She crosses her arms over her chest, all war-like. “How did it go?”
“I got fired.”
“Good.” She takes off her apron, checks her reflection in the toaster, and says, “When I come back in here, I want you to be gone.” Then she disappears through the swinging door.
MEAD IS MORE TIRED THAN HE THOUGHT and decides to lie down before heading over to the store. Just for a moment. But when he next opens his eyes, it’s four o’clock, the day nearly gone. Shit. Now he’s going to have to look at his father’s long face all evening, a reminder of what a disappointment he has been to the old man since he got home. Here, but at the same time, not here. At least not at the store. It seems kind of silly to head over there at this late hour, but Mead decides to go anyway. If for no other reason than to appease the man who welcomed him home, maybe not with open arms, but at least without asking any questions.
He steps across the hall to splash water on his face and brush his teeth. The living room is quiet; the bridge ladies have gone home. He listens for the sound of his mother washing dishes in the kitchen but hears nothing. Perhaps she is out front saying her goodbyes. Now would be a good time to slip out of the house unnoticed.
Mead walks back into his room and stops up short. His green-and-blue plaid suitcase is lying open on the bed like a gutted animal, his zeta zero statistics strewn all over the mattress like entrails. And hunched over the whole mess is the six-legged creature. “Hey,” Mead says, “what’re you doing? Those are my personal papers.” Stepping past the creature, he scoops up an armload of printouts and stuffs them back into the suitcase. But they won’t fit; they keep spilling back out onto the mattress. “Hey,” Mead says. “Give me that.” And rips a page of zeta zeros calculated to the eighth decimal point from the creature’s hand. A hairy hand. Too hairy to be his mother’s. Which can mean only one thing: Bernhard Riemann is back.
“Mr. Riemann, sir. I’m sorry, sir. I thought you were someone else.”
Bernhard Riemann peers at Mead over the top of his wire-rimmed spectacles and says, in a heavy German accent, “I see that you got hold of my formula for computing zeta zeros. Have you been to the Göttingen Library?”
“No, sir. I’ve never been overseas. I got it out of a book in the library on campus. In Chicago. It’s called the Riemann-Siegel formula, in honor of the guy who discovered it among your Nachlass. A Mr. Carl Siegel.”
“They named my formula after someone else simply because he found it?”
“Yes, sir. I’m curious, sir, why you didn’t include it in your published paper?”
“It wasn’t necessary to the work, Mead. I merely used it to compute a few zeros, to satisfy myself that the hypothesis was right. It’s very time consuming, all that long computation. I found it to be a waste of time. You, on the other hand, have computed over a billion of them. Tell me, young man, how did you do it?”
“With a supercomputer, sir.”
“A what?”
“An electronic machine that computes numbers at the speed of light.”
“I see. And may I ask why you bothered?”
“Why, to try and prove your hypothesis, sir.”
“And did you?”
“Yes. No. I mean, I computed nearly a billion-and-a-half zeros and every last one of them sits on the critical line. I’d say the evidence weighs heavily in favor of your hypothesis being true.”
“But you aren’t sure.”
“I’m pretty sure, sir, but no, not a hundred percent sure.”
“What a waste of time.”
“Excuse me?”
“You’re going about it all wrong, Mead.”
“Excuse me for saying so, sir, but mathematicians have been trying to prove or disprove your hypothesis for over a hundred years and this right here in my suitcase is the closest anyone has ever gotten.”
“Idiots. The lot of them. Writing papers. Awarding one another with useless honors. It’s pointless. A total waste of time and talent.” Bernhard Riemann gets up out of the straight-backed chair and walks over to the window, the light outside throwing him into silhouette. “A function is not a mere set of points on a line, Mead. It is an object. A unified whole. Until you modern-day mathematicians stop thinking in terms of formal computation and start using your heads intuitively, you’re never going to prove or disprove a thing. That is what you want, Mead, isn’t it? To prove my hypothesis?”
“Yes, sir. The man who successfully does so will be world famous.”
“And is that what you’re looking for, Mead? Fame?”
“No, sir. You’re twisting my words around, sir. I fell in love with the challenge. I set out to solve the greatest unsolved puzzle. But then things got out of hand. Other people got involved. People in search of fame and money and opportunity.” Mead tries to look Bernhard Riemann in the eye but can’t because the man’s face is in shadow. “You must’ve dealt with similar situations in your own time, sir. Have you any advice to share with me?”
“Stop being logical, Mead, and rely more on your intuition.”
“That’s it? That’s all you’ve got? How is that supposed to help me?”
Someone behind Mead places a hand on his shoulder, causing him to jump. He spins around and sees his mother. Shit. How long has she been standing there?
“Teddy, who were you talking to just now?”
“No one,” he says. “Go away. I’m busy.”
“I’ve never seen you like this before, Teddy. Talking to walls. Seeing people who don’t exist. I’m really starting to get worried.”
“I said go away!” Mead turns back to face the window. To finish his conversation with Mr. Riemann. To ask him to better explain what he means. But the man is gone.
MEAD FINALLY MAKES IT THROUGH the front door of Fegley Brothers at four thirty. The place is quiet, just a few customers strolling about the showroom floor. He heads straight for the back office —to find his father —but he isn’t there. And neither is Uncle Martin. As a matter of fact, there isn’t a single soul around other than those few customers. Not even Lenny. Mead opens the back door and checks the parking lot. The white hearse is gone, which means his father is out picking up a body. Which means his uncle is down in the basement getting ready for its arrival. Which explains everything except Lenny’s absence.
Someone knocks on the office door.
“Excuse me,” a man says to Mead, “but could you please help us? My wife and I have a few questions we’d like to ask about one of your sofas.”
“Uh, I don’t actually work here,” Mead says. “But if you can hold on a moment, I’ll find someone who does.” And he ducks past them and upstairs to the second floor, hoping to find Lenny there. But the salesman is nowhere in sight. So Mead heads up to the third floor. It is highly unusual for Lenny to just up and vanish like this. If Uncle Martin were to find out, he’d throw a fit. Probably fire the guy on the spot. Could Lenny have stepped out for a cup of coffee? No. But that doesn’t make sense. He’d never take off while Mead’s father was out doing a body removal. He’d wait until he got back and then go. Shit. Where is he?
Mead runs back down to the main floor. “Just one more minute,” he says to the waiting couple as he passes through the showroom into the chapel next door, hoping to find someone. Anyone. And he does. He finds Lenny sitting in one of the pews, his head bowed as if in prayer. “I hate to disturb you,” Mead says, “but there’s a couple in the showroom who need some assistance.” Lenny doesn’t respond. Jesus, what is he doing? Sleeping? Uncle Martin is going to fire his ass for sure if he finds out about this. “Lenny, for god’s sake, wake up. We’ve got customers. Come on.” Mead grabs the man’s shoulder and gives it a good shake. But when Lenny turns around, Mead realizes that it isn’t him at all: It’s Herman.
“Hey, Fegley, it’s about time you showed up. I’ve been sitting in here all day waiting for you. Where the hell have you been?”
Mead feels dizzy. Confused. First Bernhard Riemann and now this. Mead doesn’t kn
ow what to believe anymore, what is real and what’s just in his head. “How did you get in here?” he asks. “What have you done to Lenny?”
“Now Fegley, is that any way to greet a friend? Come on. Sit down. Let’s talk. I’m willing to let your betrayal pass, you know why? Because I know you didn’t mean it. And I know in my heart of hearts that you’ll make good on our arrangement.”
“My betrayal? You betrayed me, Weinstein. You gave me an ultimatum.”
“I don’t like that word. Ultimatum. It sounds so … final.”
“Go away,” Mead says. “You aren’t even real; I’ve just conjured you up.”
“Oh, but I am real, Fegley, as real as it gets. It’s time for you to get your head out of your books and deal with it. This is life, Fegley. Just deal with it.”
“I said go away!” Mead lunges at Herman, his arms passing straight through his body. “See? I told you, you aren’t real. Get out of my head, Weinstein. Get out of my life. Why won’t you just go away?”
A horn honks twice. His father’s signal. He’s back with the body. Mead turns to leave the chapel then turns back. Just to make sure. Herman isn’t there.
MEAD PASSES BACK THROUGH THE SHOWROOM but the couple is gone. Shit. He just cost his father a sale. Unless he conjured them up too.
Mead pulls open the back door just as his father is getting out of the hearse. The man looks up and says, “So glad you could finally join us today, Teddy.”
“Sorry, Dad. I meant to get here earlier.”
“That’s two days in a row, Teddy, that you meant to come by the store.”
“Yeah, well, I’m here now.”
His father opens the rear door of the hearse. “Maybe you should think about calling back the dean, Teddy. Maybe you can still work something out with him.”
“What? I can’t do that, Dad. I told you.”
“Well, you’re gonna have to do something, Teddy, because this isn’t working out. For either of us. This isn’t the place for you.” And he slides out the gurney, the body on it hidden beneath a white sheet.
“I’ll do better, Dad.”
His father shakes his head. “It’s not a matter of doing better, Teddy. You need to find something you’re passionate about, something that’s important to you, because this obviously isn’t.”
Mead grabs the end of the gurney, holding it tight so his father can’t walk away. “That’s not true, Dad. This is important to me. It is. I’ll prove it to you.” The freight elevator opens and Uncle Martin steps out. Shit. The last thing Mead needs right now is more crap from his uncle. “Let me prove it to you, Dad.”
Uncle Martin looks at Mead and then at his father, and Mead gets the distinct impression that the two of them have been talking. Making decisions about him behind his back. Writing him off. His uncle he can understand, but not his father. Mead never thought his father would write him off like this. And it hurts.
“So how’s our Mr. Fullington doing?” Uncle Martin asks, ignoring Mead.
“Been dead for about an hour now,” Mead’s father says. “Arthritic knees. Pretty dehydrated. You might have a bit of trouble finding a good artery.”
Martin takes the gurney from Mead’s father and pushes it toward the waiting elevator. “Tell Lenny not to worry. I can take it from here.”
“He’s not here,” Mead says, trying to shoehorn his way back into the conversation. “That’s what I was going to tell you, Dad. That I’ve been looking all over for him.” Mead feels horrible saying this, knowing that he is getting Lenny in trouble just to get himself out of trouble. But he has to prove to his father that he cares, that the family business is important to him. “There were customers in the store. I tried to help. I tried to find him, but he wasn’t anywhere to be found.”
His father and uncle exchange a look.
“What? What did I do wrong now?”
“We know he isn’t here, Teddy,” his father says.
“Oh. All right. Well. Just so you know. I mean I wasn’t trying to get him in trouble or anything. I was just trying to help.”
“Jesus, Teddy,” Martin says. “Don’t you know who Mr. Fullington is?”
Mead looks at the lumpy sheet on the gurney. “Should I?”
His uncle shakes his head and pushes the gurney onto the elevator.
“Who is he?” Mead asks and looks to his father for a helping hand, but the man doesn’t have one to offer.
“Mr. Fullington is Lenny’s dad,” Martin says.
What? Shit. Oh shit. Mr. Fullington is Lenny’s dad? Lenny’s last name is Fullington? Then Mead remembers, after he and Lenny finished up with Delia’s grave, he remembers Lenny saying something about his dad being ill, about his needing some medication. But Mead had no idea the man was so ill. Double and triple shit.
The elevator door begins to close. Mead grabs hold of it and squeezes on next to his uncle and Mr. Fullington.
“What’re you doing?” Martin says.
“Going downstairs.”
Mead’s father lifts his eyes off the ground where they have been hiding in shame and looks at his son.
“I want to do this,” Mead says to him.
His father grabs the door as it begins to close again. “Teddy, it’s all right. Get off the elevator.”
“No,” Mead says. “This is important to me.”
He knows what his father is thinking: that he is being ridiculous. That he is grandstanding. That he doesn’t really want to do this. Maybe that’s all true, but it doesn’t matter because he’s doing it anyway. And no one is going to stop him.
“Okay,” his father says, and lets go of the door.
10
PARENTS’ WEEKEND
Chicago
Six Weeks Before Graduation
THERE’S A TRADE SHOW IN CHICAGO THIS WEEK . Well, there’s probably a trade show in Chicago every week, but this one Mead knows about because his father attends it every year. It’s sponsored by the National Association of Funeral Homes. A hundred thousand square feet of booths selling everything from formaldehyde to suits to forceps to caskets. Plus seminars on flower displays, the best techniques for preparing an autopsied body for the open casket, and the relaxation response for stressed-out funeral directors.
Mead has never attended one of these trade shows. He’s usually too busy with classes and studying and life in general. His father usually just stops by the dorms on the evening of his last day and takes him out to dinner, someplace that offers an early-bird special. Not because the man is cheap but because he wants to get on the road as soon as possible for the six-hour drive back to High Grove.
This year, however, Mead’s mother decided to come along.
MEAD GLANCES OUT the window. He’s not expecting his parents for another ten minutes but sometimes his father shows up early. Not late, like most people, but early. A man whose life revolves around other’s people schedules, who thinks nothing of getting up in the middle of the night to remove a body from the home of the deceased. A man who has spent many a birthday at memorial services, several wedding anniversaries presiding over graveside funerals, and a fair share of national holidays consoling the bereaved.
Mead digs through his dresser drawer for a tie. If it were just his father coming he wouldn’t bother. But he knows his mother and she is going to want to go to someplace nice. Someplace where the men are required to wear a tie. But the only tie he owns has been sitting in the back of his sock drawer for almost three years now. The last time he wore it was to his high school graduation. It was a present from his mother, a gift for the gifted. He spent an entire hour in the bathroom trying to get the knot just right, then his mother took one look at it, sighed, and retied it herself. No son of hers was going to stand before a gymnasium full of parents and give the valedictory address looking as if he had just stepped off the back of a hay truck even if half the men in the room actually had just stepped off hay trucks.
The navy blue tie in question is covered in white sock lint, which Mead attemp
ts to remove with a piece of scotch tape but a few stubborn specks cling as if for life and he has to pinch them off between his thumb and forefinger, like aphids from a rose bush. The tie is creased too, in several places, so Mead takes it down the hall to the bathroom. He tries to smooth out the wrinkles by wetting his palm under the hot water faucet and then pressing it down over the creases. But this doesn’t work. It just makes things worse. Now he has a wrinkled tie with dark, wet splotches all over it.
Mead puts it on anyway, consulting the bathroom mirror to make sure it at least hangs straight. It’s the first thing his mother will notice: his tie. She reads ties the way a fortune-teller reads a crystal ball. As if one’s destiny can be seen in it. And he knows exactly what she’ll see when she spots his: a small-town boy who still has bits of straw stuck in his hair.
A toilet flushes and one of the stall doors behind Mead opens. Herman steps out wearing a silk bathrobe. It’s open in the front so Mead can see what he’s wearing underneath it. Which isn’t much, just a pair of jockey shorts. It’s a common enough sight around here. Boys in jockey shorts. Or no shorts at all for that matter. Ducking in and out of the shower. Not Mead, though, he prefers to keep his private parts private, a result of always being three to four years younger than his classmates. He not only wears boxers but he wears them straight into the shower, removing them just long enough to clean his crotch before wrapping a towel around his waist and dashing back to his room.
Herman steps up to the sink next to Mead to wash his hands and nods at the tie. “What’s the big occasion?”
“My parents are in town. They’re taking me out to lunch.”
Herman shuts off the water and reaches for a paper towel. He studies Mead in the mirror, shakes his head, and says, “Come with me.”
“I can’t. They’re going to be here any minute. What’re you doing in here anyway? Your room isn’t even on this floor.” And he looks at the open robe again, at Herman’s hairless chest, at his white jockey shorts, and wonders where the guy left the rest of his clothes.
Herman grabs Mead’s tie and pulls on it, choking him. “This is a disgrace,” he says. “I’ve got a hundred better ones hanging in my closet. You can have your pick.”
Life After Genius Page 24