Assimilation

by James Stryker

  “So you were a mathematician?” Andrew asked.

  “I was an artist.”

  “An artist?” Math was the least creative thing out there – every problem was solved. It was repetition drills and learning rules, not freedom and art. Distinct, finite values rather than interpretations and the flowing movement of emotions.

  “Mathematics is art. It’s not sitting around, punching numbers into calculators. It’s thinking great thoughts.” Oz broke their shared look and turned his eyes to the ceiling. As upset as he’d been before, a grin spread across his face.

  “It’s pulling together the right patterns to explain the world, and make it make sense! It’s taking an unsolvable problem and battling it! Throwing argument after argument at it, and forcing it to align or surrender! It’s seeing what no one else sees, roping it together, and bringing it down to create simplicity and understanding from chaos. You drag things into the abstract world where anything is possible. It’s an empty canvas, and you just create. It’s art.”

  Andrew supposed it was possible he’d misjudged the medium. His knowledge of mathematics didn’t extend into these ranges Oz was talking about, so maybe there was an intersection where math became an art form.

  I guess if all the art I’d ever seen was limited to coloring books and paint by numbers maybe I wouldn’t think much of it.

  Even if he didn’t get the concept, that was beside the point. It mattered to Oz. And maybe there was more in common with the two passions than he’d perceived. Oz seemed to be as enthusiastic about his mathematics as Andrew was about abstract art.

  I see it everywhere I go. Could it be like that for you and numbers?

  “I was an art teacher,” Andrew said. “Only high school.”

  “Were you? That’s why you understand. Or did they take that from you?”

  “No, I’m fine.”

  “Do you draw or paint or …”

  “No.”

  She didn’t really make it herself, and neither do I. That was such a small part. Being an artist can’t be taught.

  When Natalie had to instruct students to create, drawing with the grid method was the route she took. Take a transparency that’d been printed with a grid and tape it over a photo.

  “Then go square by square,” she’d told her students. “You focus on one small bit at a time so you only draw what you actually see, not what you think you see.”

  This was art for her. There was only room for the reality. But what was special about just making a copy of something else?

  He thought of the photographs hanging on the wall in the apartment. What did that really capture? Nothing underneath three smiling faces even though there was always something deeper.

  But abstract is more than just an image. It’s every angle of a subject. Motion, personality, feelings and bringing to life the fourth dimension. It makes more sense than anything else.

  “I preferred teaching history and theory. Analyzing paintings, interpreting them.”

  “Any particular movement?”

  Andrew leaned in and smiled. “It’s funny; I don’t like what I did before. I hated covering everything but the realists. Courbet. Manet. Corot. That’s Greek to you, I’m sure.”

  It’d been Greek to Robert, who probably didn’t even realize art had movements. He remembered even saintly Natalie being irked at times with his attitude. Robert thought of art as a cute hobby of Natalie’s, like she spent all day gluing feathers and pipe cleaners to pine cones.

  But art was never something insignificant. And it’s fucked up that she could have a more fascinating discussion with a sophomore than her own husband.

  It might be nice to have an intelligent friend to talk about art with.

  “Boring, but not Greek.” Oz bit his lower lip. “I mean boring in the best sense of the word. The way basic math is boring.”

  “It’s refreshing to have someone to talk to about it, even if you think it’s boring.”

  “Art itself isn’t boring. Just anything practical or useful is boring as shit.”

  “I used to like the things that looked like what they were supposed to be. And I didn’t understand anything else. I’d think, ‘Anyone could do that. So where’s the skill? Who gives a fuck about panels of color or cubism?’”

  “I heard the same things about so many mathematical theorems. The Euler line, the Schoenflies theorem. People don’t understand the divinity in simple expression and distilling something’s essence.”

  Distilling something’s essence. The phrase was golden. Oz did get it.

  “Now I don’t have much feeling from other types outside abstract,” Andrew said. “When I woke – and you know how the emptiness is – I went in my mind to the Rothko Chapel. I could lose myself in that world.”

  “That’s exactly what true mathematics is. It’s a world of abstraction. Expression unlike any other. The creation of beings, of worlds, of universes without limitations. It’s having everything you’ve ever wanted. Reality being born, and folding in on itself to be born again at my command.”

  Have I ever seen someone this passionate about anything? While he felt a deeply personal connection to many paintings, Andrew could imagine Oz launching out of his chair and slamming into the ceiling, or talking so fast he’d forget to breathe and pass out. Part of it could be the alcohol, but it was very curious.

  And with the options being to stay out later and hear more about a subject he wasn’t particularly fascinated with, or return to the apartment for more of the Natalie game:

  Andrew pushed his half-full glass of water across the table. “Tell me more.”

  Chapter 24

  No one had ever asked Oz to keep talking about mathematics. Even gentlemanly and sensitive Santino hadn’t prompted him to continue. He hadn’t been rude, and tried to appear interested, though he wasn’t. However, Oz wasn’t able to discern indifference from Andrew’s face. So he talked.

  It was possibly the first time in ten years that he fully felt alive. Though he’d attempted to move on after the reanimation and find a new purpose, pharmacology didn’t excite him. He didn’t love it. He didn’t live for it. And there was always the nagging ache that he’d been meant for greater things. He’d been given this gift, but was wasting his life on something else. He’d tried and failed multiple times to restore it, but he still felt awful. His current existence was a lie. He was purposeless. Vacant. And the brightness that once surrounded him had dimmed.

  But for the first time Oz had been compelled to tell someone, not out of the extreme duress under which he’d revealed it to Santino in order to preserve their friendship. He’d wanted Andrew to hear what he’d loved and lost.

  His expectation of Andrew’s reaction had never extended to the possibility of a prompt to speak on about the subject. He expected that, like most people, there’d be the strange look and pacifying statement before moving on to their opinion of more interesting things. Or he could laugh, or scoff. Or think Oz was stupid. Andrew would compare the loss to the situation of Santino or Tinks. To his own unfortunate circumstance. And he’d say something like:

  “You fucking bastard. Your best friend has sex with corpses. Your other friend has such intense attacks of pain, he tries to split open his skull. I’m a man trapped in a woman’s body at the mercy of a controlling husband. And you can’t do math? Who wants to do math? No one! What a fucking waste of time! Waste of energy, waste of life! Math is what you’re so upset about? Jesus Christ, Osborne!”

  Halfway through the anticipated diatribe, Andrew’s voice had transformed into that of Brigman’s. His father would say, and had said, those last things. With a twist of his upper lip, as if he’d driven past a tire fire: “You want to be a what? You got a degree in what? You’re giving a lecture on what?”

  Putting aside that I’m your son and any decent parent would be proud of their child, as a scientist for you to have zero respect for a mathematician makes no sense to me.

  “Math is fine. I have nothing against
it,” Brigman had said before Oz had even been diagnosed. “But you aren’t solving real problems. What you’re doing has no real impact—”

  “No real impact? If disproven, it changes the definition of basic topology. Differentiable manifolds, the sequence of abelian—”

  “Which does what for the world? While you were fiddling with your equations in the pursuit of nothing, do you know what I accomplished today?”

  “You got your dick out of the vacuum hose without—”

  “Five people, Osborne.” He’d held up his hand. “I saved five lives today with the technology I developed. And once we branch off into creating full bodies for cryonic neurosuspension instead of individual organs, I’ll save more. I gave ninety years of life to an infant. So ask me again why redefining algebra is meaningless. You might as well be cleaning elephant pens at the circus for the good you’re doing.”

  “Who has time for elephant shit when there’s so much of yours to clean?”

  “At least you’d have something to show for the time you waste.”

  Andrew’s response hadn’t been either the worst case, or the politely disinterested scenario. His tone hadn’t made the profession sound stupid, and his smile had given Oz a pleasant queasy feeling. And then to prompt him to continue talking? To not turn the conversation to himself? Oz felt that spark. The match burst into flame.

  But as swiftly as it was lit, it blew out.

  He stopped mid-sentence, the shadow falling across him. He’d only been talking for half an hour.

  “Oz, are you okay?”

  “I don’t have anything else to say.”

  It flooded back. The bitterness, the pain, the resentment. And adding to it, there was shame. Ten years ago, he could’ve lectured for weeks on the intricate nuances he understood. Now, he was tapped dry in thirty minutes. He had a captive audience, but no material. And his heart sank.

  He couldn’t elaborate on things he no longer comprehended. There were concepts he couldn’t give an outline on. For some theories and equations, he only knew their dear, sweet names and nothing more. Except that he’d loved them.

  “You’re tired. And you haven’t thought about this for a long time. You can continue when you’ve had a chance to—”

  “There is no ‘chance to’. This is how it’ll always be. You can’t repair brain cells.” Oz fought back more emotion as he looked at Andrew. “Hardy said, ‘A mathematical proof should resemble a simple and clear-cut constellation, not a scattered cluster in the Milky Way.’ I was creating the heavens, and now I don’t even have a telescope. I’m thousands of feet below the surface of the fucking earth. It’ll never make enough sense for me to say more than what I’ve already said.”

  He crossed his arms and buried his face in them again.

  I can talk about how amazing it is. About the magic in the abstract world. I can remember something I’ll never be able to do. This is why Santino didn’t press me and why I ignore it. I try to forget that I ever loved to do anything.

  He wasn’t going to cry anymore. His brain had been saturated with gin and squeezed over a kitchen sink like a sponge.

  The table shifted as Andrew leaned over, and Oz felt a hand on his hair.

  “It seems we all come out the other side different. Not necessarily bad. Just different. And I think you could find something that inspires as much passion out of you as the Hodge conjecture, if you weren’t too scared to look for it.”

  The pain was still there, but it became like condensation on the outside of a glass. Oz could’ve lifted his head. His conscience told him to, but he rarely listened to anyone, including himself. Instead he remained motionless, his eyes heavy but open in the shadows of his folded arms.

  Oz concentrated on feeling locks of his hair being lifted and then returned by the nimble fingers that’d curled around the gun, pushed the glass of water toward him, and caressed his cheek with such care.

  You can’t buy this. Well, I suppose you could. But if you’re paying for love, you might as well get the full Monty. And would it feel this compassionate?

  With his reserves coasting on fumes, Oz almost allowed himself to wonder …

  He lifted his head sharply, knocking Andrew’s hand away.

  “It’s late; we need to get you home.” The momentum caught up to him, and he winced. “There’s no way I’m driving anywhere.”

  “I can take a cab.”

  “I have something better.”

  He dug his cell phone out and made a few swipes on the screen. The phone rang only twice before Santino answered.

  “For God’s sake, do you know what time it is, Oz? I am right in the middle—”

  “Can you put that shit in the freezer and take a cab to the restaurant on 33rd? I’ve had too much to drink and need someone to drive my car.”

  Oz covered his eyes. His head was killing him. But he also wanted to avoid looking at Andrew and Santino was protesting.

  “Yes, I’m aware of how old I am, that I should set limits, be responsible, and blah, blah, blah. You’re such a fucking old woman.”

  “Oz, we could share a cab. It’s—”

  He cut Andrew off with a wave of his hand.

  “No, I’m not alone,” he said into the cell. “So why don’t you stop being a dick and get over here? You’re embarrassing me in front of our friend.” He grinned and let his hand drop. “Our special guest last Friday.”

  In less than ten minutes, Santino rapped his knuckles against the driver’s side window. Despite the startling noise, Oz didn’t have time to steady himself before his friend opened the door that’d been supporting him. He fell out onto the pavement, smacking his head on the asphalt.

  “What the hell, you motherfucker!”

  “You really are drunk, aren’t you?” Santino nudged Oz with the tip of his shoe. “Are you dead? Again?”

  “You wish.” He rubbed the side of his head, already feeling a lump.

  “You’re not my type. Not pretty enough.” Santino ducked his head into the car. “It’s a pleasure to see you. I hope he didn’t cause much trouble. Did you run into him and were kind enough to babysit until I could retrieve him?”

  “We’ve been together all day.” Oz got to his feet and scowled as he dropped his keys into Santino’s open palm. “Drive, asshole.”

  He slugged into the back and draped himself across the entire seat. The ceiling spun, the dome light bouncing like a pin ball. He closed his eyes to keep from being ill. Two car doors slammed, and there was the ribbing of hard plastic as Santino adjusted the driver’s seat. The car engine started. Two seatbelts clicked.

  “Seatbelt, Oz.”

  “Go fuck yourself.” He gave the accompanying hand signal in what he hoped was Santino’s direction.

  “So where are we headed, hmm? I assume you don’t plan on staying and scraping him off the bathroom floor at eleven in the morning? I’ll make sure he doesn’t drown in a puddle of his own vomit.”

  “You can start going west on eighty-five,” Andrew replied, and Oz sensed an anxiety in his voice that hadn’t been present for a while.

  To think, you used to be more relaxed with him than with me. I win after all. No one is as fucking slick as I am.

  Oz lifted his head and brought back his leg with the intention of kicking the driver’s seat. He lost balance and missed horribly. Pain radiated through the bottom of his foot from the collision with the door.

  “How many did he have?”

  “Six or seven.”

  “Miracle he’s conscious. It’s a toss up – which organ will commit suicide first?”

  “I’m right here,” Oz groaned. “Don’t talk about me like I’m not present.”

  “His liver from the drinking, or his lungs from the smoking?”

  “I’m right here, Santino,” he said it louder.

  “He’s intent on destroying himself.”

  “I’m right fucking here!”

  “At least he had enough sense not to put anyone else in danger. That’
s oddly thoughtful of him.”

  Oz gave up. Santino was going to ignore him until they were alone. It was punishment for compelling his friend to leave his lab.

  “So, you don’t like to drive? I didn’t either after the accident and it took me years. Tinks is the same way. Perfectly normal.”

  Chapter 25

  Andrew hadn’t expected to find the apartment dark and silent when he arrived home. Robert would turn on the lamp and reveal himself sitting on the couch. Waiting and demanding an explanation for the lateness of the hour, the cigarette smell in his hair, and scent of gun powder on his hands; things he didn’t yet have a lie for.

  But the living room was empty. Andrew snuck down the hallway and pressed his ear to the bedroom door. He heard slow and steady breaths. Simon’s door was cracked a foot, but when he peered inside, the boy’s room was empty. Everything was as if he’d never left.

  He had left though. And Andrew’s world had turned upside down since he’d last been within the confines of the apartment. The walls felt more stifling than ever.

  With the utmost care for stealth, Andrew shut the bathroom door and turned on the light. It was blinding, and he rubbed his eyes with one hand, while turning the shower handle with the other. He’d wash away the evidence and tell Robert that time had gotten away from him and Shelly.

  Until I think of a better solution, I need you.

  He turned his back to the mirror as he always did when undressing. The only good thing that’d come from trying on Robert’s clothes had been the discovery of hiding mirrors with pillowcases. It’d become part of his daily routine to throw a pillowcase over every fucking mirror in the apartment as soon as Robert left in the morning.

  But I can’t continue living this way. Tonight clinches it. Something has to be done, and you can’t be too afraid or intimidated to slip into the lie. Remember how it was when he called you by your name. You could leave behind this squalid apartment and have that. You could be free.