Life After Genius (12 page)

“DAMN IT ALL TO HELL, NOT AGAIN
.”

Mead looks up from his geometry book. He thought it might be better to study out of doors for a change, to get off campus and away from the cafeteria. Seven days. Seven days in a row he sat at the same table at the same time hoping to run into Cynthia again, but she never showed up. And now he has fallen even further behind in class. He thought maybe the fresh air would clear his head, that it might wake up some latent brain cells, but so far it isn’t working out that way. He just keeps getting interrupted. First there was the homeless man looking for spare change, then it was the garbage truck, and now this: some old guy with bloodhound jowls and long, gray hair pulled back into a ponytail. Some half-senile senior riding around the city on his hundred-year-old rusting bicycle instead of the bus so he’ll have enough money at the end of the month to pay his utility bill. Some crazy lunatic cursing at life.

“Excuse me,” Mead says. “Is everything all right?”

The man looks up as if surprised to discover that he is not alone in the world. “No, everything is not all right,” he says. “The chain on my bicycle fell off and now it’s jammed in the gear and I can’t get it out.”

Mead gets up off the bench he has been sitting on for the past two hours and steps over to the bike. He watches the old guy tug at the chain a few times, then lays down his geometry book and says, “Here, let me give it a try.”

“It’s jammed in there too tight,” the old man says. “It’s hopeless.” But he steps back anyway, his hands covered in black grease. Mead wraps his clean hands around the chain, yanks once, and it pops right out. He turns to the old guy and says, “You must’ve loosened it up.”

The old man does not respond, just takes a handkerchief out of his pocket and offers it to Mead. “Here. Wipe off your hands.”

“Thanks,” Mead says and takes the handkerchief even though he has one of his own in his back pocket, so the old guy won’t feel completely useless. And while he is wiping his hands clean, the half-senile senior points to Mead’s geometry book, with all Mead’s various and sundry notations scrawled in the margins, and says, “You’re going about it all wrong.”

“Excuse me?”

“You’re taking Theoretical Geometry with Dr. Kustrup, am I right?”

“Yes. How did you know?”

“Because only Kustrup could turn simple logic into a complicated labyrinth. Allow me to lay out for you some of the basic principles of geometry, just enough to get you back on the right track.” And the old man proceeds to pull Mead up out of the depths of the ocean, to give him the mathematical equivalent of CPR. Then, just as suddenly, he hops back on his bike and says, “I have to go. If I’m late, the wife worries and when she worries, I have to explain. And I hate to give long explanations.”

“Wait,” Mead says. “Who are you? Are you a teacher or something?”

“Yes, something like that,” the old man says and pedals off before Mead can ask him any more questions. He catches a glimpse of the license plate, though, hanging from the back of the seat. It’s easy to remember because there are only three letters: PNT.

A
NOTHER SEVEN DAYS COME AND GO
. Mead eats lunch in the cafeteria every day but Cynthia never shows. He is beginning to think that she is avoiding him, that he said or did something wrong. But what? Mead barely said a word. Maybe that’s it. Maybe he should have talked more. What he needs is another opportunity. One more chance to get it right.

He goes back to the park too. The following Saturday. Sits on the same bench hoping to run into the old guy again, but he never shows either. So Mead goes to the library. He looks through the CU faculty directory for a professor with the initials of PNT and, finding none either past or present, comes to the conclusion that the old man must have taught at another university. Way back when. Mead feels disappointed that the old professor did not come back to the park looking for him, that Cynthia never came back to the cafeteria, and so he does what he always does when confronted with the frustrations of everyday life: He throws himself back into his studies.

F
OUR STUDENTS SHOW UP FOR THE FINAL EXAM
. Mead gets the only A. But Dr. Kustrup is not the slightest bit concerned. He does not seem to get it that his students’ failures are really his own. As a matter of fact, he seems quite pleased with himself.

“My job is to separate the men from the boys,” he says to Mead as they sit together in his stuffy office. “I’m known around here as the gatekeeper to the math department. If a student cannot pass my course, then he just does not have what it takes to be a mathematician. Only the best get past me. Only the brightest and the best.”

Mead might beg to differ but he doesn’t say a word because he knows better. And because Dr. Kustrup has promised him a glorious future.

M
EAD SEES HER CROSSING CAMPUS
. Cynthia Broussard. He sees her and drops his eyes to the sidewalk in case she looks up. To avoid an uncomfortable conversation. An awkward moment. She has probably forgotten all about him by now, all about their lunch that day. A day Mead cannot stop thinking about.

“Hey,” she says. “Mead, long time, no see. How’re you doing?”

He looks up then into her big brown eyes. “I got an A,” he says. “In geometry.”

“Congratulations.”

“Actually, I got A’s in all my classes.”

“See, I told you there was nothing to worry about.”

“And I’m sixteen now, have been for six weeks. I’ve started shaving, too. Last month, in fact. Bought a razor and everything.”

She laughs. “That’s great, Mead. Sounds like things are working out for you.”

And it gives him a burst of confidence. Her laugh. So he says, “How come I never see you in the cafeteria anymore?”

“Oh. I got a part-time job working in the administrative office.”

Mead is relieved to hear this, to know that she has not been avoiding him after all. “I enjoyed it,” he says. “That lunch.”

She smiles. “Yeah, so did I.”

“Maybe we could do it again sometime. Lunch.”

“I’d like that,” she says. “I’d like that a lot.” Then glances at her watch. “Oh, shoot. I’m late. I’ll see you around, Mead, okay?” And she rushes off.

He watches her go, her long brown hair bouncing around her shoulders as she hurries away. He has a date. He actually asked a girl out and she accepted. It only dawns on him later, when he is lying in bed unable to sleep, that he forgot to pick an exact day.

T
HOSE A’S CATAPULT MEAD
right onto the Dean’s List and get him an invitation to the big man’s office. As Mead sits outside the dean’s wood-paneled sanctuary, he cannot help but wish that his mother were here to witness the moment. To see all her hard work and dedication come to fruition. She would be tickled to death. And she would probably tell him to sit up straight and tuck in his shirt, so he does just that.

“He’s ready to see you now,” the secretary says. “You can go right in.”

Dean Falconia is a tall, thin man with very straight posture and a quiet air of confidence about him that reminds Mead of his dad. He likes him right off.

“It’s an honor to finally meet you,” the dean says as he shakes Mead’s hand and gestures for him to sit down. “It’s rare for us to have a matriculating student as young as yourself. Even rarer for one to do so well in his first quarter.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“I just wanted to congratulate you, Theodore, to tell you face-to-face how proud and excited I am to have you here at Chicago University. Keep up the good work, son. You’re off to a fine start.”

“Mead, sir, I prefer to be called Mead.”

“I understand that your father runs his own business.”

“Yes, sir, he does, sir.”

“That’s hard work, running one’s own business, and he has obviously passed that work ethic onto you. You’re lucky to have been given such a good role model.”

“I suppose, sir.”

The dean stands up; their meeting is over. “If ever you need anything, Mead, or have any questions, I hope you won’t hesitate to call on me.”

“I won’t, sir. Thank you, sir.” And he shakes the dean’s hand once more.

O
N THE WAY OUT OF THE BUILDING
, he sees him again. Herman Weinstein. The guy is leaning against the stoop, staring off into space, waiting for who knows what. They exchange a look but Mead does not nod. Not this time. He acts as if he does not recognize Herman and keeps going. At the bottom of the steps, though, Mead cannot resist turning back to see if Herman is looking at him. But the guy is gone.
MEAD RIDES THE TRAIN HOME FOR CHRISTMAS
. He has been gone only a couple of months but it feels like years. He can hardly wait to tell his mother about Dr. Kustrup and the Dean’s List and the Institute for Advanced Study. He will spring the good news on her over supper when his dad and Uncle Martin and Aunt Jewel and Percy are all over at the house, sitting around the table, eager to hear tales from the first Fegley ever to attend a university, everyone hanging on his every word. Mead will start with a brief description of each course, followed by a quick summary of what he learned. Build up the suspense. Make it clear how hard he has studied. Then he will hit them with the Dean’s List. That’s the part that will most impress his mother. What he will not mention is Cynthia. Because it is too soon. He will save that news for his next visit home, after they have been dating awhile. For now he wants his family to focus exclusively on his academic achievements. Only that is not how it happens.

“He did what?” Mead says.

“Packed his bag and took off,” Mead’s mother says. “Last week. There was no note or anything. He just disappeared —poof —without a clue.” She is stuffing a twenty-pound turkey as she talks, filling its ass with bread crumbs. “Your aunt and uncle are worried. They don’t know what to think, where to look for him. They’ve just been worried sick.”

So he did it. Percy actually did it. He packed his bags and ran off to join a minor league baseball team just the way he said he was going to. Mead thought his cousin was bluffing. After all, that was five years ago. A lifetime ago. They were just kids, dreaming out loud. Truth be told, Mead didn’t think Percy had it in him to just up and leave without telling anyone. After all, his cousin has everything a person could possibly want right here in High Grove. Great parents, loads of friends, local fame. Isn’t that enough? Why is Percy being so greedy? It’s supposed to be Mead’s turn now to take center stage and get all the glory. Mead’s turn to be the most popular guy in town. He’s waited a long time for this, through nine long years of torture from his fellow classmates. It isn’t fair.

Poor Aunt Jewel, she must be freaking out. Mead should say something. He should speak up and tell his mother that he knows where Percy is. He should put his aunt and uncle out of their misery. But Mead gave Percy his word: He promised his cousin that he would not tell. And so he doesn’t.

“I want you to be extra courteous this evening,” his mother says. “Sensitive to what your aunt and uncle are going through.”

“What? Like usually I’m not?”

The front doorbell rings. “That must be them now,” his mother says, ignoring his sarcastic comment. “Answer the door for me, will you, Teddy?”

“Mead, Mom. I like to be called Mead now.”

“Go,” she says and waves him out of the kitchen with her oven mitt.

“Well, look at you,” Aunt Jewel says when Mead opens the door. “The big university boy all grown up. College must be agreeing with you. You look great, Teddy. Come here, dear, and give your old aunt a hug. Doesn’t he look great, Martin?”

“Hmph,” Mead’s uncle says and brushes past them into the living room.

He almost says something right then and there, almost tells his aunt and uncle where Percy is, to put their troubled minds at ease. But a promise is a promise. Besides, if he were to tell, he wouldn’t know if he was doing it for his aunt or uncle or for himself, as a way to get back at Percy for breaking their unwritten agreement, for trying to retain the title of “most popular boy in High Grove” beyond its natural expiration date. So Mead keeps his mouth shut. After all, he did not come home to talk about his cousin; he came home to talk about himself.

“I’ve been assigned to this faculty advisor,” Mead says once everyone is seated around the table, “who believes that I have what it will take to be invited to study at this elite institute in Princeton where Einstein himself once taught.”

“That’s wonderful, dear,” his Aunt Jewel says and pats his hand.

“But hardly a surprise,” his mother says. “Tell us more about this institute, Teddy.”

“He’s run off with some harebrained idea of joining a ball club,” Martin says. “I’ll bet my life on it. I thought some sense had gotten knocked into that boy’s head when they passed him over for the draft. Some busybody scout must’ve encouraged him to try and get signed on as a free agent. I’ve got half a mind to hop in the car, drive down to Houston, and drag that boy back home by the collar.”

“I’d have to advise against that,” Mead’s dad says. “First off, you don’t know that he’s in Houston. And secondly, he’d just turn right around and go back. I think you should let this thing play itself out, Martin. Let Percy come back on his own. In his own time.”

“Lynn’s right,” Mead’s mother says. “I mean, what’re the odds that he’s actually good enough to get signed as a free agent anyway? Now, Teddy, tell us about that institute.”

Martin slams down his fork. “And what makes you think that my son is not good enough, Alayne?”

“Calm down, Martin, I’m just being supportive. You just said yourself that you don’t want him playing professional ball. So Teddy, as you were saying.”

“I don’t want him to not play because he isn’t good enough,” Martin says. “He is damn well good enough. I don’t want him to play because he belongs here. In High Grove. Working alongside his old man.”

Mead’s mother shakes her head. “Well, now you’re just not making sense.”

“Oh, I’m making sense, all right, I’m making plenty of sense. It’s a family tradition, Fegley Brothers. A way of life passed down for one generation to the next. But then I guess you wouldn’t get it, would you?” And he glares at Mead.