A Doubter's Almanac (64 page)

Out the window then, a heron swooped low over the cove and landed in the shallows. We both turned to watch. It pulled its wings in and made itself into a statue.

Paulie kept her eyes on it. “Actually, Hans, I didn’t. I had no idea.”

“Well, if it makes you feel any better, he fooled
me,
too, Paulie.”

“Not the way he fooled
me
.”

Out on the cove, the heron leaned forward, then suddenly speared. When it came up, its gullet was wriggling. The ancient face turned slowly toward us. Then the wings beat, and it lifted away.

“Wow,” she said.

“I know. There’s not much mercy in the world, is there?”

“I haven’t changed my opinion about him, Hans—if that’s what you’re trying to say. Being sick doesn’t change the facts.”

“What makes you think you know the facts?”

She blinked.

Then she rose, moved the chair against the wall, and stepped up onto its seat. When she climbed back down, she had another box in her hands, its lid not quite closed. She set it on the floor in front of me. “Go ahead,” she said.

When I opened it, the only thing I saw was the top of the burlap sack. Even so, I knew what it was. “My God,” I said.

“What
is
it, Hans? I found it up there. It’s one of the strangest things I’ve ever seen.”

“I didn’t know he kept it.”

“Kept what?”

I loosened the ties and pulled out a length of it. “It’s a chain he made when he was a kid, Paulie.”

“He
made
that?”

“Yes—from a single piece of wood. He carved the whole thing out of the stump of a beech tree. I don’t even think he was much older than Niels when he did it.”

She blanched. “Oh, God.”

Then she turned to me again and composed her expression. I watched the grief move over her face, then gather itself, then pass out of view. “I don’t know anything about him, Hans. Do you realize that? Not a single thing.”

—

I
WAS UPSTAIRS
in the bedroom when the house shook. Then it shook again. I heard running. When I reached the porch, Mom and Paulie and Cle were already out there. He was standing alongside the shelves. With trembling arms, he turned and pushed another row of books onto the floor.

—

T
WO DAYS LATER,
on a hot, muggy morning near the end of that month, a taxi pulled into the clearing and the driver got out and set a ramp onto the front stairs. A moment later, Earl Biettermann came rolling up to the door. Cle had packed her things by then, and Earl yanked the first of her suitcases onto his lap and coasted it down to her Citroën. He tossed it into the trunk and turned back for the next one.

I don’t think he was really there to pick up his wife, though: she could easily have shipped the car and gone home on a plane.

When the last bag was loaded, he rolled into the house and parked his chair in the living room. My mother and Cle and Paulie were gathered around the table by then, admiring what I’d brought in. “Goodness,” said my mother. “What
is
this thing?”

Cle said, “
My God,
Milo—of course you still have it.”

My father’s eyes lifted. He was making his way out from the kitchen, running his cast against the wall for balance. His hand went to the lamp, then the chairback. At the couch, he lowered himself.

My mother picked up a section in her hands and said, “Oh, my God, Milo.”

Dad sank into the cushions. The links were fifty years old, and when they shifted in my mother’s fingers they emitted the clink of stone. But the pale grain had hardly darkened.

“Ah,” said Dad, “you found it, I guess.” He nodded vaguely. “The magnum opus.”

His words were slurred, and a moment later his face grew dull. Then he was asleep.

That’s when Biettermann rolled closer. “Maniacal,” he said quietly. He reached and brought a length of it onto his lap. Each link was the size of his fist, each turn of it cambered into both a twist and loop. He ran his finger around one of the twists. “Born to the field,” he said, peering through the gap to the couch. “I have to give him that much.”

“Single sided,” said Paulie. “Feel it.”

“I just did.” He dropped it back onto the table and moved toward the couch. “And you know what?” I could see it riling him. “It still comes to nothing—that’s the thing. That’s the whole problem. Just like everything else he ever did—it all came to nothing.”

“Oh,
please,
” said Cle.

“Even his Malosz theorem didn’t help him in the end.”

I looked at Earl. He was in his own pain.

“It was you,” I said. “Wasn’t it?”

He didn’t answer.

“Wasn’t it, Earl?
You
sent it to us.”

“He couldn’t stop himself,” Biettermann said. “He was this close. But he fixed on a bad idea. He fixed on bad ideas all his life.”

“It was you, Earl, wasn’t it? You had to have been ecstatic to find it.”

“The whole Malosz thing was luck, you know.” He turned the chair. “You all realize that, don’t you? It was luck.” He tapped his hands against the rails and laughed noisily. “The Fields Medal went to a piece of blind fucking luck.”

“Oh, my God,” I said.

“Earl,” said Cle, “that’s enough.”

But he rolled closer. “Nobody gets lucky twice, though, do they, Andret?” He shook Dad’s shoulder. “Couldn’t pull it off with Abendroth, could you?”

Dad’s eyes didn’t open.

“That’s enough, Earl.”

In the chair he drew back his shoulders, the way he did before he picked up his weights. “Stuck yourself for a decade on a bad idea. If you hadn’t, who knows what you might have done.”

“Enough.”

“Tossed away your last great chance.”

My mother stepped to the center of the room then and said, “My husband changed mathematics. Nothing you’ve ever done comes close to that.”

Biettermann didn’t even look up. “He had a good mind,” he said, “no doubt about it. But it was crippled. Look at him. You can say what you want. But that’s the truth.” He pushed all the way to the couch then, where Dad’s eyes finally blinked open. “Wasted. Never clear enough to see your way through to the end of anything.”

Cle started toward the wheelchair.

“Were you, Milo?”

Dad said quietly, “I don’t even see you.”

Biettermann bent forward. “Then listen to me. I can smell it. Something’s rotten in the state of Denmark.”

“And I thought you were coming to say goodbye,” said Paulie.

“That’s what I
am
doing.” He slapped the rails. “Goodbye, Andret.”

Cle grabbed the chair then and pulled Earl backward, so quickly that the heels of his shoes bumped along the floor. If she hadn’t, I think the chain would have struck him in the head. Paulie had swung it from her hip, so wildly that when it missed him it lashed back around and smacked her on her own knee. “Ouch,” she cried and jerked at it.

Like a snake disturbed from its den, the whole slippery thing began sliding off the table then, first slowly, then swiftly, until with a sickening clatter it crashed onto the floor. “Oh, Jesus,” Paulie said. She dropped to her knees. “Oh God.” She bent over and began pulling at it, passing the loops through her fingers and rubbing them on her skirt. She lifted the burlap sack off the table and started setting the links carefully back inside. “I think it’s okay. I think it’s—”

Then she whispered, “Oh, God, Dad. I am so sorry.”

On the floor lay a single, curved chip.

There was silence.

Biettermann said, “Well, Paulette, that didn’t work out quite the way you’d hoped, did it?”

“Fuck you, Earl.” She turned on him. “Get the fuck out of here!”

He raised his eyebrows.

My mother said, “Just stay away from my husband.”

“To which of us are you referring?” said Earl.

“To
both
of you.”

“Well, for one, Helena,” he replied, “he’s not your husband anymore.”

“Please,” said Cle. “Please, we came to help.”

Paulie wheeled. “To
help
? You came
to
help
?”

“Yes. We did.”

“Well, you can help by getting the hell out. Both of you. I can’t believe you’re still here. You
both
disgust me!”

My mother stepped around the table then and pulled Paulie into her arms; then she turned and walked her into the kitchen. When Mom came back in, she was alone. She moved to the center of the room, picked up the broken piece, and laid it on the mantel. It was a crescent, as long and narrow as one of her fingers, still bearing both aspects of its curve.

She approached my father then, who’d fallen back asleep. “Why didn’t you tell me?” she said. She leaned down and shook his shoulder. “Milo.”

A rough snore.

“You never showed this to me, sweetheart.” She reached back and pulled the burlap sack toward her. “You showed
her,
but not me. If you’d loved me, you would have shown this to me.” She knelt beside him. “It’s extraordinary, Milo. It’s so beautiful.”

“Helena,” Cle said clearly from across the room. “He did love you.”

“No, he didn’t. I know he never did.”

“Yes, yes. He did. He loved you. He loved his children. He loved all of you.”

Paulie appeared in the doorway. “He never loved anybody.”

“He did,” I said.

“Oh, yes,” said Cle. “Hans is right. He loved you
,
Helena. He loved you, Paulie. He loved you, Hans. He loved all of you.”

“How could you even say that?” said my sister.

“Because he told me.”

My mother flinched.

I stepped across and stood next to her. She was still on her knees alongside Dad, but she drew back her shoulders and said, “All I know is that he never told any of
us
that.”

“He never told anyone anything,” Cle said. “That’s just how he was.”

“Then why did he tell
you
?”

“Because he
didn’t
really care about me, Helena.” She crossed the room, tucking at bits of her hair that had unwound, and when she reached my mother she held out her hands. To my surprise, my mother took them. Without a word then, Cle pulled her gently to standing. She pressed Mom’s fingers to her lips and for several moments just held them there.

—

A
T THE REAR
of the hotel room, Biettermann looked up. “It was good of you to come,” he said. He was sitting in front of the veined mirror, working a cuff link into his sleeve. “Things got out of hand yesterday. I’m sorry it happened.”

“Yes, they did.”

“I imagine it’s the last time I’ll speak to you—to
any
of you, probably—but that wasn’t my intent. I was here for other reasons. I wanted to say—well, I
did
want to say goodbye to your dad.” He nodded at me. “Things got away from us. I’ve always been a competitor, and so has he. We’ve known each other a long time.”

“I know that.”

“My wife and I are going home this afternoon.”

“I’m aware of that, too.”

The room was the best in the hotel, but the air conditioner was rattling against the wall. He slapped it with his hand. Without turning, he said, “Those pills won’t be enough, you know.”

“Which pills?”

“The ones the doctor gave him. What that doctor prescribed is pretty much baby aspirin.”

“Well, they’ve worked so far. And he uses something else at night.”

He turned from the wall and rolled to the desk. “Well, that won’t work forever, either. Not when you need it to, anyway. My wife showed me what you’re giving him.” He pulled at his sleeve, still finishing the cuff link. “That’s all I wanted to say.”

“Okay.”

“Look,” he said, “obviously I’m judicious. I run one of the most profitable divisions in the house. I can’t be careless.”

“And?”

He rolled closer now, shaking out his sleeve. “And the pain’s taught me something, you know? Have you ever been in pain like that? Not everyone can bear it. But if you’re strong, it eventually just makes you stronger.” He held up his wrists. “That’s what I’ve learned. The stuff they tell you is bullshit. If you’re disciplined, you can keep control of anything. That’s the only truth.” He tilted his chair backward and held it there until his forearms shook. Then he let it down. “Yes, to answer your question, I’m in a
lot
of pain. You’ve never experienced anything like it. And I hope you never do.”

“So what did you want to tell me?”

He rolled to the mini-fridge then and opened the door. “You have to keep it cold,” he said. When he returned he was holding the silver cigarette case in his hand. He leaned forward and gave it to me. “This is for your father, Hans.”

—

W
HEN
I
CAME
down the stairs that night, he was snoring softly. He’d kicked off part of his sheet, so I lifted it and folded it in around his legs. I wasn’t sure he needed his medicine, but I went about preparing a dose anyway, moving quietly and standing at the window so I could use the light of the moon. Through the screens, the lake looked calm, but I could hear it chiming against the pebbles.

“Why am I still here?”

I looked back. I wasn’t even sure he was awake.

I waited a moment.

“Hans?”

“Because you’re strong, Dad.”

A silence.

“You know,” he said, “I used to wonder whether I’d be scared.”

I switched on the lantern and set it at his feet. I could see his belly now, pushing up the sheet. “Well,” I said, “
are
you?”

“Yes.”

I pulled the chair closer and took his hand.

“I can’t hold anything even. It all falls through. I never know why or when.” He lifted one leg, moved it an inch, and set it down. Then he lifted the other. I realized he was trying to roll onto his side so that I could give him his shot. But when I leaned down to help, he shook his head. “I’ll do it.”

Slowly, he shifted his pelvis. One leg moved a little, then the other. The cast stayed against the wall, and finally, with his good hand, he reached out and brought it close to his side. “But first,” he said, “a little ballet.”