Life After Genius (39 page)

M
EAD MAKES IT TO THE LIBRARY
with five minutes to spare, having run all the way, afraid he wouldn’t make it before closing time. But now he cannot get himself to go inside. Shirley is standing at the front desk peeking into backpacks and shoulder bags. She smiles at this one tall, lanky, towheaded boy and says something that makes him smile back. Could that be Kevin?

When Mead woke up this morning, she was gone. And Forsbeck was sleeping in the next bed. It was almost as if Shirley had never been there. A figment of Mead’s imagination. And yet he knows she was. He has the bags under his eyes to prove it.

All night he fell in and out of sleep, wondering who Kevin was. An ex-boyfriend or a current one. A fellow pianist, perhaps. He wanted to run outside and scream at the top of his lungs. Scream out in frustration. But he couldn’t because Shirley would not let go of his hand. She held on to it as if on to a lifeline as she slept. Then sometime around dawn, as the sky outside Mead’s window began to grow bright, he fell into a deep sleep. When he woke up, she was gone.

The last student pushes through the turnstile and exits the library. Shirley follows him to the front door —to lock it —looks up and sees Mead on the other side of the glass. She does not look happy to see him. Does not look like someone who had a good time last night. She looks like someone who woke up and found herself sleeping next to the wrong man.

“I’ve been wondering what happened to you,” she says. “Why you didn’t come by the library as usual tonight. If you were going to avoid me for the rest of the year.”

“I’ve been behind closed doors all day with one of my professors.”

“I see,” she says in a way that suggests she does not.

“I know about Kevin,” Mead says, hoping she will fill him in on all the missing details. But she doesn’t, she just says, “I see,” again and looks down at her hands, which are twisting themselves one around the other. “I guess that would explain it then.”

“Explain what?” Mead says.

Shirley cocks her head to one side, like a robin listening for worms in the soil, and says, “I thought you’d be different, but you aren’t. You’re just like all the rest.”

Mead blushes. She must have been awake after all. Must know he masturbated while holding her breast. “I’m not like that,” he says. “I swear. I’ve never done anything like that before.”

“I guess that’s not what you told your friend, though, is it? You made me sound so good he wanted a taste for himself.”

“Who? You mean Forsbeck? My roommate? What did he do?”

“It’s all right. My mistake. I’m a grown girl and take full responsibility for my own actions. I shouldn’t have gone up to your room. It was stupid. It’s just that I’d been having such a nice time and I thought . . .” She shakes her head. “I should’ve known better.”

“You did? You had a good time?”

“Good night, Mead,” she says and closes the door, the deadbolt dropping into place with all the finality of a period at the end of a sentence.

T
HE DOOR TO MEAD’S ROOM IS CLOSED
. He opens it and finds Forsbeck in bed with his new girlfriend. They aren’t having sex or anything, just sitting there. Talking. Both fully clothed. Mead lunges at Forsbeck, grabbing him by the collar and pinning him down to the bed. “Jesus fucking Christ,” Forsbeck says. “What the hell’s gotten into you?” But Mead is not in the mood for words; instead he takes his fist and slams it into Forsbeck’s face. The pain that follows can only be described as excruciating. “Shit,” Mead says and shakes out his hand. “Shit, shit, shit.”

“Sonofabitch,” Forsbeck says, blinking away tears. “What the hell did you go and do that for, Fegley?”

“For propositioning Shirley,” he says and hopes his hand isn’t broken.

“Shirley? Who the hell is Shirley?”

“She won’t even speak to me now,” Mead says, “thanks to you.”

Forsbeck’s girlfriend gets all angry-looking. “Who is this Shirley he’s talking about, Charlie? Is she that girl in economics class who wears the short skirts?”

“No,” he says. “I have no idea who the hell he’s talking about.” Forsbeck looks at Mead. “I swear I don’t know any Shirley.”

“She’s the girl who was sleeping in my bed last night,” Mead says. “When you came stumbling in at dawn. Is it clearer now?”

Forsbeck’s bewildered face softens and he begins to laugh.

“What’s so damn funny, Forsbeck?”

“A girl?” he says. “In your bed?” Forsbeck grabs his stomach and rolls onto his side, overcome with hysterics. He is laughing so hard that his girlfriend forgets she is mad and starts laughing with him. It’s a convincing act. But if Forsbeck did not proposition Shirley, then who the hell did?

13

LEFTOVERS

High Grove
Three Days Before Graduation

M
EAD’S MOTHER MAKES A GREAT DEAL OF
noise removing the coffee tin from the freezer. Measuring out several spoonfuls. Plugging in the percolator. As it starts to gurgle and snort, she walks over to the table where Mead is sitting and stands over him. She does not speak, just stands over him passing silent judgment. And so he does his best to ignore her. To pretend she isn’t there. To focus his attention on the newspaper crossword puzzle instead. Eight across asks for the name of an ancient city of southwest Asia with seven letters in it, the fourth being Y. Mead fills in the empty spaces with a B-A-B and L-O-N.

The percolator goes silent and his mother walks away, her heels
click-clack
ing against the linoleum floor. She fills a cup with hot coffee and comes back to the table, pulls out a chair, and sits down to stare at him some more. She is waiting for Mead to confess. To tell her why he came home. To tell her who is threatening him. She thinks she can stare it out of him but she is going to have a long wait. What good would it do to tell her anyway? Herman is not Freddy. He’s a lot smarter. A lot more savvy. Within ten minutes the guy would have Mead’s mother eating out of his hand, convinced that he was right and Mead was wrong. And how could Mead argue? After all, he has brought this on himself. Maybe he should just give in to Herman and let the guy have his way. Put this whole sordid mess in the past and move on. The same way Mead gave in to Freddy. Only Freddy has never gone away. He has been lodged in the back of Mead’s head like a bullet from a drive-by shooting for years.

The phone rings, trilling like a fire alarm going off. Mead’s first thought is that it’s for his dad. That someone has died. His second, that it is the dean. Or maybe it’s Dr. Alexander calling back to check up on Mead, to make sure he’s okay.

The phone rings again. His mother sets down her cup and gets up to answer it. And suddenly it dawns on Mead that it might be Herman calling to tell Mead’s mother that her son is a greedy, self-centered egotist and not the innocent genius she thinks he is. And so Mead reaches in front of her and snatches up the receiver. His mother glares at him and Mead glares back, the two of them locked in a staring contest.

“Hello?” the voice at the other end says. “Is anyone there?” It’s a female voice. Not Herman. Not Dr. Alexander. Not the dean. And so Mead says hello back.

“Who is this?” she says.

“Aren’t I supposed to ask you that?” Mead says. “After all, you called me.”

“No, I didn’t. I called my husband and you are definitely not my husband.”

Mead’s mother reaches for the receiver but Mead holds it away from her. “It’s Aunt Jewel,” he says. “She’s looking for Uncle Martin.”

“Teddy, is that you?” his aunt says on the other end of the line.

“Yes, Aunt Jewel. It’s me.”

“Well, I’ll be goddamned. I must’ve dialed wrong. I didn’t even know I had your number up there in Chicago.”

Oh boy, here we go again. Must be one of her bad days. “You don’t, Aunt Jewel. I’m home. Here in High Grove. Remember? We ran into each other over at the A & P. I walked you home. Then you and Uncle Martin came over for supper.”

“We did?”

“Yes. Two days ago.”

Mead looks at his mother, covers the mouthpiece of the phone, and says, “Now do you believe me?”

“Hand me the phone,” she says and tries to grab the receiver but Mead ducks and all she grabs is air.

“I better hang up and call the store,” Jewel says.

“He’s not over there, Aunt Jewel. Uncle Martin went into St. Louis to pick up some embalming supplies. Didn’t he tell you?”

“St. Louis? Oh. Oh my, that is a problem. The drain. It’s all stopped up and I need him to fix it so I can take my shower.”

“Why don’t you call a plumber?”

“Oh, no. Martin told me not to call anyone except him. He says they charge too much money. Besides, he likes to do this kind of thing himself. He’s a real handyman, my husband, a real fixer-upper.”

“Well, it’s probably just hair, in the drain. You can clear it out with a snake. It’s really quite easy.”

His mother makes another grab for the receiver. “That’s enough, Teddy, let me talk to her.” But he holds the receiver out at arm’s length. Away from her. He is not giving up the phone; he likes his aunt too much to subject her to his mother.

“A snake?” Jewel says.

“Yes. It’s a long metal coil that you feed down the drain and —”

“Oh, no. I can’t do that,” she says. “I wouldn’t even know where to find such a thing. Oh, my. I don’t know what I’m going to do. Martin’s gonna be so mad. He doesn’t like it when I don’t take my shower.”

“Well, what do you say I come over and unclog the drain for you?”

“Would you? Would you be a dear and do that for me?”

Mead’s mother is waving her hands around in the air, the international sign for hand-over-the-phone-before-I-bop-you-on-the-head.

“I’d love to,” Mead says. “I’ll be right over.”

H
E RINGS THE FRONT DOORBELL
and waits but no one answers. He checks the number on the house, even though he knows he’s at the right address, then rings the bell again. Then he knocks on the door and says, “Aunt Jewel? It’s me, Teddy. I just spoke with you on the phone a couple minutes ago. I’ve come by to fix the tub. Aunt Jewel?” But still no one answers. Maybe she isn’t here. Maybe she wandered off to the hardware store to buy a snake. Or to the grocery store for another half-gallon of peppermint stick ice cream dressed in her robe and slippers.

Mead abandons his post at the front door and walks around to the back to try the kitchen door. And stops up short. He remembers his Uncle Martin mentioned a vegetable garden but what the guy neglected to say is that the entire backyard was overturned to plant it. Not one square inch of lawn left. And no evidence —at least not as of yet —that anything other than weeds has taken root. Perhaps Mead should offer up his services as a gardener. Clearing their backyard of unwanted weeds might be kind of cathartic and one heck of a lot easier than weeding the evil out of mankind.

Mead stands on his toes to peer through the kitchen window, hoping to catch a glimpse of his aunt, but it is covered over by a gingham curtain. At the back door, he knocks again. “Aunt Jewel? It’s Teddy, let me in.” Then grasps the knob —to see if it is locked —and the door pops open. Easing it wider, he steps into the kitchen and stops up short yet again.

The room is filled with dirty dishes. Literally. Every square inch of the table and counter, including the stovetop, piled high with dishes. Plates with hardened egg on them, bowls with dried bits of oatmeal glued to the bottom, glasses with orange pulp stuck to their sides. And the sink is even worse. Pots and pans and more plates and cups sit half-submerged in a pool of gray water. A line of scum runs around the inside of the basin about four inches above the water level, an indication of just how long these dishes have been sitting in their own filth. For weeks, if not months.

The cupboard doors have been left open and the shelves are empty except for one bag of A & P Eight O’Clock coffee and a box of filters. Mead peeks inside the refrigerator and finds a half-eaten wheel of Gouda cheese, a box of saltines, and, in the freezer, the half-gallon carton of peppermint stick ice cream.

No wonder Uncle Martin doesn’t want Aunt Jewel to call a plumber.

He closes the door and stands transfixed. Mead has inadvertently walked in on something he would rather not have. He pictures his uncle standing in the sterile environment of the preparation room in the basement of Fegley Brothers, where every surface shines and the air reeks of ammonia, and wonders how he can stand living in this mess. How it could have gotten this bad without anyone (i.e., Mead’s parents) finding out. And why Uncle Martin hasn’t told anyone —not even Mead’s dad who is probably the least judgmental person on the whole planet.

Mead steps into the dining room. Its table, too, is buried under platters and dishes and bowls. Only these are still filled with food. Green beans almondine. Beef stroganoff. Chicken noodle casserole. Macaroni-and-cheese. Chicken salad. Fruit salad. Cucumber salad. Tomato salad. The whole thing is swarming in ants. Hundreds of black ants. And in the middle of all this chaos is a wreath of brown, wilted flowers —what used to be white lilies —and a card. Mead picks up the card and reads:
MAY GOD BE WITH YOU
.
WE LOVE YOU
,
PERCY
.

A chill runs up Mead’s spine. Shit. This is the food from his cousin’s wake. Three months ago. Mead feels like throwing up. He had no idea. He knew his aunt was acting all nutty and stuff but he had no idea her depression had gotten so out of control. Mead is not sure who the crazier one is here: his aunt, for walking around town in her bathrobe; or his uncle, for walking around acting as if everything is okay.

Mead steps back into the kitchen. He is in over his head here. He needs help. He’ll go to the store and tell his father. He won’t believe him, of course. He will think Mead is exaggerating, he will pray to God that his son is making the whole thing up for some sick, perverted adolescent reason beyond the comprehension of his middle-aged years. A bad, bad joke. Because that will be easier to believe than this.

A noise comes from somewhere deep inside the house, as if someone has dropped something. Mead stops at the kitchen door to listen and hears it again. That must be his aunt. She must be here after all. He turns and walks toward the noise —around a corner and down the hall —and finds the door to the basement open. A bare bulb at the bottom of the steps lit. His armpits begin to itch. What if she’s down there hanging herself right now? What if her misdialed number was really a cry for help? Shit. Mead should have just called a plumber, to hell with what Uncle Martin wants. Or at least called his father. He could still call him now. There’s a phone in the kitchen, not twenty feet away. But what if, while he is dialing, she steps off the chair. Then, for the rest of his life, Mead will have to live with the fact that he could have saved her. That he came this close and failed. That he was indirectly responsible not just for his cousin’s death but his aunt’s as well!