitcase in his room? If you were just up there for one night, to get away from your roommate as you claim, why pack a whole suitcase?”

“There aren’t any clothes in it, Mother, my suitcase is full of papers.”

“Papers? What papers?”

“Research papers for my senior thesis.”

Mead’s father orders two Charlemagnes, leaving his name and number and a deposit check for one thousand dollars with the salesman. The pretty lady re-hooks the velvet rope and Mead follows his parents to the next display.

T
HE REAL REASON MEAD’S MOTHER
joined his father on his trip north to the big city this year was to meet Dean Falconia. Without Mead’s knowledge, the dean cordially invited Mr. and Mrs. Lynn Fegley to join him for lunch in the dining room in Baylor Hall, the place where all well-to-do alumni with open pocketbooks and parents of matriculating students are invited to dine with the dean while in town. As a stopover between the art museum and the opera house.

“I don’t understand why I have to go,” Mead says. “I can see the dean on any day of the week.”

“Because,” his mother says, by which she means that he is still on probation for having killed his cousin, not to mention the additional personal indignities she has had to suffer as a result of Mead’s sleeping arrangements. “Straighten your tie,” she says, “and tuck in your shirt.”

So Mead tucks in his shirt and follows his parents up the stone steps and through the arched doorway that leads into Baylor Hall. The black-and-white checkered floor of the dining hall reminds him of a giant chessboard, and Mead cannot help but feel like some kind of pawn, a thought that solidifies into fact when he sees who is sitting at the table with Dean Falconia.

“Mr. and Mrs. Fegley,” the dean says. “I’m so glad you could both make it.” The man is decked out in a pinstripe suit and ascot, as if he were British royalty and this was the Queen’s palace. “I’d like you to meet Dr. Kustrup, the chairman of our mathematics department, the man who has been instrumental in bringing along your son.”

Dr. Kustrup? Instrumental? Dean Falconia has got to be kidding. From whom is he getting his information?

Their table is draped in white linen and decorated with hand-painted china and crystal stemware. It looks better suited for a museum than a dining hall. Mead can tell his mother is impressed for something like the hundredth time this weekend. First Herman and now this. Dr. Kustrup pulls out her chair and she smiles at him as she sits down.

“I’m very excited about the work Mead’s been doing,” Dr. Kustrup says as he nibbles on his shrimp cocktail, red sauce dribbling onto his beard.

This comes as quite a surprise to Mead, who has not spoken more than two words to the professor all quarter. But somebody else apparently has.

“It is unheard of,” Dr. Kustrup says, “for a mathematician as young as your son to have grasped, let alone mastered, theories of such complexity.”

“Where’s Dr. Alexander?” Mead asks. “Why isn’t he here? If anyone around here is going to take credit for bringing me along, it should be Andrew Alexander.”

Dr. Kustrup and Dean Falconia exchange a look, then the dean clears his throat and says, “I’m afraid he couldn’t make it, Mead.”

“Couldn’t make it or wasn’t invited?”

“Teddy,” his mother says. “If Dean Falconia says the man couldn’t make it, then I’m sure he couldn’t make it.”

“It’s quite all right, Mrs. Fegley,” Dr. Kustrup says. “I understand how Mead feels. He and Dr. Alexander have spent many an afternoon working together. His loyalty is to be commended. But the dean and I have big plans for your son. With our help, he will be able to take his work to the next level, to get exposed to the right people, people guaranteed to grant your son a fruitful future in the world of mathematics.”

The dean goes on to explain that invitations are being sent out to all the big-name mathematicians, inviting them to attend Mead’s presentation. That there is a great deal of interest in the work he is doing in the area of number theory. An auditorium has been booked, a cocktail hour arranged. “This is going to be,” the dean says, “the most important event the university has sponsored all year.”

Mead’s mother is impressed. Dr. Kustrup is impressed. The dean is impressed. Even Mead’s father looks impressed. And all those impressed faces are making Mead feel sick to his stomach. When did this happen? How did Mead’s presentation of his senior thesis to a classroom of his peers turn into this overblown dog-and-pony show? And why didn’t anybody tell him about it before now? Their expectations are too big even for this ballroom-size dining hall. Mead stares up at the high-domed ceiling, at a chandelier that looks as tall and wide as a Christmas tree, and wonders what the odds are that it will break free and come crashing to the floor in the next five minutes. And if it were to fall, would it even kill the right people? Because, really, Mead does not see any other way out of his predicament.

B
UT THE CHANDELIER
DOES NOT FALL. Lunch ends and Mead walks with his parents back to their car. Along the way, however, another kind of miracle happens when they stumble upon Dr. Alexander sitting under an oak tree eating a sandwich out of a brown paper bag. Couldn’t make it my foot! He’s wearing his usual uniform of a button-down shirt with an inked-stained pocket and khaki pants with heel-worn cuffs. Mead is so happy to see the man that he nearly gushes as he introduces the professor to his parents. “Mom. Dad. This is the man who introduced me to analytical mathematics, to Bernhard Riemann and his famous unproven hypothesis.” Dr. Alexander has a bit of trouble untangling his seventy-eight-year-old legs and then getting himself into the upright position and, in the process, some of his hair comes loose from the rubber band holding it back and falls over his face. The professor tucks his hair behind his ear and extends a hand to Mead’s mother. “You have a very bright and talented son, Mrs. Fegley. He reminds me of myself when I was his age. You must be very proud.”

“Thank you,” she says, but never lets go of her purse. Back at the car, Mead says, “The least you could have done was shake the man’s hand.”

“He looked dirty.”

“He’s not a leper, Mother, he’s brilliant. Smarter than the dean and Dr. Kustrup and the whole rest of the mathematics department put together. But more importantly, he is my mentor and friend.”

“I liked the other professor better,” she says and gets into the car.

Mead sighs with relief when the taillights of his father’s car drop out of sight.

B
Y THE TIME MEAD WALKS BACK
to the oak tree, Dr. Alexander is gone. As is his bike from in front of Epps Hall. Mead thinks about hopping the city bus and riding out to the professor’s house to have a talk with him, to ask Dr. Alexander if he knew about the lunch at Baylor Hall, if he knows about this three-ring circus into which the dean and Dr. Kustrup have roped Mead. And whether or not he thinks it is a good idea. If perhaps he shares Mead’s concern that it is too much too soon. In the end, though, he decides he does not have the time. Instead, he walks back to the dorm to get his suitcase and then heads over to the library. He’s still got about three-and-a-half hours before closing. Time enough to get some work done, to finish mapping out that stupid outline for the dean. Visiting mathematicians. Shit. That’s heady stuff. If Mead is going to do this, then he has to do it right. To make a good impression. What if he gets up on the stage in front of all those seasoned mathematicians and makes a fool out of himself? His reputation will be destroyed. His name will be mud. His future will be over before it has even had a chance to begin!

Mead trots up to the fourth floor and finds Herman sitting on his bed, fully clothed for a change, and reading a book —a thriller of some sort, not a textbook —and listening to a Bach concerto. The scratch on his neck is not visible, hidden as it is beneath the collar of his shirt. Might it really have been made by a staple?