Life After Genius

by M. Ann Jacoby

  “Herman,” the pretty young thing says. “You look sexier than ever. I guess Chicago agrees with you. Or somebody in Chicago.” And she winks at Mead. As if he might tell her. Later. After they’ve all had a few too many drinks. Shit. Why did Mead agree to do this?

  “And you, Michelle,” Herman says, “look as luscious as ever.” And he kisses her back. On the neck. One arm curled possessively around her tiny waist. Then he turns to Mead and says, “Excuse me, where are my manners? Fegley, I’d like you to meet Michelle, my Uncle Jerry’s lovely wife. Number four, I believe she is. Or is it number five?” He directs this question at his uncle, who rises to his feet, shakes Mead’s hand, and says, “I’m so glad you could join us for supper, Mead. Please, have a seat. Relax. Order whatever you want. Enjoy yourself.”

  But the next two hours are about as relaxing as sitting in a dry forest next to a boy playing with matches. Uncle Jerry fills the evening with one anecdotal story after another, all of them centered around skiing in the Alps with Herman. Apparently it’s something they have been doing together for years. Ever since Herman strapped on his first pair of skis, according to Uncle Jerry. Or, as Herman tells it, “That was when Uncle Jerry was married to Suzanne, wife number two.” Uncle Jerry also talks about a skiing trip where Herman broke his leg. Or, as Herman puts it, “The winter Uncle Jerry divorced Elaine; she was wife number three.” The verbal sparring wears Mead out and, by the time they leave the restaurant, his head is pounding. He could care less about going back to Bell Labs, he just wants to crawl into bed —any bed —and sleep. But Herman holds true to his word and two sleeping bags materialize as if by magic from the trunk of his car. Herman rolls them out on the floor in front of the Cray X-MP and says, “I prefer to sleep on the right.” Then he crawls into one of the bags, pulls out a copy of Vanity Fair, and starts to read.

  Mead looks at Herman, lying in the sleeping bag, head bent over the glossy magazine, and realizes that his presence at dinner tonight was not, in fact, a prerequisite for getting permission to spend the night at Bell Labs. That those sleeping bags were already in the trunk of Herman’s car, the agreement already made. That Herman’s sole purpose for inviting Mead to supper tonight was for moral support. That his relationship with his uncle appears to be only marginally better than the one with his father. That Herman was, indeed, begging.

  “Thanks for dragging me out to dinner tonight,” Mead says.

  Herman glances up. And Mead can tell, from the look in his eyes, that Herman knows that Mead knows why he was there. “No problem, you crazy fuck,” Herman says. “Now get back to work.”

  BY THE TIME EARL BELLISFIELD RETURNS the next morning, Mead doesn’t need him anymore. Somewhere in the twilight hours of dawn, he began communicating fluently with the supercomputer, then taught the Cray X-MP a thing or two of his own. And one of the things he taught her was the Riemann-Siegel formula. Right away, the Cray X-MP started spitting out results, computing one zeta zero after the other. “Look at this,” Mead says to Earl and shows him a stack of printouts. “Just look at it. She can compute a thousand zeros in the time it takes me to generate just one.” Mead shivers and Earl hands him a sweater. Mead waves it away. “No, thank you. I’m not cold, Earl; I’m in awe.” HERMAN DISAPPEARS FOR LONG PERIODS of time to god knows where. But when he returns, he brings food. Hot food. Upon which Mead descends as if he has not eaten in days. And for all he knows, he hasn’t. Because Mead has lost all track of time. He has no idea what day it is. Whether it is morning or night. Day 2 or Day 4. And he doesn’t ask because he doesn’t want to know. He just wants to generate as many zeros as possible in whatever amount of time he has left before he has to leave.

  As the Cray X-MP computes, Mead looks over her printouts. All he has to find is one zero off the critical line. That’s all. Just one will be enough to disprove the Riemann Hypothesis. The 130-year-old question answered. But as more and more zeta zeros spit out, each one of them calculated to the eighth decimal point, evidence starts to stack up, quite literally, in favor of the hypothesis being true. It isn’t definitive proof. It is merely statistics. But it is enough to assure Mead that he will not be wasting the next god-knows-how-many-years of his life trying to definitively prove the theorem. The only question left is how. What leap of the imagination did Bernhard Riemann make that the rest of mathematical mankind is missing? Some basic step in logic is being overlooked. Mead needs to take his thinking to another level. Possibly in another direction. But which one? If only he could figure that out.

  HE AWAKES WITH A JOLT, thinking he has heard a crash. Heart racing, Mead crawls out of his sleeping bag and over to the Cray X-MP, to make sure nothing has gone wrong. That she has not collapsed from exhaustion. But the supercomputer is fine, humming along as she calculates more and more zeta zeros. He glances at his wristwatch. It’s 2:02. But whether it is the middle of the afternoon or the middle of the night Mead has no idea. Herman is asleep on the floor beside him. And Earl is nowhere in sight. So it must be nighttime. Mead crawls back into his bag and tries to fall back asleep but remains uneasy as if something terrible has happened.

  He sits bolt upright. His parents. Shit. Mead forgot all about his parents. About the fact that he is twelve hundred miles away from where they think he is, on the floor in the basement of some office building next to a virtual stranger. He decides he better call them to let them know. He helps himself to the phone on Earl’s desk, feeling bad even as he dials. He hates to wake his dad up in the middle of the night but reasons that the man will be happy when he realizes it is his son on the other end of the line and not the coroner. Only it doesn’t ring. The phone is busy, the coroner having beat Mead to the punch. He sets down the receiver and waits a minute, waits for his dad to get off the line. He’ll keep it brief. “I know you have to run out, Dad, just wanted to call and say hi. You’ll never guess where I am.” But the phone is still busy. Maybe his dad is calling Uncle Martin, to fill him in on the details. A meet-me-over-at-the-store-in-one-hour kind of thing. So Mead waits another minute then dials again. But the line is still tied up. Shit.

  “Hey, Fegley,” Herman says, having woken up too. “Who’re you calling?”

  Mead sets down the receiver. “Nobody,” he says and suddenly feels silly. Like a kid away at camp for the first time. Missing his parents. Worrying about nothing. He crawls back into his sleeping bag but cannot fall back to sleep. Opens his eyes and sees Herman, propped up on one elbow, chin in hand, staring down at him. Herman smiles and Mead says, “What?”

  “Nothing. I just like looking at you.”

  Mead sits up in his bag, feeling all self-conscious, and says, “So tell me, Weinstein, what’s the story with that portrait in the front hall of your house?”

  “Ah. You must be referring to the painting of the two Mr. Weinsteins with my dear mother.”

  “Jerry isn’t just your uncle, is he? He’s also your biological father.”

  “That’s exactly right, Fegley.”

  “And based on what I saw at dinner the other night, I’m guessing that Jerry cheated on your mother with another woman, causing her to divorce him. It’s odd, though, that she ended up marrying his brother.”

  “They were never married, Fegley; my mother and uncle were lovers. You have to understand, my mother is a very rich woman. She can pretty much do whatever the hell she pleases and get away with it. She only slept with Jerry because she believed her husband to be sterile and wanted an heir. It was merely an act of convenience. A means to an end.” Herman looks over at Mead and smiles. “I’m a bastard, Fegley. How do you like that?”

  “And your brother, Neil?”

  “Oh, he’s the real thing. A product of the mister and missus made possible through the miracle of modern science and a petri dish.”

  “That explains it then.”

  “Explains what, Fegley?”

  “All those trophies on the mantelpiece.”

  Herman sits up in his bag and hugs his knees to his chest. “I was twelve
when I learned the truth about my conception. It was Jerry who told me. On one of our many skiing trips. It just about blew my mind. But it explained a lot of things. Like why my father would rush Neil to the hospital if his temperature passed ninety-nine but would accuse me of faking it when mine rose to a-hundred-and-three. Why he always made room in his schedule to take Neil to his piano lessons but could never find the time to make it to a single one of my parent-teacher nights. I kind of lost it there for a while, after I found out. I started skipping school and drinking, and one day I thought it might be funny to lock my little brother in the garage with the doors closed and all four of my parents’ cars running at once. After that my father did rush me to the hospital. You know, to a mental institution. Left me there for almost a year. I used to take it personally, my father’s hate. Not anymore, though, not since the therapist at the institute explained to me that every time my father looks at me, he sees the two of them in his bed together. His wife and his brother. That he doesn’t hate me, he hates them.” Herman looks up at Mead. “That ostentatious display of trophies on the mantelpieces, it has nothing to do with me, Fegley, so I don’t take it personally. That’s just my father’s way of getting back at my mother for hanging that portrait in the front hall.”

  But Mead isn’t buying it, this whole act that Herman is putting on. Therapist or no therapist, he does not believe that anyone could experience that kind of open hostility over an extended period of time and not be affected by it. No way.

  “So where are your trophies?” Mead asks.

  Herman smiles. “You’re making the assumption that I have trophies, Fegley. That’s very kind of you.”

  “No, it isn’t. You’re smart. You got into Chicago University. And you do not strike me as the type to sit back and allow himself to be so easily dismissed.”

  “All good observations, Fegley, but you missed one detail.”

  “And what’s that?”

  But before Herman can answer, the door from the hall flies open and Earl walks through it carrying a can of Pepsi. Mead glances at his watch. It is now 2:34. “Shit,” he says, “is it the middle of the afternoon?”

  “Yep. The sun is shining and everything,” Earl says. “You should take a break. Go outside and catch a few rays.”

  Herman crawls out of his bag. “Yeah, come on, Fegley. Take a ride with me back to the house. You can take a nice hot shower instead of washing up in the bathroom down the hall like some homeless person. You don’t need to be here; the computer’s doing all the work. Maybe I’ll even show you my trophies.”

  Mead considers Herman’s offer: a hot shower and a soft bed sound pretty good right about now. Plus, he never did set things straight with Mr. Weinstein. He never told the guy that he’s working on the Riemann Hypothesis alone. Only now Mead feels that in doing so he would only be adding to the long list of demerits Mr. Weinstein has compiled against his bastard son. And so he says, “No, thank you. I prefer to stay here.”

  “What’s wrong, Fegley? You don’t look so good; is it something I said?”

  Don’t push it, Mead thinks to himself, or I might change my mind.

  “Fine,” Herman says. “I’ll go alone. I’ll just have to show you all my trophies another time.”

  THE CRAY X-MP HAS CRANKED OUT nearly a billion-and-a-half zeros, and counting, when Herman returns with Mead’s green-and-blue plaid suitcase in one hand and his book bag in the other. “I hate to be the bearer of bad news, Fegley,” he says, “but your time is up. We’ve got a plane to catch in four hours.”

  “Change the ticket,” Mead says and reaches for a fresh batch of printouts. “I need more time.”

  Herman laughs, a sound that grates on Mead’s nerves because it usually means he is being laughed at. “What’s so funny, Weinstein?”

  “I’ve already changed the ticket, Fegley. Twice. It’s the third of April. The spring quarter’s been in session for a week now.”

  Mead doesn’t react, certain that Herman is yanking his chain. Again. Like that whole bullshit story the guy told about his father and his uncle and his mother. About being a bastard. The more Mead has thought about it, the more convinced he has become that Herman made it up. That he has been playing Mead, using that whole poor-little-rich-kid bit to keep him from telling Mr. Weinstein the truth. By making Mead feel sorry for him. Well, Mead is not biting. Not this time.

  Herman grabs the morning paper out of Earl’s hand and points to the date on the masthead. “Here. Look at this. Do you believe me now?”

  And there it is in black and white: Sunday, April 3. Mead cannot believe it. He grabs his book bag out of Herman’s hand and starts stuffing it with printouts. He cannot believe that he has missed a full week of classes. Shit. What if something came up in one of the lectures that might have given Mead a new insight into the Riemann Hypothesis and he missed it? Mead would never forgive himself. His book bag quickly fills up and so he starts stuffing the printouts into his suitcase, removing a sweater, two pairs of pants, and several button-down shirts to make more room.

  A limousine is idling in front of the building when Mead emerges like a mole from underground. He squints against the bright sunshine and crawls into the backseat, feeling grateful to Herman once again —and more confused than ever. Shit. How is he supposed to know whether or not the guy is telling him the truth? He doesn’t even know what day it is. Mead fears that he may have become so jaded by past experience that he has simply lost all ability to trust. He is so certain that everyone is out to get him that he pushes his peers away before even getting to know them. Shit. If Mead keeps this up, he could very well go through life without making a single friend. And so he resolves to be less paranoid and more trusting. Starting now. He turns to Herman and says, “What is it?”

  “What is what?”

  “The observation about you that I missed.”

  Herman turns away from Mead and looks out the window at the rush of passing scenery. After a long pause, he says, “You’re a smart guy, Fegley. Figure it out.”

  A SECOND LIMOUSINE DRIVER picks them up at the airport and takes them back to campus. When he pulls to a stop at the light, Mead leaps out with his book bag.

  “Hey,” Herman says. “Where’re you going, Fegley?”

  “I’m walking back to the dorm from here. I need the fresh air. I’ll see you later.” And he hurries up the sidewalk, leaving his suitcase behind. He half expects Herman to get out and come after him, but he doesn’t. The light turns green and the limousine pulls away with Herman still inside.

  His green Schwinn is locked to the bike rack in front of Epps Hall. Mead walks past it and up the stairs to the second floor, so excited that he has to restrain himself from running. Dr. Alexander’s office door is open but his chair is empty. Mead knocks and says, “I don’t have an appointment, but I thought I’d stop by and drop these off. I just got back from New Jersey. That’s where I’ve been for the past two weeks. At Bell Labs. Using this supercomputer of theirs. This is just a small sampling of my results, of the billion-and-a-half zeta zeros she computed for me to the eighth decimal point. I thought you might like to take a look at them.” And he pulls from his book bag a sampling of printouts and sets them on the professor’s desk.

  Nothing.

  “I’ll just leave them right here,” Mead says, “in your in-box. By the way, they all sit on the critical line, every last one of them. I just thought you’d like to know.” Then he backs out of the office, making as much noise as possible so the professor will think he has left. But he doesn’t leave; he stands in the hall and waits. A minute passes, then two. Mead is beginning to think that perhaps Dr. Alexander really isn’t in; he is about to turn around and leave for real when a hand pops up over the edge of the desk and feels around for the stack of printouts, then pulls them out of sight.

  FORSBECK IS SITTING AT HIS DESK. Reading. On a Sunday afternoon. A rare sight indeed. Perhaps a little of Mead’s good study habits are beginning to rub off on the guy. Mead drops his book bag
on the bed and looks around for his suitcase. It’s nowhere in sight. Shit. Herman must be mad at him and is holding it as ransom. Now Mead will have to go up to his room and apologize for bolting from the limousine. It was rude but Mead couldn’t bear to sit still for even one more second. He had to share the fruits of his labor with Dr. Alexander right then and there, and he didn’t think Herman would understand. Didn’t want the guy to feel insulted by Mead’s desire to share news of his exciting adventure with someone else. Didn’t want to hurt his new friend. And yet by doing what he did, he realizes that he has made matters worse. Shit. Mead isn’t very good at this friendship thing, no good at all. But then again, he hasn’t had much practice.

  Forsbeck turns around in his chair. “Hey, Fegley, where have you been? Everyone around here has been freaked out about your absence.”

  “I missed you too, Forsbeck.”

  The guy doesn’t look so good. His eyes are all rimmed in red like maybe he drank too much beer and smoked too much dope last night. “That Weinstein guy on four has your suitcase,” he says. “He also has something to tell you.”

  Shit, he is mad. Mead drops down on his bed, suddenly exhausted. As bad as he is at friendship, he’s even worse when it comes to apologizing, having had no practice at it whatsoever. He’ll go up tomorrow. He’s too excited to do it right now. He’d probably just blow it anyway. Not show enough remorse or something.

  “You better go up there,” Forsbeck says. “I told him what happened while you were gone missing. I’d tell you too but he said he’d rather do it.”

  Mead looks at his roommate again. On second thought, the guy doesn’t appear to be hungover; he appears to be upset. “What’s wrong, Forsbeck? Did something happen?”

  He looks away. “He’s your friend. Better it comes from him.”