The Genius

by Jesse Kellerman

  HIS FIRST THREE MARRIAGES had been unmitigated disasters, and he had sworn off a fourth when he met Nadine at a charity event. It was 1968; he was twenty-two years her senior, cranky, misanthropic, known among women as a meat grinder. She was bright, splendid, charming—in all ways wrong for him. She actually intimidated him—him, one of the richest men in New York!—and upon introduction, he was deliberately cold. She made a joke about the cause being feted and picked a piece of lint from his lapel, igniting within him a fierce desire that burned until her oncologist admitted that nothing more could be done.

  Unaccustomed to failure, David flew her around the world in search of specialists; and though she played along, when she was gone, he tore himself up for having exhausted her. If he had just let her go in peace… He grew surly, snappish, interpreting people’s assurances of eventual recovery as a sign that they didn’t understand how different she’d been. How could he hope to make them see? It’s a feeling no one can contain in words, certainly not David. He didn’t want to explain himself to anyone. He didn’t need to. The best proof of what she’d meant to him, the living proof, was the boy.

  HE HAD NOT WANTED MORE CHILDREN, considering them the downfall of his first three marriages. Supposedly a child expanded your capacity for happiness. But David saw happiness as a zero-sum game. Children threw the entire equation out of balance, and worst of all, they remained once the wives had fled, draining his energy, money, and sanity. He had no idea how to talk to them; he felt ridiculous kneeling down and asking questions he knew the answers to. He had been left to raise himself; why couldn’t they do the same? When Amelia or Edgar or Larry wanted something, he told them to put it in writing.

  But despite his efforts, they grew up soft. Their mothers spoiled them, and by the time he was called on to be a father, it was too late. The boys became yes-men, unimaginative, unable to do anything except take orders given in a stern voice. He made them vice presidents. Amelia didn’t do much more than garden. It was good that she lived overseas.

  He had enough problems. Why add another into the mix?

  “I’m too old.”

  Nadine said, “I’m not.”

  “I’m a lousy father.”

  “You’ll be a better one this time.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “I’ll help you.”

  “I don’t want to be a better father,” he said. “I’m happy being a lousy father.”

  “You don’t mean that.”

  “I do.”

  “You don’t,” she said.

  “Nadine,” he said. “I have enough experience to know that I am not fit to raise children.”

  “What are you so afraid of?”

  He wasn’t afraid of anything. Fear is what you feel when something bad might happen. He knew for a fact that it would. What he felt was doomed. He had been here before.

  “I love you,” she said. “This is what I want. Please don’t argue with me.”

  He said nothing.

  “Please,” she said.

  HE COULDN’T DENY HER FOREVER. All she had to do was stop asking outright.

  At her request he tried to be a better father. Take him out, she said. Take him somewhere fun. David didn’t know where to go, and Nadine refused to spoonfeed him. She told him to use his imagination. But at three he had played alone in his room. At three, he had begun to read; he could hold a violin. He had no idea what normal three-year-old children did.

  He took him to the office, where he tried to interest him in plastic models of buildings yet to be constructed. He showed him a planned water-front in Toronto. He showed him two shopping malls in New Jersey. He thought it was going well until his secretary told him that the child was clearly bored to death. At her suggestion David took him instead to the Museum of Natural History. Although he had a seat on the board of directors, he stood in line, like a normal father might, and bought three tickets: one for himself, one for the boy, and one for the nanny who had been tagging along silently all morning. Look, David said to his son. He pointed to a dinosaur skeleton. The boy began to cry. David tried to distract him with other exhibits but the dam had broken. The boy cried; he was inconsolable; he didn’t stop until they’d gotten back to the house on Fifth and David handed him off to his mother, saying, Take him, please.

  That was the last time he tried to be a better father.

  But motherhood became Nadine, very much, too much, and everything he’d known would happen began to happen. He felt her drift away from him and he was powerless to stop it. Hadn’t he told her? He had; he’d warned her. She hadn’t known any better—but he had, and he had warned her. He should have been more firm. He should have told her to wait five years, see if she still felt the same way, if she still wanted to jeopardize everything.

  NADINE BROUGHT LIGHT TO THE HOUSE, and when she was gone, the darkness that returned to reclaim its place—the darkness David had so long lived with, if not happily, then at least uncomplainingly—began to suffocate him. The slightest disturbances brought on crushing migraines, so severe that he had to lie down until they passed. Anything could trigger them. A sudden noise, a piece of bad news. The thought of something stressful.

  And the boy, of course. He would not sit still. He threw tantrums. He was stubborn, he was willful; he would persist in ridiculous beliefs even after David had pointed out to him, for the billionth time, their glaring flaws. His superstitions irritated David to the point of anger or worse; sometimes, when the boy was asking about his mother, David would simply ignore him, shielding himself with his newspaper and waiting for the questions to stop. He was too old to maintain the charade. He did not want to talk about imaginary things; real life was bad enough. He would grip his forehead and tell the nanny to take him away, take him away.

  The headaches faded with time, but the boy’s behavior only got worse. They would send him to school and within months he would be expelled. He used drugs. He stole. David didn’t want to hear about it; when Tony tried to involve him, he simply said, “Handle it.” The boy was lost, Tony said. He needed a guiding hand. And David replied that they would do nothing to interfere—believing, as always, in the power of the self to create meaning and pave its own road.

  IN HIS SEVENTY-SEVENTH YEAR, he had gotten used to his life, gotten used to the idea that his daughter was frivolous, that his first two sons were milquetoasts, that his third was unmanageable and spiteful. He had accepted it all, without regret or remorse. All he wanted to do was live and work and then die.

  Then he sat down to lead an afternoon board meeting and pain laced down his arm and the next thing he knew he’d been steamrolled, whisked high above the room, floating eight feet over the table and staring down at his own limp body, the picture of indignity, some half-wit executive trying to give him CPR and breaking his ribs. He tried to protest but no noise came out. Then he closed his eyes and when he opened them the room was full of doctors and nurses and beeping machinery. Tony was there, too. He offered his hand and David took it. His best and only friend, the only person who had never abandoned him. He squeezed as hard as he could. His hardest was not very hard. His heart had shriveled. He could feel it. Whether from disuse or bad living or bad genes, his heart had remodeled itself, permanently.

  They could do a lot for a man his age with his condition, a lot more than they had been able to do for Nadine. Within a month he was walking around as though nothing had ever happened. Physically, he was fine, though he constantly felt glum and anxious. Had he been of a different generation, he might have indulged himself in therapy. That was not the Muller way. He called Tony in and said that they were going to make some changes starting now.

  HE CALLED UP HIS DAUGHTER, called up his eldest sons. Amelia was baffled but got on a plane. Edgar and Larry came to the house and brought their own children. When everyone had gathered in his office, he told them he wanted them to know that they all meant a great deal to him. Everyone nodded, but they were all looking in different directions: at the ceili
ng, at the doodads on the mantel, at the stone carving above the fireplace—anywhere but at him. Nodding into oblivion. Embarrassed by this sudden display of emotion; afraid to offend him. They thought he was going to die, and they wanted to make sure they got their cut.

  He said to them, “I’m not going to die.”

  Amelia said, “I would hope not.”

  When did she start talking like that, in that voice? Who were these people? His children, a bunch of strangers.

  Larry said, “We’re glad you’re feeling better, Dad.”

  “Yes,” said Edgar.

  David said, “Don’t count me out just yet.”

  “We won’t.”

  “Have any of you talked to your brother?”

  No one spoke.

  Amelia said, “I saw him last year.”

  “You did.”

  She nodded. “He came to London for the fair.”

  “How is he?” David asked.

  “Well, I think.”

  “Would you tell him to get over here and see me.”

  Amelia looked away. “I can try,” she said softly.

  “Tell him. Tell him how bad I look. Exaggerate if you have to.”

  Amelia nodded.

  But the boy, willful as ever, would not come. David’s blood boiled. He wanted to use a stronger hand. In a rare moment of dissent, Tony said, “He’s a grown man.”

  David glared at him. Et tu?

  “I’m just saying,” said Tony. “At his age you were running the company. He’s capable of making his own decisions.”

  David said nothing.

  Tony said, “I went to Queens, like you asked.”

  “And.”

  Tony hesitated. “He’s not good, David.”

  “He’s sick?”

  “I think so. He can’t keep living there. It’s like a junkyard.” Tony shifted around nervously. “He recognized me.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “He called me Mr. Wexler.”

  David said, “Jesus.”

  Tony nodded.

  David said, “What do you suggest?”

  “A nursing home. Someplace where he won’t have to look after himself.” David thought. “I have a better idea.”

  HIS SPINE WAS HOOKED. Skin dangled from his arms. When they took him to the doctor, he weighed in at ninety-two pounds. He might have been David’s uncle rather than his nephew. They fed him; they cleaned him up, removed his cataracts, and installed him on the third floor of the house on Fifth, in David’s childhood bedroom.

  IN THEIR RUSH TO GET HIM out of the apartment, they neglected to look inside the boxes, which Tony assumed were full of junk. Not until he began receiving voicemails from someone who’d spoken to someone who had talked to someone at the Carnelian unit—some fellow named Shaughnessy—did Tony bother to go down and take a good look. When he did, he called David and, following a lengthy discussion, secured permission to call the Muller Gallery.

  VICTOR TOOK TO TV QUICKLY. The constant stream of chatter seemed to comfort him. It didn’t matter what was on: David would find him watching infomercials, whispering to himself and to the people on the screen, whom he clearly preferred to real company. His weight improved, although he still ate only when food was brought to him. David’s attempts to engage him in conversation were silently rebuffed. He did manage to pry out an affinity for checkers. They played once or twice a day, Victor smiling as though remembering a private joke.

  WHEN THEY PRINTED THE PIECE in the Times, David brought it in to show him. Victor saw the photograph of his drawings and turned pale. He dropped his bowl of soup. He clutched the page, crumpled it, turned on his side and pulled the blanket over his head, refusing to respond to David’s questions or to come out. For two days he didn’t eat. David, grasping his mistake, made a promise to Victor, one that seemed to reassure him a little. Then David called Tony and told him to get those drawings back at any cost.

  THE PAGES WERE OLD AND FRAGILE; they’d been disassembled into individual panels. David stood at the bedside while Victor flipped through them, lingering over a picture of five dancing angels and a rusty star. David asked if Victor was happier now. Instead of answering, Victor got out of bed and limped down across the room to the window overlooking Ninety-second. With difficulty he raised the sash, then took the drawings and, one by one, shredded them out over the sidewalk. It took ten long minutes to get rid of everything, and David had to work not to raise objections. They’d probably be fined for littering. Add a hundred dollars to the two million they’d already spent. But money was just money, and when Victor was done he looked calmer than he ever had. For the first time in weeks he looked David in the face, wheezing slightly as he crawled back into bed and turned on the TV.

  THAT ISN’T THE ONLY WAY in which Tony’s plan has proved a disappointment. It has failed altogether at its primary goal. His youngest son never wrote a thank-you card, never called. David supposes that this is fitting. He reaps what he has sown. Born alone, he will die alone.

  At least he has Victor. They are, he supposes, two of a kind.

  And he has the house on Fifth. In a way, it has been his most constant companion, if not the most genial one. Since inheriting it, David Muller has had four wives, four children, countless domestics, and several lifetimes’ worth of headache, both literal and metaphorical. Drafty as ever, it remains a constant source of aggravation: rust-chewed pipes and falling plaster and windows that never seem to stay clean longer than a few days. Only an overgrown sense of filial loyalty has kept him from turning the place into a museum, and when he’s gone, that’s exactly what he intends to happen.

  His doctor likes him to exercise, and so David skips the elevator in favor of the stairs. Three times a day up and down he goes, from the reception rooms and the portrait gallery to the ballroom to Victor’s bedroom and then to his own bedroom, his father’s former suite. He will sometimes stand in the hallway where as a boy he listened to the sound of breaking glass. He never goes to the fifth floor.

  TONY SAYS, “ETHAN CALLED.”

  David looks up from his paper.

  “He wants to come by.”

  “When.”

  “Tomorrow.”

  A silence.

  David says, “What does he want?”

  “He wants to give the rest of the drawings back.”

  A silence.

  Tony says, “Your guess is as good as mine.”

  THE NEXT DAY DAVID RISES EARLY, showers and dresses and walks downstairs to greet his son, who arrives in a taxi and who seems ambivalent. They shake hands, then stand there reading each other. David is about to suggest that they head upstairs to the study when his son asks to have a look at the portrait gallery.

  “By all means.”

  There is Solomon Muller, smiling kindly. Beside him, his brothers: Adolph with the crooked nose and Simon with the warts and Bernard with the bushy balloons of hair at either side of his head; Papa Walter, looking like he has eaten too much peppery food; and Father, his long, thin body forced out of joint to keep him within the frame. Bertha’s is the only portrait of a Muller woman, and it is slightly bigger than the men’s. There is a spot for David’s own portrait and two panels that remain undedicated. Leading to the awkward and unstated question of where—

  Preemptively: “I don’t want one.”

  “You might change your mind.”

  “I won’t.”

  David looks at his son, who is staring angrily at the blank burled maple, and for the first time, he understands how difficult it must be for him to be here.

  As they climb to the second floor, David talks about bringing Nadine to see the house, and what she did when she saw the ballroom.

  “She screamed.” He smiles. “She really did.” He opens the door on the vast, dark room, its expanse of unused wood like a frozen sea. Their footsteps echo. Above them the gilt is dumb, and the bandstand seems to be hunkered down and shivering. He really ought to turn up the heat a notch.

  He sa
ys, “We danced. There was no music but we were going for an hour or more. Your mother was a terrific dancer, did you know that?”

  “I didn’t.”

  “She was.” Then David has the crazy impulse to grab his son and waltz him around the room, so he says, “Should we talk turkey?”

  THE NEGOTIATIONS LAST less than five minutes; his son will not take any money.

  “Something, at least; you’ve worked hard, they’re yours—”

  “All I did was put them up on the wall.”

  “I understand that you feel a sense of—”

  “Please don’t argue with me.”

  David studies his son, who has grown to look more like Nadine than he ever could have imagined. He could never deny her. And yet he’s had no problem denying his son. He could argue with him now; in fact, he wants to argue with him, wants to show him the error of his ways.

  “If that’s what you want.”

  “It is.”

  “Okay.”

  “They’re back at the Courts. Tony can handle it, I presume.”

  “Yes.”

  “Then that’s that.”

  A silence.

  David says, “I don’t want to keep you.”

  “I don’t have anywhere I need to be.”

  A silence.