The Genius

McGrath stood. Rising from his chair left him out of breath, rheumy and sallow and smiling like Bela Lugosi.

“I’ll walk you out,” he said.

He stopped at the edge of the porch, explaining that if he went down the stairs I’d have to carry him back up, and that didn’t make much sense, now did it?

I agreed it didn’t.

“You’ll let me know,” he said, shaking my hand, “if you turn up anything.”

“Sure thing.”

“You have my number.”

I touched my breast pocket, where I’d placed the Post-it he’d given me.

“All right, then,” he said. “Drive safe.”

More time had passed than I realized, and if the driver had in fact decided to come back for me, he was gone by the time I found my way out of the maze and into the cooperative’s parking lot. The pub had swelled with happy-hour patrons, and I encountered a host of curious stares as I entered and asked the bartender for the number of a local car service.

“You can try,” she said, “but they don’t like to work too much.”

Thirty minutes later I called the dispatch again, wondering where the fuck my car was. The man at the other end did not seem inclined to help me, so I went back into the bar and got the number for a second service, who told me they had no cars available.

By that time I had been waiting for over an hour, and my options had dwindled to two: get to the subway—itself a good five miles away—or call a friend. I tried Marilyn, who did not pick up. Nor did any of my other friends who owned cars, friends I could count on one hand. I called Ruby, who offered to get in a cab, drive out, and bring me back; but rush hour meant the outbound portion of the trip alone would take more than an hour. I told her not to go anywhere yet and walked back to McGrath’s house.

This time I found it myself, although I did make several wrong turns. I knocked and footsteps came swiftly, making me wonder if he had been malingering to draw sympathy.

“Yes?” The woman who answered wore a gray pantsuit, a black cotton blouse, simple silver earrings in the shape of fleurs-de-lis. I recognized her as the younger daughter, much better looking in real life than in her photo, which made her seem like the Captain of the Debate Team. Had she been there the entire time?

“Can I help you?”

“I’m Ethan,” I said.

“Can I help you, Ethan?”

“I was just here,” I said. “With your father. My car didn’t pick me up. Would you mind if I came in for a moment to ask him for—I need a number, so I can—I can get back home.” I paused to appreciate the inanity of the preceding paragraph. Not lost on her, I noticed.

“I live in Manhattan,” I added.

From inside, McGrath called, “Sammy?”

“Is that him? Tell him I’m here. Ethan Muller.”

The woman gave me another quick up-and-down. “Hold on,” she said, and closed the door in my face. A short while later she returned, smiling apologetically. “Sorry. He hates solicitors.”

(Did I really look like a Jehovah’s Witness?)

“I don’t know what it is about Breezy Point,” she said, allowing me inside, “but we have a hard time getting taxis out here. They think it’s in Jersey or something. I’m Samantha, by the way.”

“Ethan.”

“There’s a neighborhood guy who drives a cab.” She dialed for me and handed me the phone.

“Thank you.” I let it ring ten times. “I don’t think he’s picking up.”

“Sammy.” McGrath’s voice crawled down the stairs. He sounded half dead.

“Coming.” To me: “If you can wait a few minutes I’ll drive you to the subway.”

I told her that would be fine and sat down at the dining-room table.

Samantha went into the kitchen. I heard her draining a pot into the sink. She emerged with her hands in a dishtowel and set a glass of water in front of me before proceeding upstairs.

Alone, I went into the kitchen. Samantha didn’t seem to be much of a cook. A mop of spaghetti dripped from a colander in the sink. Nearby sat an unopened jar of marinara sauce. Saddened by the sorry state of her dinner—or was it his, or both of theirs?—I poured the sauce into the empty pan and put it over heat.

Upstairs, I heard Samantha arguing with her father, the words indistinct but the tone clear enough: pleading, and failing. Amazing how much you can tell about a song without understanding the lyrics; the frustration she sang broke my heart a bit, and mine is a heart not easily broken, not when it comes to fathers.

As I listened to her, the same thought kept occurring to me: if I were her, I would’ve left a long time ago—had I bothered to go upstairs at all. I thought about my own father, sending me imperious messages via Tony Wexler. Your father wants. Your father would like. Your father would prefer. What a nightmare my life would be if my family couldn’t afford intermediaries.

Upstairs, I heard Samantha say, “Dammit, Dad.”

The sauce began to bubble. I stirred it and lowered the flame.

She came downstairs half an hour later, apologizing. “He’s in a mood.” Then, noticing the saucepan, “You didn’t have to do that.”

“It’s better warm.”

“He says he’s not hungry.” She rubbed her forehead. “He’s very stubborn.”

I nodded.

She stayed in that position for a moment longer: heel of hand ironing her brow, her fingers curled like a shell. She had a lovely pouting mouth, and her cheeks were brushed with freckles subdued by office work. Did she run a shipping center? Was she in publishing? Administrative assistant at an investment bank? I decided I wasn’t giving her enough credit. She was, I decided, the kind of girl who had made good on her parents’ hard work. Probably she was a social worker… .

As I watched her calm herself down, the similarity between her and her father sharpened. What I had earlier interpreted as intensity I now understood as stoicism. Upstairs, her father began to cough and there was almost nothing on her face—just the slightest strengthening of resolve, the slightest narrowing of the eyes and tightened jaw. She was hardly the most glamorous woman I knew, but standing there, unconcerned with what I thought of her predicament, she had an unvarnished quality that I found oddly attractive. I didn’t meet many girls-next-door.

She said, “I’ll take you to the train.”

We walked to the parking lot. Her Toyota had a police placard in the windshield.

“You’re a cop,” I said.

She shook her head. “DA.”

During the short ride we fell into conversation. She laughed—a big, snorty laugh—when I told her about her father’s first phone call.

“Oh boy,” she said. “That thing again, huh. Well, good luck with it.”

“With what.”

“He said you were helping him out.”

“That’s what he told you?”

“I take it you don’t agree.”

“I’d like to help him,” I said. “I can’t. I spent a fair amount of time explaining that to him.”

“He seemed to think you were very helpful.”

“If he says so.”

She smiled. “Sometimes,” she said, “he gets ideas.”

At the subway I thanked her for the ride.

“Thank you for coming out,” she said.

“You’re welcome, although I really don’t know that I’ve done anything.”

“You’ve given him something to do,” she said. “You don’t know how much that’s worth.”

7

t had been a long time since I’d ridden the subway. Growing up, public transport was off-limits; I took cabs or cars or, when accompanied by Tony, a 1957 Rolls-Royce Silver Wraith chauffeured by a silent Belgian named Thom. I can’t call Tony’s fear of the MTA entirely illegitimate. Think about what New York City was like back in the 1980s, and then put me—an underweight white preppie with anger issues—on one of those filthy, ungoverned trains, and you have real reason for concern. Of course, blanket restrictions on my freedom made me all the more likely to buy a token or, if I felt particularly rebellious, jump a turnstile. Viva la revolution.p>