Unknown - The Genius

NADINE BROUGHT LIGHT TO THE HOUSE, and when she was gone, the darkness that returned to reclaim its place—the darkness David had so long lived with, if not happily, then at least uncomplainingly—began to suffocate him. The slightest disturbances brought on crushing migraines, so severe that he had to lie down until they passed. Anything could trigger them. A sudden noise, a piece of bad news. The thought of something stressful.

And the boy, of course. He would not sit still. He threw tantrums. He was stubborn, he was willful; he would persist in ridiculous beliefs even after David had pointed out to him, for the billionth time, their glaring flaws. His superstitions irritated David to the point of anger or worse; sometimes, when the boy was asking about his mother, David would simply ignore him, shielding himself with his newspaper and waiting for the questions to stop. He was too old to maintain the charade. He did not want to talk about imaginary things; real life was bad enough. He would grip his forehead and tell the nanny to take him away, take him away.

The headaches faded with time, but the boy’s behavior only got worse. They would send him to school and within months he would be expelled. He used drugs. He stole. David didn’t want to hear about it; when Tony tried to involve him, he simply said, “Handle it.” The boy was lost, Tony said. He needed a guiding hand. And David replied that they would do nothing to interfere—believing, as always, in the power of the self to create meaning and pave its own road.

IN HIS SEVENTY-SEVENTH YEAR, he had gotten used to his life, gotten used to the idea that his daughter was frivolous, that his first two sons were milquetoasts, that his third was unmanageable and spiteful. He had accepted it all, without regret or remorse. All he wanted to do was live and work and then die.

Then he sat down to lead an afternoon board meeting and pain laced down his arm and the next thing he knew he’d been steamrolled, whisked high above the room, floating eight feet over the table and staring down at his own limp body, the picture of indignity, some half-wit executive trying to give him CPR and breaking his ribs. He tried to protest but no noise came out. Then he closed his eyes and when he opened them the room was full of doctors and nurses and beeping machinery. Tony was there, too. He offered his hand and David took it. His best and only friend, the only person who had never abandoned him. He squeezed as hard as he could. His hardest was not very hard. His heart had shriveled. He could feel it. Whether from disuse or bad living or bad genes, his heart had remodeled itself, permanently.

They could do a lot for a man his age with his condition, a lot more than they had been able to do for Nadine. Within a month he was walking around as though nothing had ever happened. Physically, he was fine, though he constantly felt glum and anxious. Had he been of a different generation, he might have indulged himself in therapy. That was not the Muller way. He called Tony in and said that they were going to make some changes starting now.

HE CALLED UP HIS DAUGHTER, called up his eldest sons. Amelia was baffled but got on a plane. Edgar and Larry came to the house and brought their own children. When everyone had gathered in his office, he told them he wanted them to know that they all meant a great deal to him. Everyone nodded, but they were all looking in different directions: at the

ceiling, at the doodads on the mantel, at the stone carving above the fireplace—anywhere but at him. Nodding into oblivion. Embarrassed by this sudden display of emotion; afraid to offend him. They thought he was going to die, and they wanted to make sure they got their cut.

He said to them, “I’m not going to die.”

Amelia said, “I would hope not.”

When did she start talking like that, in that voice? Who were these people? His children, a bunch of strangers.

Larry said, “We’re glad you’re feeling better, Dad.”

“Yes,” said Edgar.

David said, “Don’t count me out just yet.”

“We won’t.”

“Have any of you talked to your brother?”

No one spoke.

Amelia said, “I saw him last year.”

“You did.”

She nodded. “He came to London for the fair.”

“How is he?” David asked.

“Well, I think.”

“Would you tell him to get over here and see me.”

Amelia looked away. “I can try,” she said softly.

“Tell him. Tell him how bad I look. Exaggerate if you have to.”

Amelia nodded.

But the boy, willful as ever, would not come. David’s blood boiled. He wanted to use a stronger hand. In a rare moment of dissent, Tony said, “He’s a grown man.”

David glared at him. Et tu?

“I’m just saying,” said Tony. “At his age you were running the company. He’s capable of making his own decisions.”

David said nothing.

Tony said, “I went to Queens, like you asked.” “And.”

Tony hesitated. “He’s not good, David.”

“He’s sick?”

“I think so. He can’t keep living there. It’s like a junkyard.” Tony shifted around nervously. “He recognized me.” “Are you sure?” “He called me Mr. Wexler.” David said, “Jesus.” Tony nodded.

David said, “What do you suggest?”

“A nursing home. Someplace where he won’t have to look after himself.” David thought. “I have a better idea.”

HIS SPINE WAS HOOKED. Skin dangled from his arms. When they took him to the doctor, he weighed in at ninety-two pounds. He might have been David’s uncle rather than his nephew. They fed him; they cleaned him up, removed his cataracts, and installed him on the third floor of the house on Fifth, in David’s childhood bedroom.

IN THEIR RUSH TO GET HIM out of the apartment, they neglected to look inside the boxes, which Tony assumed were full of junk. Not until he began receiving voicemails from someone who’d spoken to someone who had talked to someone at the Carnelian unit—some fellow named Shaughnessy—did Tony bother to go down and take a good look. When he did, he called David and, following a lengthy discussion, secured permission to call the Muller Gallery.

VICTOR TOOK TO TV QUICKLY. The constant stream of chatter seemed to comfort him. It didn’t matter what was on: David would find him watching infomercials, whispering to himself and to the people on the screen, whom he clearly preferred to real company. His weight improved, although he still ate only when food was brought to him. David’s attempts to engage him in conversation were silently rebuffed. He did manage to pry out an affinity for checkers. They played once or twice a day, Victor smiling as though remembering a private joke.

WHEN THEY PRINTED THE PIECE in the Times, David brought it in to show him. Victor saw the photograph of his drawings and turned pale. He dropped his bowl of soup. He clutched the page, crumpled it, turned on his side and pulled the blanket over his head, refusing to respond to David’s questions or to come out. For two days he didn’t eat. David, grasping his mistake, made a promise to Victor, one that seemed to reassure him a little. Then David called Tony and told him to get those drawings back at any cost.

THE PAGES WERE OLD AND FRAGILE; they’d been disassembled into individual panels. David stood at the bedside while Victor flipped through them, lingering over a picture of five dancing angels and a rusty star. David asked if Victor was happier now. Instead of answering, Victor got out of bed and limped down across the room to the window overlooking Ninety-second. With difficulty he raised the sash, then took the drawings and, one by one, shredded them out over the sidewalk. It took ten long minutes to get rid of everything, and David had to work not to raise objections. They’d probably be fined for littering. Add a hundred dollars to the two million they’d already spent. But money was just money, and when Victor was done he looked calmer than he ever had. For the first time in weeks he looked David in the face, wheezing slightly as he crawled back into bed and turned on the TV.