Life After Genius (32 page)

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.”

S
INCE 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.

S
INCE 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.”

M
EAD 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.

Mead gets up and drags his suitcase down the hall toward his room, swinging wide around a couple leaning against the wall, making out. The door is shut. Odd for a Friday night. Forsbeck isn’t usually so antisocial. Mead opens it and discovers why, sees Forsbeck’s bare ass pumping up and down in the air, a female leg sticking up in the air on each side of it. And Miss Kitty ankle socks. She’s wearing Miss Kitty socks like a grade school girl. Either because her feet are cold or because Forsbeck was in too much of a hurry to allow her to first take them off. Mead closes the door.

The lights in the hall flicker. “It’s midnight,” the resident advisor yells. “All stereos off.” Then he walks down the hall, banging his fist against the closed doors. The entire floor turns silent as a monk’s retreat as couples scurry into dark corners to hide like cockroaches from the light. When the resident advisor is satisfied that his demand has been met, he mounts the stairs to terrorize the inhabitants of the third floor.

Mead sits on his suitcase and waits for Forsbeck’s “friend” to leave. Only she doesn’t. A couple of stereos come back on. Not as many as before. Not as loud. Just loud enough to cover the grunting noises coming from various rooms. Just enough to give the loving couples —many of whom will not remember each others’ names in the morning —time to finish their business.

Mead strolls down the hall and into the bathroom, dragging his suitcase with him. Tucked into the side pocket is a travel kit his Aunt Jewel gave him before he left for college. As if he would be on the road for days instead of hours. He’s never had a reason to use it before now. Mead pulls out the toothbrush and listens to the sound of rushing water coming from the showers. Someone is in there, someone Mead hopes is female. A moment later the shower shuts off and a girl steps out from behind the wall, a girl with a very large bruise on her left breast. When she sees Mead looking at her in the mirror, she covers herself with her towel, and that is when he notices the bruises on her arms. He looks at the girl again. Shit, he knows who she is. Cynthia Broussard. Herman’s Cynthia. Mead had no idea she was living in his dorm, let alone on his floor. He turns around to face her. “Excuse me,” he says. “I know this isn’t any of my business, but are you all right?” Which is apparently not the right thing to say because she bursts into tears. Shit, what is Mead supposed to do now? “I’m sorry. This is really awkward,” he says. “How about I turn around and you get dressed, okay? See? I’m turning around. I’m covering my eyes. And once you’re dressed I’ll walk you over to the health services office and you can tell the nurse what happened and she’ll be able to give you some medical attention and whatever other kind of help you might need.”

“No,” she says. “No help. I’m fine. Please, Mead. No help.”

He uncovers his eyes and turns back around. Cynthia has stepped into her robe and cinched it closed. “Who did this to you?” he says. “Herman? Did he hurt you?”

She shakes her head. “It was an accident. I fell. I was in a hurry and I tripped and fell. It was stupid. I’m fine. Really, I’m fine.”

She’s lying. It’s obvious as hell that she is lying. She must be scared, that’s what it has to be. She’s afraid of Herman, of what he might do if she tells on him. “Okay, well, how about I take you to an emergency room off campus. You really should see a doctor and make sure you’re okay.”

“No. Thank you. Oh god, this is so embarrassing.” And she laughs. But it isn’t a real laugh. It’s another lie. “Don’t tell Herman you saw me like this. Please. He already thinks I’m such a klutz. Okay? No one can know.”

“Okay,” Mead says.

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

“Okay,” she says and smiles weakly, then gathers up her clothes and ducks out of the bathroom.

B
ACK OUT IN THE HALL
, Mead parks his butt on his suitcase and waits for the resident advisor to swing through for a third and final time. Cynthia may have said not to tell Herman but she said nothing whatsoever about keeping it from the resident advisor. And yet when the RA does make his appearance, Mead hesitates. Because what does he know? Maybe it wasn’t Herman; maybe it was somebody else. Or maybe Cynthia really did fall down. One thing he knows for sure: It won’t do any good for him to report the incident if she is just going to lie about it. And so, in the end, he says nothing.

After the stereos all fall silent, Mead presses his ear against his door and hears a female giggle. It seems that Forsbeck’s friend is planning to spend the night. Shit. Mead rolls his suitcase to the end of the hall and lugs it up two flights of stairs, then presses his ear against the door of room 48 —to make sure the coast is clear —before he knocks. Herman answers wearing nothing but a pair of jockey shorts. He looks at Mead, then at his suitcase, smiles and says, “You running away, Fegley?”

“You have a scratch on your neck.”

Herman reaches up and touches the scratch. Two parallel red lines above his right collar bone. “Dry cleaner,” he says. “I forgot to remove their tag and the damned staple got me.”

“That’s a pretty deep scratch for a staple to make.”

Herman frowns. “What’re you trying to say, Fegley?”

But he promised. He promised Cynthia he wouldn’t say anything to Herman. Innocent until proven guilty and all that stuff. “I would suggest that you never take your shirts back to that place again.”