The Genius Page 18

  Sometimes Delia has visitors in her room. David can hear them laughing, can taste the smoke drifting down the hall. He could wait until they arrived and hope to slip by unnoticed…

  No. Tonight she might not have any visitors, and even if she does, who knows when they will come. He has already wasted too much time. He needs a different plan.

  Down the hall is a bathroom adjacent to Delia’s room. The toilet there has a big chain you pull on, and it makes a lot of noise, enough to cover a quick dash from there to the stairs. A problem: he has his own bathroom. Using a different one will arouse Delia’s suspicions. What would Roger Dollar do?

  As usual, Delia’s door is halfway open. He knocks. She says to come in, sounding friendly; when she sees that it is him, she frowns and asks what’s wrong.

  “I need to use the bathroom.”

  Her frown deepens. “Then use it, then.”

  “There’s no paper,” he says.

  She crushes out her cigarette and turns over her book and sighs, flicking a finger at the hallway behind him. “Use mine, then.”

  He thanks her and says goodnight. She does not answer.

  He closes her door on his way out. Not all the way; that would arouse her suspicion.

  He goes to the bathroom. It’s not hard to pee when you want to. He wads up some paper and throws it in the bowl. Then he takes a deep breath and pulls the chain, bringing a roar of water and eight seconds of freedom. He goes.

  He does not stop moving until he has reached the fourth-floor landing. He tiptoes down the hall until he comes to two pairs of large, wooden doors, each carved with the family crest, separated by twenty-five feet of satiny wallpaper: the entrances to his parents’ private suites.

  Behind one door, his father is talking.

  David presses his ear to the door but cannot understand the conversation. The door is too heavy and thick. He must get inside. But how? He remembers that the two suites are connected by an internal passageway. If he enters one suite, he could hide in that passageway and listen. Success depends on whether he chooses the right suite to begin with. Otherwise he will walk straight into them, and he will be in hot water. He listens at the other set of carved doors. The voices sound stronger—still incomprehensible, though—leading him to conclude that his best bet is to go through Mother’s room.

  His heart speeds up as he reaches for the doorknob, turns, and pushes.

  It is bolted from the inside.

  Now what? He scans the hallway for another option, and right away he finds one: a closet. He checks to make sure that he can fit inside. Then he goes to the door of his mother’s suite and presses the buzzer.

  The voices inside cease. Footsteps approach. David scampers into the closet and closes the door. He waits in the darkness.

  “Damn you,” he hears his father say, “I gave”—the snap of a deadbolt—

  “instructions”—the squeal of a door—“not to be—”

  Silence.

  The door closes.

  David lets out his breath. He counts to fifty, exits the closet, and goes to the doors, which he prays his father has forgotten to lock.

  He has.

  In David goes, moving stealthily across the large Persian carpet. From the passageway drifts the sound of his father’s voice. His parents’ suites are enormous, consisting of many rooms—a bedchamber and a bathroom and a sitting room; drawing rooms and Father’s study… and each of those rooms is ten times as big as David’s. In Mother’s suite she keeps her own gramophone and radio, a matched set inlaid with mother-of-pearl. David knows what mother-of-pearl is because he has a toy box with mother-of-pearl on the top. When he asked Delia what it was and she told him, he thought she meant a person. He asked where she lived, Pearl’s mother who made boxes, and Delia laughed at him. Also in Mother’s suite are a grand piano and a small painted harpsichord, neither of which she plays. Atop a carved table sit three dozen glass eggs. He knows the name for them: hand coolers. He picks up a brightly colored one and indeed it helps soothe his sweaty palms. He goes barefoot into the passageway and follows the voices until he reaches the entrance to Father’s sitting room. He gets down on the ground and crawls forward, peeks out through the crack in the door. He cannot see Mother’s face, as it is obscured by a tall vase. All he can see of her is a motionless arm. Father is pacing the room and flinging his hands in every direction. David has never heard voices quite like these: angry whispering, whispers that would be shouts if they were only a bit louder.

  Father is saying, “—forever.”

  “I’m aware of that.”

  “Then what do you propose. Give me a better idea and I will do it.”

  “You know what I think.”

  “No. No. Aside from that. I told you already, I will never—never, never— consent to that, never. Can I possibly make myself clearer?”

  “I have no other suggestions. I’m already at wit’s end.”

  “And I’m not? Do you imagine that this is easier for me than it is for you?”

  “Not at all. Frankly, I would think that it has been a great deal more difficult for you. You are vastly more sentimental.”

  Father says a word David has never heard before.

  “Louis. Please.”

  “You aren’t helping me.”

  “What would you like me to do?”

  “Help me.” Father stops pacing and stares where Mother’s face should be. He looks like he’s on fire. He points up at the ceiling. “Don’t you feel anything.”

  “Stop shouting.”

  “Don’t tell me you don’t feel it too.”

  “I will not have a conversation with you when you’re like this.”

  “Answer me.”

  “Not if you insist on sh—”

  “Look, Bertha. Look up. Look. You can’t feel that? Tell me you cannot, I don’t believe that anyone has so little heart, not even you, to pretend as though you can walk around without being crushed by that weight.” Silence. “Answer me.” Silence. “You have no right to sit there and say nothing.” Silence. “Damn it, answer me.” Silence. “You do not behave like this. Not after everything I’ve given you. I’ve given you everything you’ve asked for, been exactly what you demanded—”

  “Not everything, Louis. Not exactly.”

  Silence of a different kind: infused with terror.

  Father upends a table. Ceramic dishes and a wooden cigar box and crystal figurines sail across the room, producing a mighty crash. The glass tabletop shatters. Mother screams. In the passageway, David cringes, ready to bolt. From another place in the room comes a second, smaller shattering, and when the noise finally subsides, he hears weeping, two different rhythms in two different registers.

  HE WORKS OUT THE CLUES. It takes a few days, because he has to wait until he goes to the Park with Delia in order to confirm his hunch. As they return from their walk, David counts windows and discovers that he has been wrong. The house does not have four stories. It has five.

  How this could have escaped him until now, he does not know. The house is big, though, and he has often been scolded for wandering into forbidden territory. A whole wing remains off-limits, and David, generally lost in his own head, prone to long bouts of stationary dreaming, has never been one to overstep, not under threat of a whipping.

  But to get to the bottom of this, he must break the rules.

  The entrance to the rear wing lies through the kitchen, a place thick with steam and hazards. He has never ventured beyond the sink. Four days later, when he is supposed to be in his room, reviewing his German lesson, he sneaks downstairs. The cook is rolling dough. David straightens his backbone, puts on a bold face, and walks past him. The cook never looks up.

  Through a swinging door he comes to a second room, where a pile of raw meat lies on a huge, scarred table. With its reek of fat and flesh, its spattered walls, its lakes of blood pooling round the table legs, the room exerts a queer, morbid pull, and David has to remind himself to keep moving, not to stop and
examine the heavy, menacing instruments hung on the wall, the bloodstained grout…

  He comes to a hallway checked black-and-white. He tries a number of doors before finding the one he wants: an alcove for the service elevator.

  He gets in. Unlike the main elevator, this one has a button for a fifth floor.

  As the car rises, it occurs to him to worry about who he might run into up there. If the girl is indeed there, what will he do? What if there are other people—a guard, say. Or a guard dog! His heart skips. Too late for worrying. The car bounces to a stop and the doors open.

  Another hallway. Here the carpeting is loose and worn, pulling away from the walls. At the end of the hall are three doors, all closed.

  The wind sings, and he looks up at a skylight. The sky is cloudy. It might rain.

  He walks to the end of the hall and listens. Nothing.

  He knocks softly on each of the doors. Nothing.

  He tries one. It is a closet full of sheets and towels.

  The next door swings open and the smell of camphor rolls over him. He stifles a cough and steps inside.

  The room is unoccupied. There is a small bed, neatly made, and opposite it an armoire, painted white with horses and other animals, a peaceful little scene. He throws it open and jumps back, ready to fight off a snarling beast.

  Bare hangers stir.

  Disappointed, he tries the third door and finds a bathroom, also empty.

  He returns to the bedroom and walks to the window. From it he has a wonderful view of Central Park, perhaps the best in the house. The trees are soft and green and shivering beneath the slaty sky. Birds turn circles over the Reservoir. He wants to stick his head out and see more but the window is nailed shut.

  He tries to put together what he has learned, to set out all the clues in front of him, but they do not add up. Perhaps he will learn when he gets older. Or perhaps he was wrong: there was no girl, and he imagined the entire episode. It wouldn’t be the first time he accidentally grafted one of his fantasies onto a real memory. He might have misunderstood his parents’ argument. He doesn’t understand, and he knows he doesn’t understand, awareness making ignorance twice as painful.

  Spirits sinking, he turns to go. For a moment he hopes something will have changed. But the room is still empty, the bed still mute, the floor still dusty and plain.

  Then he sees something he missed. Under the bed, against the wall, almost invisible; he kneels down and reaches for it and grasps it and pulls it out and holds it up. It’s a girl’s shoe.

  • 14 •

  I woke up in a bed at St. Vincent’s, and the first thing I said was,

  “Where’s the art?”

  Marilyn looked up from her magazine. "Oh good,” she said. "You’re up.” She went into the hallway and returned with a nurse, who began subjecting me to a battery of tests, hands and instruments shoved up my nose and down my throat.

  “Marilyn.” It rather came out as Mayawa.

  “Yes, darlin.”

  “Where’s the art?”

  “What did he say?”

  “Where’s the art. The art. Where’s the art.”

  “I can’t understand him, can you?”

  “Art. Art.”

  “Can you give him something so he won’t bark?”

  Some time later I woke up again.

  “Marilyn. Marilyn.”

  She appeared through the curtain, her smile fatigued. “Hello again. Did you have a nice nap?”

  “Where’s the art?”

  “Art?”

  “The drawings.” My eyes hurt. My head hurt. “The Crackes.”

  “You know, the doctor said you might be a little disoriented.”

  “The drawings, Marilyn.”

  “Do you want some more pain stuff?”

  I grunted.

  “I’ll take that as a yes.”

  I’ll spare you further details of my reemergence. Suffice it to say that I had a wretched headache, that the busyness of the emergency room made my headache worse, and I was glad when they determined me well enough to leave. Marilyn didn’t want me going home, though, and through money or influence she secured me a private room on the inpatient floor, which she told me I’d have as long as I felt unwell.

  They wheeled me upstairs.

  “You look like Étienne,” Marilyn said.

  “How long have I been here?” I asked.

  “About sixteen hours. You know, you’re very boring when you’re unconscious.” Underneath her sarcasm was genuine terror.

  I was not too confused and miserable to wonder how she had gotten there.

  “Your neighbor came back from walking his dog and found you on the front step. He called the ambulance and the gallery. Ruby called me this morning. Here I am. Incidentally, she’s going to try to come by again this evening.”

  “Again?”

  “She was here. You don’t remember?”

  “No.”

  “She and Nat both. They brought a box of éclairs, which the nurses took away, I believe for themselves.”

  “Thank you,” I said to her. Then I thanked the intern pushing me. Then I fell asleep.

  THE NEXT VISIT I REMEMBER CLEARLY was from the police. I told them as much as I could remember, starting from the moment I left the gallery and up until I set the box down on the sidewalk. They seemed disappointed that I couldn’t given them even the thinnest description of my assailant, although my account of dinner at Sushi Gaki seemed to interest them particularly. Even in my semi-addled state, the idea that someone from the restaurant had assaulted me for a box of drawings struck me as outlandish. I tried to convince them of this, but they kept harping on my “showing the stuff around.”

  “I wasn’t advertising anything,” I said. “The hostess asked to see it.”

  “Does she know what you do?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t think so. I might have mentioned it at one time or another. She’s ninety-five pounds, for God’s sake.”

  “It didn’t have to be her, necessarily.”

  They continued to pursue this line of questioning until my headache forced me to close my eyes. When I opened them next, the police were gone and Marilyn was back. She’d brought éclairs to replace the ones the nursing staff had filched.

  “You don’t deserve me,” she said.

  “You’re right,” I said. “Marilyn?”

  “Yes, darlin boy.”

  “I’m feeling something on my face.”

  She took out her compact and pointed the mirror at me.

  I was aghast.

  “It’s not that bad,” she said.

  “It looks bad.”

  “It’s just a big bandage. It won’t even scar.”

  “Am I missing a tooth?”

  “Two.”

  “How did I not notice that?” I poked my tongue around in the gaps.

  “You’re on a lot of drugs.” She patted her purse. “I’ve got some myself.”

  Ruby came. “Sorry I couldn’t make it earlier, things’ve been crazy. We’ll be ready, don’t worry.”

  “Ready for what?” I asked.

  “You have an opening tonight,” said Marilyn.

  "We do? Whose?”

  "Alyson.”

  I sighed. “Shit.”

  Ruby said, “She sends her best. She’s going to visit tomorrow.”

  “Tell her not to come,” I said. “I don’t want to see anyone. Shit.”

  “It’ll be fine. We have everything under control.”

  “I’m giving you a raise,” I told her. “Nat, too.”

  Marilyn said, “Ask for a health plan.”

  “They already have a health plan.”

  “Then ask for a company jet.”

  “Actually,” Ruby said, “we could do with a new mini-fridge. The old one’s been making noise.”

  “Since when?”

  “A few weeks.”

  “I hadn’t noticed.”

  Ruby shrugged, the meaning of which was clear enou
gh. Of course I hadn’t noticed; I hadn’t been around the gallery.

  “Go ahead,” I told her. “Get whatever you need. And call me after the opening.”

  “Thank you.”

  She left, and I said to Marilyn, “I hope they’re okay.”

  “They’ll be fine. In fact, as far as I can tell, your absence is serving only to prove how irrelevant you are.”

  THE COMBINATION OF A SEVERE CONCUSSION and all-you-can-eat painkillers doesn’t do wonders for your ability to gauge the passage of time. I think it was on my third morning when I woke up and saw that Marilyn, sitting in the purple vinyl chair, reading Us Weekly, was no longer Marilyn but Samantha.

  I considered this a fairly nasty joke on the part of my subconscious. I said, “Give me a break.”

  Samantha/Marilyn looked up. She put down the magazine and stood by my bedside. “Hi,” she said. Her warm hand made the rest of me feel cold. I began to shiver.

  “Are you okay?” she said.

  “Give me a break.…”

  “I’m going to get the nurse.”

  “That’s right, Marilyn! Get the nurse!”

  I expected the nurse to have Samantha’s face, as well. But she was black.

  “Very funny,” I said.

  “What’s he talking about?” Samantha/Marilyn asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  Then Marilyn herself came in, carrying two cups of vending-machine coffee. She saw the nurse checking my blood pressure and said, “What’s going on.”

  “He called me your name.”

  “Well,” said Marilyn/Marilyn, “that’s better than if he called me your name.”

  I fell asleep.

  AN HOUR LATER I woke up feeling clearheaded. Both Marilyn and Samantha were still there, engaged in a lively conversation that, thankfully, had nothing to do with me, Marilyn in the middle of one of her Horatio Alger stories about when she was penniless and used to steal fruit from the lobby of the Plaza Hotel. I groaned, and they both turned to look. They came and stood by the bed, one on each side of me.