Life After Genius (43 page)

The door to the men’s room opens and a student steps in. When he sees Mead peering over the top of the stall, he backs out again. As if Mead were the crazy one and not Herman. He almost runs after the boy to explain, to proclaim his innocence, but decides it more important to save his explanation for somebody else.

M
EAD WALKS DOWN THE BARREL-VAULTED HALLWAY
past portraits of deans come and gone. A century’s worth of oil-painted eyes staring down at him, judging him. Impassive faces that hide secrets that were buried along with the men who knew them and told no one, secrets that were necessary to uphold not only their reputations but the reputation of the institute they represented. They scowl and frown and shake their heads as Mead passes by. “Who let him in here?” one of the bearded men says, his voice booming off the arched ceiling and echoing down the limestone passageway. “We don’t like squealers,” says another. “You have to play the game by the rules,” says a third. But Mead ignores them all and keeps walking. It must be the pain pills he’s taking. They’re playing tricks with his head. He needs to lie down and rest but first he needs to speak with the dean.

At the end of the hall is a mahogany door with a brass plaque that reads:
OFFICE OF THE DEAN
. Mead goes through it and up to the secretary. Only it isn’t the dean’s regular secretary, it’s Mead’s mother. And she’s wearing a suit of armor. Mead blinks and rubs his eyes. Damn, those pills are strong. He looks again and the suit of armor is gone, as well as his mother, and sitting in her place is a middle-aged woman Mead has never before seen. “Hello,” she says. “How may I help you?”

“Where is the dean’s regular secretary?”

“She’s on vacation. May I help you?”

“I’d like to speak with Dean Falconia.”

“And you are?”

“In a bit of a hurry.”

She frowns, displeased with Mead’s response. “Do you have an appointment?”

“It’s urgent.”

“I’m sorry, young man, but Dean Falconia is busy at the moment. I suggest you make an appointment and come back later.”

Mead stares at the door to the dean’s inner sanctum. Sealed shut. Closing the man off from all the unscrupulous activity taking place right under his nose. The dean needs someone to tell him what has been going on, to raise his awareness before things get any worse. An ambassador of truth: This is the position to which Mead has elected himself. To make a wrong right, to make several wrongs right. Mead would have happily kept his mouth shut, taken his diploma, and quietly slid out of Dodge, so to speak. But too much has happened. Too many injustices, too many lies, Shirley was just the last straw. Dean Falconia has to know the truth about Dr. Kustrup and Herman. About their extracurricular activities. And about the grave mistake he would be making if he were to allow Dr. Kustrup to force Dr. Alexander —the best intellectual mind in his mathematics department —into retirement. It is time to set the record straight, to open the dean’s eyes to all the rats in his kitchen.

“I’ll only be a minute,” Mead says and reaches for the doorknob to the dean’s office with his good hand. The secretary, defying her age, springs up out of her chair to try and stop him. “Excuse me, young man,” she says. “You can’t go in there.” But it’s too late; Mead already has the door open.

Behind the dean’s broad oak desk sits a deep-cushioned chair, its leather upholstery worn smooth. A chair where decisions that change people’s lives are made every day. A chair that is, at the present moment, empty. Shit.

“When will he be back?” Mead asks.

The secretary crosses her arms under her breasts, peering at Mead over the top of her reading glasses. “Not until this afternoon. Why don’t you come back at four.”

“Fine. I’ll be back at four,” he says and pushes his way out of the office and down the hall, the periodical falling out of his back pocket.

“Young man,” the secretary calls after him. “You dropped something.” She picks up the thin pamphlet and waves it in the air. “Young man, you didn’t give me your name.” But Mead cannot hear her over the din of all those past deans casting disparaging remarks upon him.

S
OMEONE SHAKES HIS SHOULDER
and Mead wakes up. His mouth is dry, his throat parched. He didn’t mean to doze off like that. It must be the damned pills; they’re making him drowsy. He goes to raise himself up on his arm but a shockwave of pain shoots through his body, causing him to fall back on the bed. Shit. He forgot all about his maimed hand.

“How did you get in here?” Herman asks.

Mead looks up at his best friend. He sounds mad. Mean even. It is a side of Herman that Mead has never before witnessed firsthand, although he has amassed plenty of secondhand knowledge of it. “The resident advisor let me in,” Mead says. “I told him I left one of my books in here.”

“That’s trespassing, you know. I could have you arrested.”

Mead swings his feet over the side of the bed and sits up. And that’s when he sees Mr. Weinstein, standing in the doorway behind Herman. Shit. Mead came up here to confront Herman about propositioning Shirley. To ask his so-called best friend why he would do such a rotten thing. To give the guy a chance to convince Mead that it was a poorly thought out joke that, in hindsight, he regrets terribly. He wanted to make the guy squirm a little, to make Herman grovel his way back into Mead’s favor. He forgot all about Mr. Weinstein being in town.

“Relax, Herman,” Mr. Weinstein says. “The boy is your friend. I’m sure he didn’t mean any harm by coming in here, did you Mead?”

“No, sir,” Mead says and wonders why Herman’s father is in town this week as opposed to next week. For graduation.

Mr. Weinstein nods at Mead’s bandage. “What happened to your hand?”

I hit the wrong guy. This is what Mead would like to say to make Mr. Weinstein aware of the immoral things Herman has been doing as of late. He wonders how well the elder Weinstein knows his son. Whether or not the man would be shocked to learn that Herman bribes his professor and beats up his girlfriend. Mead does not feel, however, like being the person to open the man’s eyes. Even if Mr. Weinstein were to be receptive to such knowledge, he might not feel grateful for it. He might harbor some misdirected anger at the messenger. And it would not exactly be to Mead’s benefit to antagonize Mr. Weinstein at this point, to possibly jeopardize the man’s good feelings toward him, to muck up the best chance Mead has of getting into that Institute in Princeton. Better that Mr. Weinstein learn of his son’s misdeeds through a neutral third party. Like the dean. Mead would prefer to leave himself out of it altogether since none of these matters concern him directly. All are just observations he has made. He would, however, like to clear up another matter. One first touched upon in Princeton. The one regarding Mead’s work on the Riemann Hypothesis and the misconception that the elder Weinstein appears to have about the degree of his son’s involvement. Mead let it slide before. As a favor to his friend. But in light of what Herman said to Shirley, he feels that now would be a good time to set the record straight.

“What happened to my hand,” Mead says, “is not important. What is important, sir, is that I clear up a misconception that you appear to have made about —”

Herman snatches the vial of prescription pills out of Mead’s breast pocket and says, “This is strong stuff, Fegley. How many have you taken?”

“Not enough,” Mead says and snatches it back. “I still feel pain. As I was saying, sir, I —”

“You still haven’t told me why you broke into my room.”

“I’m trying to, Weinstein, but you keep interrupting me.”

“Quiet, Herman,” Mr. Weinstein says, then, “Go ahead, Mead.”

“It’s about the Riemann Hypothesis, sir. Herman and I are not now, nor have we ever been, working together on it. I don’t know where you got the impression that we were, if you came up with that on your own or somebody fed it to you, but it isn’t true.”

Herman raises his arm and Mead flinches, waiting for the sting of impact, certain that the guy is going to strike him. But instead Herman places his palm on Mead’s forehead and says, “You’re burning up, Fegley, did you know that? I think you might be delusional.” Then he points to his own head and twirls his index finger around in a circle as if to indicate to his father that Mead is crazy.

“I am not the delusional one here, Weinstein,” Mead says. “You are.” He turns back to Mr. Weinstein. “Your son has had it in for me since day one of college. And he stole Dr. Kustrup away from me, did you know that? Your son is a thief.”

Herman laughs. “Listen to yourself, Fegley. Do you realize how paranoid that sounds? I think you better lie back down; you’re all hopped up on painkillers.”

“I am not all hopped up,” Mead says. “I have never felt more clearheaded and sober in my life.” And he steps away from Herman, to distance himself from the enemy, to prove to Mr. Weinstein that he is speaking the truth. But when he steps away, he trips over one of Herman’s feet.
Can you see the floor, Theodore?
The phrase goes through his head as Mead falls, a fall that seems to happen in slow motion. A fall during which he relives every humiliation ever hurled upon him. By the time Mead hits the floor, he has shrunk to the size of his former self. He feels as lonely as that ten-year-old boy in a urine-soaked shirt lying half-naked next to a babbling brook behind the school.

“Jesus, Fegley, you’re in even worse shape than I first thought,” Herman says and kneels down to help him up. But Mead pushes the guy away. “I’m fine,” he says and gets up on his own, then perches himself on the edge of the spare bed and holds his throbbing head in his throbbing hand.

“I should be going,” Mr. Weinstein says to Herman, then turns to Mead. “If I were you, son, I’d rest up. You have a big day ahead of you. I’m looking forward to hearing the presentation on Friday.” Then he turns back to Herman. “If I could have a word with you in the hall?”

“Sure thing, Dad,” Herman says. “Just a sec.” And pulls from his mini-fridge a Coke, pops off the tab, and hands it to Mead. “Drink this, Fegley. It’ll help clear your head. I’ll be right back.”

Mead takes the cold can and holds it to his forehead. Shit. He blew it. He finally had his chance to set the record straight with Mr. Weinstein and he blew it. What could Mead have been thinking? He just accused the man’s son of stalking, assault, and theft. No matter that it’s true, that’s not the point. The point is his story came off as lacking credibility. And it’s all Herman’s fault. If the guy hadn’t propositioned Mead’s date then Mead wouldn’t have hit Forsbeck and he wouldn’t be sitting here in Herman’s room with his hand wrapped in a bandage all hopped up on medication. Double shit. At this rate Mead is never going to get into that damned Institute in Princeton.

They have started arguing. In the hall. Mead cannot make out their words but it is obvious that neither Herman nor his father is very happy. Could it be that Mr. Weinstein believes Mead after all? Or is that just wishful thinking? The argument is short. Perhaps it is not about Mead at all. A pair of hard-soled shoes retreats down the hall making a
slap-slap-slap
noise as their owner trots down the stairs. Silence follows and Mead begins to fill with anxiety. Shit. Now he is going to have to deal with a truly angry Herman, someone Mead is not much looking forward to meeting for the first time.

The guy steps back into his room looking as if he came up on the short end of the argument. His face is ashen; his shoulders, slumped. Mead drops his eyes and knocks back a slug of Coke, rubs his temples, and tries to remember why the hell he came up here in the first place. Oh, right. Shirley.

Herman sits down on his bed, leans back on his elbows, and stares at Mead. “You upset my father, Fegley, with that little outburst of yours. And he doesn’t much like to be upset. I’m trying to understand what just happened here. I’m trying to convince myself that you didn’t just try to screw me over with that little speech of yours —that it was the pills talking, not you —but I’m having a hard time. Help me. Help me to understand.”

“I’m trying to screw you?” Mead says. “You’re kidding, right?”

“No, I’m not kidding. I’ve never been more serious in my life.”

“He believes me, doesn’t he? Your father knows I’m telling the truth.”

“I thought we were friends, Fegley, I thought I could trust you.”

“Trust?” Mead says, not quite believing his ears. “How can you sit there and talk to me about trust? Jesus Christ, Weinstein, you propositioned Shirley. You lied to her about me and then you propositioned her. Why? For what insane reason would a person who claims to be my fucking friend do a thing like that? You’ve got a serious problem, Weinstein. You really ought to seek professional help.” Mead sets down the can of Coke. He has got to talk to Shirley. He has got to explain to her what happened and warn her to stay as far away from Herman as possible. And then he will go back to the dean’s office and tell the man all the crazy things Herman has been doing. Tell him that Weinstein may very well be a madman. Mead stands up, eager to make right all that has gone so horribly wrong, but his knees give way and he slumps to the floor.

Herman jumps off his bed, grabs Mead under the arms, and props him up against the bed. “Jesus, Fegley, you really are a mess. You’re in no shape to be going anywhere. I think you better lie down and sleep it off.”

Mead knows he should leave. Knows he should go talk to Shirley and then to the dean and he wills his body to do just that. To get up and leave. But it doesn’t obey. And truth be told, Mead is not the least bit sure he trusts his legs to get him downstairs to his own room, let alone across campus to the dean’s office. So he lets Herman lift him off the floor. Lies back on the bed and closes his eyes. Just for a minute. Just until his head clears. Then he will go talk to Shirley. And then he will go to the dean’s office and tell the man everything.

M
EAD AWAKES WITH A START
. The room is dark so he cannot read the face of his watch but he doesn’t need to see it to know that he has missed his four o’clock appointment with Dean Falconia. Shit. He might still have time, though, to get to the library before it closes.