Unknown - The Genius

Victor thinks. He writes Your friend.

Now sign your name.

He signs his name.

Good. Dr. Worthe turns the letter around. This is not correct. Let me— may I? He takes the pencil from Victor. Friend is spelled like this. Do you see?

Victor nods.

Very good. Now we need to address the envelope.

Then Dr. Worthe licks a stamp. He puts it on the envelope. You see, Victor? Now it goes in the mailbox. And now you’ve written a letter. Let’s see if she writes back to you.

She does. Many months later he receives a letter from Mrs. Greene. It is very short. Dr. Worthe gives it to him in his office.

Dear Victor Victor reads.

Read it aloud please. Speak up.

Dear Victor Victor says. I am so happy to hear about you. I think of you often. I have left the house, so I did not get your letter until they sent it along to me. I have a new home. The address is at the top of the page. I have a new job, too. I work for Dr. Fetchett. Do you remember him? He sends his regards. He thinks of you often, too. Love, Nancy. Inside curvy lines she has written Mrs. Greene.

Dr. Worthe looks pleased. That is a very nice letter. And now that we have her correct address we may write to her as much as we’d like. What shall we write?

This time he lets Victor lick the stamp. It tastes funny.

21 Í22

ur flight to Boston was delayed several hours; we didn’t make it to Cambridge until almost eleven EM. We took a cab to the hotel where Tony Wexler would stay whenever he came to Harvard to fix my mistakes, and I gave my credit card for both rooms. In my attache I had a plain-paper copy of Victor’s picture, as well as a CD-ROM with the scanned image. I hadn’t spoken much since that afternoon, and I must have looked morose, because when we got in the elevator, Samantha put her hand on my back.

“I think my blood sugar’s low,” I said.

“We can get dinner.”

I looked at her.

She shrugged. “I’ll make an exception.”

I smiled feebly. “I think I’m going to get room service.”

“Call me if you change your mind.”

In my room I stripped down to my underwear and ordered a tuna sandwich that I couldn’t bring myself to eat. I set the tray outside my door and lay down on the bed, staring at the darkened TV set, waiting for it to spring to life and fill up with Victor’s face. I’m no spiritualist, but I honestly expected at least an attempt at communication. If not through the TV then taps on the wall in Morse code or the lights flashing on and off. I waited and waited for him but he never came. My eyes started to close, and I was almost under when a soft knock woke me.

I put on my trousers and my shirt and opened the door a crack. It was Samantha. She apologized for disturbing me.

“It’s fine, I just passed out. Come in.” I stood back to let her in. She stayed outside, looking first at me, then at the uneaten sandwich on the floor. “I wasn’t hungry,” I said.

She nodded, staring at the ground. I realized that my shirt was unbuttoned and hanging open. I drew it closed. “Please. Come on.”

She balked, then crossed the room to the armchair, where she sat looking out on the green Eliot House cupola. I stood next to her, and for a few minutes we said nothing, watching the moon flirt with us from behind the shifting clouds.

I said, “Did you see the size of his hands?” She said nothing.

“They were like paws. Did you see them?”

CCT ť

I saw.

“I have a hard time picturing him strangling someone with those hands.” “They were children.” I said nothing.

“It must be jarring,” she said. I nodded.

We watched the sky. “Thank you,” she said. I looked at her.

“For what you did on the plane,” she said. “Of course.”

“You probably expected me to smack you.” “I can take it.” A silence.

She said, “I’m sorry I’ve been so cold to you.”

“You haven’t.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“A little, maybe.”

She smiled.

“It’s all right,” I said.

She said, “I can’t stand acting like this. I used to be such a stable person.” She paused. “I missed you when I was away.” “Me too.” A silence.

She said, “I want you to wait. Is that terrible for me to say?” “No.”

“Yes, it is, it’s terrible to put you on notice like that.” “It’s not terrible, Samantha.” “Please call me Sam.” “All right.”

“My dad used to call me Sammy.” “I can call you that, if you’d prefer.” She said, “Just Sam’s fine.”

SHE LEFT MY ROOM, and I got back into bed. I turned on the news. A clip of Bush, Cheney, and Rice in conference gave me an unpleasant flashback to the night of Marilyn’s party, and I switched to paid programming. My hotel phone rang. I muted the TV. “I thought you went to sleep.” “I didn’t wake you up, did I? I’ll feel awful if I woke you up.” “I was awake.” A silence.

She said, “Can I come back over?”

SHE WAS DIFFERENT NOW. She looked me in the eye, something I only then realized she had not done the first time. She moved more, too. It might have been the freedom afforded by a king-sized bed; or because we knew each other a little bit, had the advantage of a mental map; or maybe, probably, she was different this time because this time she wanted to feel not nothing but something.

BEFORE SHE DRIFTED OFF, she said, “I’m sorry I made you pay for two rooms.”

AT FOUR IN THE MORNING I awoke bullhorn-alert. Sam had one arm hanging off the edge of the bed and the blanket bunched between her thighs. I slipped from the bed and sat watching her change shape. Then I showered and dressed and went out for a walk along the Charles.

The river in winter becomes a patchwork of crackling ice and dark, poisonous water. Memorial Drive crackled beneath a speeding taxi. I stopped near the boathouse to zip up my jacket and to stare at the blinking Citgo sign. I’ve always had a soft spot for Boston. Its snootiness appeals to me, as does its anarchistic streak. It’s that odd combination of Puritanism and decadence that makes Harvard such a perfect breeding ground for the American elite.

I walked up Plympton, toward the trainlike hump of the Lampoon, turning west to head past the Fly. Inside, music was playing. I hadn’t kept in touch with anybody I knew back then, much less paid my alumni dues, but on a whim I went around to the front door and knocked. I was about to leave when the door swung open. A tall, handsome young man with shaggy blond hair stood there. He looked like a kid. He was a kid. He looked me up and down.

“Can I help you?”

“I used to be a member,” I said.

He seemed skeptical.

“Can I come in?”

“Uhm.” He looked at his watch.

From inside, a girl called Danny.

“One minute,” he yelled.

“It’s okay,” I said. “I understand.”

“Sorry, man.”

I turned and the door shut behind me. To my left was the backyard, fenced off, where in spring we held the Garden Party. I suppose they still do. Life keeps going.

I walked to the front gate of Lowell House, where I spent my latter two years. I wondered how short I was of a BA. I wondered if they would take me back. I pictured myself waiting in line for registration; carrying a futon up three flights of stairs; spooning myself green beans in the dining hall; whooping it up at the Game. The blond kid would be my friend. He would punch me for the Fly. We would hang out together and get stoned. I laughed and arched my thirty-two-year-old back.

Down the road was a Dumpster. I had a crazy urge to go rooting through it for my abandoned Cy Twombly. Maybe they hadn’t picked up the trash in twelve years.

I stood back and counted windows, picking out what I thought was my sophomore year room. The light was off. From its sill I had been able to see over the tops of the buildings, northward to the Yard and the Gothic spires of Muller Hall, a clear view of my past.