Life After Genius (37 page)

A real and an imaginary axis has been drawn below the matrices, the resulting graph a series of dots that looks utterly random. Like birds on a telephone wire. Or rather, several telephone wires. But the Riemann Hypothesis says they are not random, despite their appearance. That their position can be predicted. But how? Maybe that is what Dr. Alexander was thinking about when he was rudely interrupted.

“Oh good, you’re still here,” a voice says. “I was afraid you might’ve already come and gone.”

Mead turns around. Dr. Kustrup is standing in the doorway.

“There’s been a change in plans,” he says. “I’m going to be working with you from now on, Mr. Fegley, instead of Dr. Alexander.”

“Why? Where is he?”

“I’m afraid he’s been in a bit of an accident. Someone sideswiped his bicycle with a car. Don’t worry, though, he’s going to be fine.”

“Who hit him? You?”

Dr. Kustrup gets all huffy-looking. “That’s not very amusing, Mr. Fegley.”

“It wasn’t meant to be.”

The chairman of the math department glances around the office as if for help but none is forthcoming. He looks back at Mead. “This attitude of yours is going to have to change, Mr. Fegley. You have a very important presentation coming up. All eyes are going to be on you, not to mention this university, so it is imperative that we make a good impression. As a team. That’s what I’m here for. To help. As a member of the team. I understand that you and Dr. Alexander have been working together and I think that’s great. But we can’t stop playing simply because one man got knocked out of the game. That’s why I’m here, Mr. Fegley, to take up the professor’s position on the field. So please, if we could just proceed.” And he picks up an eraser and wipes the board clean, wipes away all evidence of Dr. Alexander, then he sits down in his chair, folds his hands together behind his head, and flashes a smile that would make the sleaziest snake-oil salesman look sincere. “Why don’t you start by giving me a dry run-through of your presentation and I’ll tell you whether or not I see any errors in your logic.”

“Where is he?” Mead says.

Dr. Kustrup pretends he hasn’t heard and waits for Mead to begin.

“I said, where is he?”

Dr. Kustrup sighs. “He’s at home, Mr. Fegley, resting peacefully. He fractured his right fibula and will probably be confined to a bed for the rest of the quarter. Now, show me the number fields you used to plot these zeros on the function plane.”

Mead snatches his presentation off Dr. Alexander’s desk and hugs the papers to his chest. “I’ll be happy to show them to you, Dr. Kustrup, at my presentation.” And he heads for the door.

The professor leaps out of the chair, bracing his arm against the doorjamb to block Mead’s exit. “Don’t leave,” he says. “I must advise you, for your own benefit, to stay. Do not resist me, Mr. Fegley. This is for the best. This way everyone wins.”

“Are you threatening me, Dr. Kustrup?” Mead says, then looks down at the chairman’s brown shoes and sees again the two pairs of shoes in the bathroom stall. “Or are you propositioning me?”

“What? No,” he says and drops his arm.

“You had your chance to work with me, Dr. Kustrup, and you gave it up.”

“That wasn’t my choice, Mr. Fegley, my hands were tied.”

“No? Then whose choice was it, Mr. Chairman-of-the-Department?”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Fegley. I made a mistake. What else can I say?”

“Excuse me. I have to go,” Mead says and pushes past the professor cum chairman and out the door.

M
EAD HAS TO TRANSFER BUSES TWICE
to get to Dr. Alexander’s house. The rusting VW Rabbit is parked in the driveway just as before, the professor’s bicycle leaning against the side of the house in its usual spot. Only now the front wheel is crumpled, bent into the shape of a pretzel. Mead steps past it to the front door and rings the bell.

“You’re soaked through to the bone,” Mrs. Alexander says.

“I forgot my umbrella.”

“As bad as my husband,” she says as she steps back to let him inside. “He won’t use one either.” She gets Mead a towel and a dry shirt. A new one still in its original packaging. “I can’t accept this,” he says. “I’ll just take an old shirt.”

“This is old,” Mrs. Alexander says. “It’s been in my husband’s dresser drawer for nearly ten years. A gift from one of his students. He’ll never wear it, though.”

“Why not?”

“It has long sleeves. He hates long sleeves.”

So Mead peels off his wet shirt and puts on the dry one. And it’s a perfect fit.

The professor is in the living room, propped up on a chaise longue that has been outfitted with bed pillows and sheets and blankets. The cats are nowhere in sight, having been displaced from their favorite napping spot. Dr. Alexander’s right leg is in a plaster cast that extends from his toes all the way up to his knee. His gray hair has been freed from its rubber band and fans out over the pillows, giving him the appearance of a cartoon character with his finger stuck in an electrical outlet. A gash on his forehead has been covered with a bandage. A scratch on his cheek has not.

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” the professor says. “It’s worse.”

Mead sets his presentation on the coffee table next to a pitcher of water and a prescription bottle of painkillers. Some of the pages are wet, but all are still legible. “You forgot this,” Mead says, “in your hurry out the door.”

The professor raises his eyebrows. “How did you know I was in a hurry?”

“The chalkboard. It was only half-erased.”

Mrs. Alexander enters the room carrying a tray with two steaming cups of soup on it. “I hope you like cream of cauliflower,” she says as she places one of them in front of her husband and the other one in front of Mead.

“I hate it,” Dr. Alexander says.

“I wasn’t talking to you, dear,” she says. “I was speaking to our guest.” But she says it in a teasing way, not all hostile the way Mead’s mother would.

The professor winces as he lifts his maimed leg off the chaise longue and leans forward to pick up his cup of soup. “I lost track of time,” he says as he sips the soup. “I had an appointment to meet with the dean and the chairman of the math department to further discuss my retirement plans. I was running late.”

“I thought you didn’t want to retire,” Mead says.

“I don’t.” Dr. Alexander takes a second sip, slurping his soup like a child. “The car hit me on my way over there. I should’ve just walked.”

“I knew Dr. Kustrup was behind this,” Mead says. “He was in your office, you know, when I went up there to meet with you today. He offered to help me with my presentation.”

“Did you tell him to go to hell?”

“No, I accused him of attempted vehicular manslaughter.”

“Even better.”

The professor tries, rather painfully, to get his leg back up on the couch. Mead comes around the table to help him. “Easy there, Mead,” Dr. Alexander says. “I’ve still got a few good years left in that appendage.”

“Dr. Kustrup says you’re going to be laid up for the rest of the quarter.”

“Poppycock. I’ll be back next week. He’s not getting rid of me that easily.”

Mead is relieved to hear this. He sets down the professor’s leg and walks back to his side of the table. Sits. “Has anyone ever complained about him?”

“Dr. Kustrup? All the time. He’s a wretched teacher, as you well know.”

“No, I mean his behavior outside of class.”

“Outside of class? He’s a bull in a china shop. Crass. Obnoxious. Opportunistic.”

Mead shakes his head. “No, I mean I saw him in the men’s room. In one of the stalls with another man. A student, I think.”

“Are you talking about sexual harassment? No. There’s never been a complaint of that nature that I know of. The man is a leech, yes, but a predator? Unlikely. Are you sure it was him?”

“All I saw were shoes. I might be wrong.”

“Nonetheless, you should go to the dean and report what you saw.”

“But I’m two weeks away from graduation. I don’t want to make waves.”

“Still.”

“All right,” Mead says, then nods at his presentation. “So, what do you think?”

Dr. Alexander takes another sip from his cup of soup. “The work is thorough and fully comprehensible.”

“But?”

“I’m sure it’ll impress the socks off the dean’s distinguished guest list.”

“But?”

“It proves nothing.”

Mead slouches. “I know. Maybe I shouldn’t present it at all.”

“Poppycock,” Dr. Alexander says. “It’s a well-researched paper with impressive data. If you don’t present these findings, someone else will. Eventually. And take all the credit. It shows that you’re someone to be reckoned with. I say do it, Mead. Announce yourself to the mathematical community. Dazzle their socks off.”

H
ERMAN EMERGES FROM THE STUDENT CENTER
and walks toward the dorm. In one arm he is holding a stack of books, in the other he cradles Cynthia Broussard. She seems to hang on his every word, gazing into his face as he yammers away. Mead watches from his second-story window until they disappear beneath the sill.

But how can this be? Why would Cynthia continue to go out with Herman after what he did to her? Unless, of course, it wasn’t Herman who caused those bruises. But Mead saw the scratches on his neck. Could they really have been caused by a staple? Mead abandons his post by the window and crosses his room to the door. Cracks it open and listens as footsteps come up the stairs. They get louder as they cross the landing on his floor, softer again as they ascend to the third floor. One pair, not two. Which means Cynthia is no longer with Herman. Mead waits for the second hand on his watch to make a full sweep around the dial. Waits to make sure Cynthia isn’t lagging behind. Then he steps out of his room, closes the door, and follows Herman up the stairs.

Mead is about to knock when he hears two people talking on the other side of the door. His hand freezes in midair. But Mead could have sworn he heard only one set of feet on the steps, not two. Now he isn’t so sure. The voices continue talking. Arguing, really. Two males voices. “I can no longer tolerate this kind of behavior,” one of them says. “Calm down and let me explain,” the other answers back. More heated words are exchanged but Mead cannot make them out. Then the voices stop.

Mead drops his hand and retreats to the stairwell. He shouldn’t have come up here. It was a bad idea. He thought he had something to say to Herman. He thought he finally understood what had taken place in the bathroom stall that day. Thought he would tell Herman what he saw before going to the dean. In case the guy wants to come along. But now Mead isn’t so sure. Maybe he got it wrong. Again. Because apparently he got it wrong with Cynthia.

Mead has just started back down the stairs when Herman’s door opens. He steps out into the hall and says, “Hey, Fegley, where you going? Why didn’t you knock?”

Mead stops and looks back, wondering how Herman knew he was there.

“I saw your feet,” Herman says. “Under the door.”

“It’s not important,” Mead says. “You’re busy. I’ll come back later.” And continues down the stairs. But Herman comes after him. He leans over the railing like a prince over the ledge of a balcony and says, “I was just watching the TV, Fegley. But I’m not anymore. Come back up and tell me what’s on your mind.”

“DO YOU PREFER COKE OR PEPSI
?” Herman asks and digs a can of each out of the miniature refrigerator that sits like a nightstand between his two beds.

“Coke,” Mead says and Herman tosses him the can. Mead then perches on the edge of the spare bed, pops the tab off, and glances at the closet door. Herman usually leaves it hanging open but now it’s closed. Watching TV, my foot. That wasn’t the TV Mead heard; someone is in that closet. Hiding. Someone by the name of Dr. Kustrup. Shit. Mead wishes he had never come up here, wishes he had never told Dr. Alexander about what he thinks he saw that day, wishes he could just forget about the whole thing.

Herman sprawls across the other bed —his bed —and says, “So? What’s up?”

Mead has to think of something else to say, make up some other reason for this unexpected visit. He sips his soda and glances at the closet door again. “Are you?” He clears his throat. “Are you and Cynthia still dating?”

Herman appears to give the question a lot of thought. And the longer it takes him to answer, the more idiotic Mead feels for having asked. He should just get up and leave. Walk out of here before he embarrasses himself any further. In front of Herman. In front of Dr. Kustrup. And he is about to do just that when Herman says, “If you mean have we been sleeping together, the answer is yes.”

“And by sleeping together,” Mead says, “you don’t actually mean sleep, correct?”

Herman smiles, a cocky smile that further underscores the lack of good judgment that brought Mead to his room in the first place. “What’s this all about, Fegley?” he says. “Why the sudden interest in my love life?”

Mead glances at the closed closet door. “Never mind. It’s none of my business. I shouldn’t have come up here.” Mead puts down the soda can and stands up. “I’m sorry to have bothered you. I’ll leave.”

Herman grabs his wrist. “Did Cynthia say something to you?”

Shit. Why did Mead have to go and mention her? That’s not even why he came up here. What is wrong with him? “No,” he says. “I . . . I met a girl.”

Herman looks surprised. He lets go of Mead’s wrist and says, “Who is she?”

“Her name is Shirley Tanapat.”

“Tanapat. Can’t say I’m familiar with that name. Is she in one of your classes?”

“No, she’s a librarian. Over at the library.”

Herman smiles, all cocky again. “An older woman. I’m impressed, Fegley.”

“They’re all older women to me, Weinstein. I’m eighteen.” Then he grabs his Coke off the top of the fridge and knocks back a slug. Belches. Decides that since they are on the subject anyway he might as well go ahead and ask. Realizes that he has, in fact, been wanting to ask Herman this question for a while now. One friend to another. “So when did you first know? About Cynthia, I mean.”

“Know what?”

“Come on, Weinstein, don’t make me spell it out, you know perfectly well what I’m asking.”