Special Topics In Calamity Physics Part 13

"If only I hadn't been hitting on Lacey Laurels from Spartanburg who just graduated from Spartan Community College with a major in Fashion Merchandizing," said Charles.

"Oh, pu-leese," pu-leese," said Jade rolling her eyes, turning to stare at the freshmen and soph.o.m.ores standing in line to buy their two-dollar hot chocolates. They appeared to be afraid of her gaze, as certain diminutive mammals must tremble at the thought of a Golden Eagle. said Jade rolling her eyes, turning to stare at the freshmen and soph.o.m.ores standing in line to buy their two-dollar hot chocolates. They appeared to be afraid of her gaze, as certain diminutive mammals must tremble at the thought of a Golden Eagle.

"I'm the one who was the one who was there. there. How hard is it to notice some green polyester person floating facedown in a pool? I could have dived in and How hard is it to notice some green polyester person floating facedown in a pool? I could have dived in and saved saved the man, done one of those good deeds that more or less guarantees entry through the Pearly Gates. But the man, done one of those good deeds that more or less guarantees entry through the Pearly Gates. But no, no, now I'm going to suffer from Post Traumatic Stress. I mean, it's a possibility I never get over this. Not for years and years. And when I'm thirty I'll have to be submitted into some asylum, with the walls all green and I wander around in an unflattering nightgown with hairy legs because they don't allow razors in case you feel the urge to tiptoe into the communal bathroom and slit your wrists." now I'm going to suffer from Post Traumatic Stress. I mean, it's a possibility I never get over this. Not for years and years. And when I'm thirty I'll have to be submitted into some asylum, with the walls all green and I wander around in an unflattering nightgown with hairy legs because they don't allow razors in case you feel the urge to tiptoe into the communal bathroom and slit your wrists."

That Sunday, I was relieved to find Hannah back to her old self, spiriting around the house in a red-and-white floral housedress. "Blue!" she called cheerfully as Jade and I walked through the front door. "Good to see you! How is everything?"

Hannah neither commented on, nor apologized for, her tipsy behavior at Hyacinth Terrace, which was fine, because I wasn't so sure she needed needed to apologize. Dad said certain people's sanity, in order to maintain a healthy equilibrium, required getting messy once in a while, what he called "going Chekhovian." Some people, every now and then, simply to apologize. Dad said certain people's sanity, in order to maintain a healthy equilibrium, required getting messy once in a while, what he called "going Chekhovian." Some people, every now and then, simply had had to have One Too Many, go drifty voiced and slouch mouthed, swimming willfully around in their own sadness as if it were hot springs. "Once a year, they say Einstein had to blow off steam by getting so inebriated on to have One Too Many, go drifty voiced and slouch mouthed, swimming willfully around in their own sadness as if it were hot springs. "Once a year, they say Einstein had to blow off steam by getting so inebriated on hefeweizen, hefeweizen, he was known to go skinny-dipping at 3:00 A.M. in Carnegie Lake," Dad said. "And it's perfectly understandable. You carry the weight of the world on your shoulders, in his case, the unification of all s.p.a.ce and time-you can imagine it'd get quite exhausting." he was known to go skinny-dipping at 3:00 A.M. in Carnegie Lake," Dad said. "And it's perfectly understandable. You carry the weight of the world on your shoulders, in his case, the unification of all s.p.a.ce and time-you can imagine it'd get quite exhausting."

Smoke Harvey's death-any death, for that matter-was as perfectly n.o.ble a reason as any for words to stagger out of one's mouth, for eyes to take almost as much time to blink as it takes for an old man with a cane to descend stairs-especially if, afterward, you looked as epically spic and span as Hannah did. She busied herself with Milton setting the table, slipping into the kitchen to remove a shrieking kettle from the stove, swooping back into the dining room and, as she speedily folded the dinner napkins into cute geisha fans, holding a glorious smile up to her face like a gla.s.s during a wedding toast.

And yet, I must have been overly zealous in my attempt to convince myself Hannah was all Fiddle Dee Dee and La Dee Da, that our dinners would return to the weightlessness of Pre-Cottonwood, Pre-costume party days. Or maybe it was the other way around. Maybe Hannah was trying too hard to make things chic and upbeat, and it was akin to beautifying one's cell; no matter what kind of curtains you hung, or rug you placed by your cot, it was still prison.

The Stockton Observer had published the second and final article on Smoke Harvey that day, detailing what we'd already a.s.sumed, that his death had been an accident. There'd been "no indication of trauma to the body" and his "blood-alcohol level had been .23, nearly three times the North Carolina legal limit of .08." It seemed he'd inadvertently fallen into the pool, been too drunk to swim or cry for help and, in less than ten minutes, he'd drowned. Hannah had been so eager to tell us about Smoke at Hyacinth Terrace, and was in such well-adjusted spirits had published the second and final article on Smoke Harvey that day, detailing what we'd already a.s.sumed, that his death had been an accident. There'd been "no indication of trauma to the body" and his "blood-alcohol level had been .23, nearly three times the North Carolina legal limit of .08." It seemed he'd inadvertently fallen into the pool, been too drunk to swim or cry for help and, in less than ten minutes, he'd drowned. Hannah had been so eager to tell us about Smoke at Hyacinth Terrace, and was in such well-adjusted spirits now, now, I don't think Nigel thought twice about bringing him up again. I don't think Nigel thought twice about bringing him up again.

"You know the number of drinks Smoke would've had to knock back to get his BAC to that level?" he asked us, tapping the end of his pencil against his chin. "I mean, we're talking, for a man about what? Two hundred and fifty pounds? Like, ten drinks in an hour."

"Maybe he was doing shots," said Jade.

"I wish the article said more about the autopsy." Hannah spun around from the coffee table, where she'd just placed the tray of oolong tea.

"For G.o.d's sake! Stop it!"

There was a long silence.

I find it difficult to sufficiently describe how strange, how disconcerting her voice was in that moment. It was neither outright angry (though anger was certainly in there somewhere) nor exasperated, neither weary nor bored, but strange strange (with the "a" of that word drawn out in "ayyy"). (with the "a" of that word drawn out in "ayyy").

Without saying anything more, head down, her hair quickly falling over the sides of her face like a curtain when a magic trick goes wrong, she vanished into the kitchen.

We stared at each other.

Nigel shook his head, stunned. "First she gets sloshed at Hyacinth Terrace. Now she just snaps snaps-?" "You are a f.u.c.king a.s.shole," said Charles through his teeth. "Keep your voices down," Milton said. "Hold on, though," Nigel went on excitedly. "That was exactly what she did when I asked her about Valerio. Remember?"

"It's Rosebud again," Jade said. "Smoke Harvey's another Rosebud. Hannah has two two Rosebuds- " "Let's not get graphic," said Nigel. "Shut the f.u.c.k up," said Charles angrily. Rosebuds- " "Let's not get graphic," said Nigel. "Shut the f.u.c.k up," said Charles angrily. "All "All of you, I- " The door thumped and Hannah emerged from the kitchen carrying a of you, I- " The door thumped and Hannah emerged from the kitchen carrying a platter of sirloin steaks.

"I'm sorry, Hannah," Nigel said. "I shouldn't have said that. Sometimes I get caught up in the drama of a situation and I don't think about how it sounds. How it might hurt someone. Forgive me." His voice I thought a little hollow and bland, but he went over with rave reviews.

"It's okay," Hannah said. And then her smile appeared, a promising little towrope for all of us to grab onto. (You wouldn't be surprised at all if she said, "When I lose my temper, honey, you can't find it anyplace," or "It's the kissiest business in the world," one hand poised in the air, holding an invisible martini.) She brushed Nigel's hair off his forehead. "You need a haircut."

We never mentioned Smoke Wyannoch Harvey, age 68, around her again. And thus concluded his Lazarus-like resurrection, fuelled by her boozey Hyacinth Terrace monologue, our If Onlys and Might Have Dones. Out of empathy for Hannah (who, as Jade said, "must feel like a person who killed someone in a car accident") we tactfully returned the Great Man-a latter-day Greek hero, I liked to imagine, an Achilles, or an Ajax prior to going mad ("Dubs lived the lives of a hundred people, all at once," Hannah had said, baton-twirling that dessert spoon expertly in her fingers like a late-night Swingin' Door Suzie)-to that unknown place people go when they die, to silence and ever afters, to cursivy The Ends materializing out of blackand-white streets and his-and-her deliriously happy faces pressed together against a soundtrack of scratchy strings.

Rather, we returned him there for the time being.

Women in Love

'I'd like to make a minor adjustment to Leo Tolstoy's oft-quoted first sentence: "All happy families resemble one another, but each unhappy family - is unhappy in its own way, and when it comes to the Holiday Season, happy families can abruptly become unhappy and unhappy families can, to their great alarm, be happy." and when it comes to the Holiday Season, happy families can abruptly become unhappy and unhappy families can, to their great alarm, be happy."

The Holiday Season was, without fail, a special time for the Van Meers.

Since I was very small, over any December dinner, during which Dad and I cooked our acclaimed spaghetti with meat sauce (J. Chase Lamberton's Political Desire Political Desire [1980] and L. L. MacCaulay's 750-page [1980] and L. L. MacCaulay's 750-page Intelligensia Intelligensia [1991] were also known to join us), Dad was fond of asking me to explain, in great detail, how my latest school was getting into the Holiday Mood. There was Mr. Pike and his Infamous Yule Log in Brimmsdale, Texas, and Santa's Secret Shoppe in the Cafeteria Featuring Twisty Rainbow Candles and Crude Jewelry Boxes in Sluder, Florida, the Forty-Eight-Hour Toymaker Village Hideously Vandalized by Spiteful Seniors in Lamego, Ohio, and one appalling recital in Boatley, Illinois, "The Christ Child Story: A Mrs. Harding Musical." For some reason, this subject made me as sidesplitting as Stan Laurel in a two-reel comedy for Metro in 1918. Within minutes, Dad was in st.i.tches. [1991] were also known to join us), Dad was fond of asking me to explain, in great detail, how my latest school was getting into the Holiday Mood. There was Mr. Pike and his Infamous Yule Log in Brimmsdale, Texas, and Santa's Secret Shoppe in the Cafeteria Featuring Twisty Rainbow Candles and Crude Jewelry Boxes in Sluder, Florida, the Forty-Eight-Hour Toymaker Village Hideously Vandalized by Spiteful Seniors in Lamego, Ohio, and one appalling recital in Boatley, Illinois, "The Christ Child Story: A Mrs. Harding Musical." For some reason, this subject made me as sidesplitting as Stan Laurel in a two-reel comedy for Metro in 1918. Within minutes, Dad was in st.i.tches.

"For the life of me," he said between howls, "I cannot comprehend why no producer has realized its untapped potential as a horror movie, Nightmare of the American Christmas Nightmare of the American Christmas and such. There's even enormous commercial promise for a number of sequels and television spin-offs. and such. There's even enormous commercial promise for a number of sequels and television spin-offs. St. Nick's Resurrection, Part 6: The Final Nativity. St. Nick's Resurrection, Part 6: The Final Nativity. Or perhaps, Or perhaps, Rudolph Goes to h.e.l.l Rudolph Goes to h.e.l.l with a certain ominous tagline, with a certain ominous tagline, 'Dont 'Dont Be Home for Christmas.' " Be Home for Christmas.' "

"Dad, it's a time of good cheer." cheer."

"So I am thus inspired to good cheerfully inject fuel into the U.S. economy by purchasing things I don't need and can't afford -most of which will have funny little plastic parts that suddenly snap off, rendering it inoperative within weeks-thereby digging myself a debt of elephantine proportions, causing me extreme anxiety and sleepless nights yet, more importantly, arousing a s.e.xy economic growth period, hoisting up droopy interest rates, breeding jobs, the bulk of which are inessential and able to be executed faster, cheaper and with greater precision by a Taiwanese-manufactured central processing unit. Yes, Christabel. I know know what time it is." what time it is."

Ebenezer had very little criticism and no remarks at all on "the plague of American consumerism," "corporate gluttons and their Botswana-sized bonuses" (not even a pa.s.sing allusion to one of his choice social theories, that of the "Tinseled American Dream") when I detailed how lavishly St. Gallway was celebrating the season. Every banister (even the one in Loomis, Hannah's banished building) was wrapped in boughs of pine, thick and bristly as a lumberjack's mustache. Ma.s.sive wreaths had been posted Reformation-style with what had to be iron spikes to the great wooden doors of Elton, Barrow and Vauxhall. There was a Goliath Christmas tree, and, looping around the iron gates of Horatio Way, white lights blinking like demented fireflies. A bra.s.s menorah, staunch and skeletal, flickering at the end of second-floor Barrow stalwartly staved off, as best it could, Gallway's Christian proclivities (AP World History professor Mr. Carlos Sandbom was responsible for this brave line of defense). Sleigh bells the size of golf b.a.l.l.s fell around the handles of Hanover's main doors and they jingle-sighed every time a kid hurried through them, late for cla.s.s.

I believe it was the sheer force of the school's festivities that allowed me to set the uneasiness of the preceding weeks a little bit off to the side, pretend it wasn't there like a largish stack of unopened mail (which, when finally confronted at a belated date, indicated I'd have to declare bankruptcy). Besides, if Dad was to be believed, the American holidays were a time for "coma-inspired denial" anyway, an occasion of "pretending the working poor, widespread famine, unemployment and the AIDS crisis were simply exotic, tart little fruits that, mercifully, were out of season," and thus I wasn't completely responsible for letting Cottonwood, the costume party, Smoke, the unusual behavior of Hannah herself be upstaged by the encroaching cloud of Finals Week, Peron's used clothing drive (the kid who brought in the most trash bags of clothes won a Brewster's Gold Ticket, ten points added onto any Final Exam; "Hefty Cinch Sak Lawn and Leaf Bags," she roared during Morning Announcements, "Thirty-nine gallons!") and, most dizzying of all, Student Council President Maxwell Stuart's pet project, the Christmas formal, which he'd rechristened "Maxwell's Christmas Cabaret."

Love, too, had something to do with it.

Unfortunately, little of it was my own.

The first week of December, during second period Study Hall, a freshman entered the library and approached the desk in the back where Mr. Fletcher sat working on a crossword.

"Headmaster Havermeyer needs to see you immediately," the boy said. "It's an emergency."

Mr. Fletcher, visibly annoyed he'd been pried away from The X-word X-pert's Final Face-off The X-word X-pert's Final Face-off (Pullen, 2003), was led out of the library and up the hill toward Hanover. (Pullen, 2003), was led out of the library and up the hill toward Hanover.

"This is it!" shrieked Dee. "Fletcher's wife, Linda, has finally attempted suicide because Frank would rather do a crossword than have s.e.x. s.e.x. It's her cry for help!" It's her cry for help!"

"It is," is," cooed Dum. cooed Dum.

A minute later, Floss Cameron-Crisp, Mario Gariazzo, Derek Pleats and a junior I didn't know the name of (though from his alert expression and soggy mouth he looked like some sort of Pavlovian response) entered the library with a CD player, a microphone with amplifier and stand, a bouquet of red roses and a trumpet case. They proceeded to set up for a rehearsal of some kind, plugging in the CD player and microphone, relocating the tables in the very front to the side wall by the Hambone Bestseller Wish List. This included relocating Sibley "Little Nose" Hemmings.

"Maybe I don't want want to move," Sibley said, wrinkling her perky, symmetrical nose, which, according to Dee and Dum, had been handcrafted for her face by an Atlanta plastic surgeon who'd fashioned a host of other high-quality facial features for some CNN anchors and an actress on to move," Sibley said, wrinkling her perky, symmetrical nose, which, according to Dee and Dum, had been handcrafted for her face by an Atlanta plastic surgeon who'd fashioned a host of other high-quality facial features for some CNN anchors and an actress on Guiding Light. Guiding Light. "Maybe "Maybe you you should move. Who are you to tell me? Hey, don't touch that!" should move. Who are you to tell me? Hey, don't touch that!"

Floss and Mario unceremoniously picked up Sibley's desk scattered with her personal belongings-her suede purse, a copy of Pride and Prejudice Pride and Prejudice (unread), two fashion magazines (read)-and carried it to the wall. Derek Pleats, a member of the Jelly Roll Jazz Band (with whom I also had AP Physics), was standing off to the side with his trumpet, playing ascending and descending scales. Floss started to roll back the cruddy mustard carpet and Mario crouched over the CD player, adjusting the sound levels. (unread), two fashion magazines (read)-and carried it to the wall. Derek Pleats, a member of the Jelly Roll Jazz Band (with whom I also had AP Physics), was standing off to the side with his trumpet, playing ascending and descending scales. Floss started to roll back the cruddy mustard carpet and Mario crouched over the CD player, adjusting the sound levels.

"Excuse me," said Dee, standing up, walking over to Floss, crossing her arms, "but what exactly do you think you're doing? Is this an attempt at anarchy, to like, gain control of the school?"

"Because we'll tell you right now," said Dum, striding over to Floss, crossing her arms next to Dee, "it's not going to work. If you want to start a movement you'll have to plan better because Hambone's in her office and she'll summon the authoritates in no time."

"If you want to make a strong personal statement, I suggest you save it for Morning Announcements when the whole school is all in one place and can be held captive."

"Yep. So you can make your demandations."

"And the administration knows you're all a force to be reckoned with."

"So you can't be ignored." ignored."

Floss and Mario acknowledged neither Dee nor Dum's demandations as they secured the rolled-back rug with a few extra chairs. Derek Pleats was gently shining his trumpet with a soft purple rag and the Pavlovian response, tongue out, was absorbed with checking the microphone and amplifier: "Testing, testing, one, two, three." Satisfied, he signaled to the others and all four of them huddled together, whispering, nodding excitedly (Derek Pleats doing fast flexing exercises with his fingers). Finally, Floss turned, picked up the bouquet and without saying a word, he handed it to me.

"Oh, my G.o.d," said Dee.

I held the flowers dumbly in front of me as Floss spun on his heels and jogged away, disappearing around the corner in front of the library doors. "Aren't you going to open the card?" Dee demanded. I ripped open the small, cream-colored envelope and pulled out a note.

The words were written in a woman's handwriting.

LET'S GROOVE.

"What's it say?" asked Dum, leaning over me. "It's some kind of threat," said Sibley. By now everyone in second period Study Hall -Dee, Dum, Little Nose, the horse-faced Jason Pledge, Mickey "Head Rush" Gibson, Point Richardson -swarmed around my table. Huffing, Little Nose grabbed the card and reviewed it with a pitying look on her face, as if it was my Guilty verdict. She pa.s.sed it to Head Rush, who smiled at me and pa.s.sed it to Jason Pledge, who pa.s.sed it to Dee and Dum who huddled over the thing as if it were a piece of WWII intelligence encrypted by the German Enigma Cipher Machine.

"Too weird," said Dee.

"Totally-"

Suddenly, they were quiet. I looked up to see Zach Soderberg bent over me like a windswept rhododendron, his hair plummeting dangerously across his forehead. I felt as if I hadn't seen him in years, years, probably because ever since he'd talked to me about A Girl, I'd gone out of my way to look zealously preoccupied in AP Physics. I'd also strong-armed Laura Elms into being my laboratory partner until the end of the year by offering to write up probably because ever since he'd talked to me about A Girl, I'd gone out of my way to look zealously preoccupied in AP Physics. I'd also strong-armed Laura Elms into being my laboratory partner until the end of the year by offering to write up her her lab reports as well as mine, never copying or even using an identical turn of phrase (in which case I'd be suspended for cheating), but faithfully adopting Laura's restricted vocabulary, illogical mind-set and blubbery calligraphy when I wrote the report. Zach, no longer wanting to partner with his ex, Lonny, had to partner with my old partner Krista Jibsen who never did her homework because she was saving for a breast reduction. Krista worked three jobs, one at Lucy's Silk and Other Fine Fabrics, one at Bagel World and one in the Outdoors department at Sears, the minimum-waged drudgery of which she felt pertinent to the study of Energy and Matter. Thus we all knew when one of her co-workers was new, late, sick, stealing, let go, jerking off in the storeroom, also that one of her managers (if I remember correctly, some poor overseer at Sears) was in love with her and wanted to leave his wife. lab reports as well as mine, never copying or even using an identical turn of phrase (in which case I'd be suspended for cheating), but faithfully adopting Laura's restricted vocabulary, illogical mind-set and blubbery calligraphy when I wrote the report. Zach, no longer wanting to partner with his ex, Lonny, had to partner with my old partner Krista Jibsen who never did her homework because she was saving for a breast reduction. Krista worked three jobs, one at Lucy's Silk and Other Fine Fabrics, one at Bagel World and one in the Outdoors department at Sears, the minimum-waged drudgery of which she felt pertinent to the study of Energy and Matter. Thus we all knew when one of her co-workers was new, late, sick, stealing, let go, jerking off in the storeroom, also that one of her managers (if I remember correctly, some poor overseer at Sears) was in love with her and wanted to leave his wife.

Floss reached down and pressed the Play b.u.t.ton on the CD player. Robotic sounds from a 1970s disco exploded out of the speakers. To my infinite horror, while watching me (as if on my face he could see his reflection, monitor his tempo, the height of his kicks), Zach began to take two steps forward, two steps back, pulsing his knees, the boys shadowing him.

" 'Let this groove. Get you to move. It's alright. Alright," Zach and the others sang in falsetto along with Earth, Wind & Fire. " 'Let this groove. Set in your shoes. So stand up, alright! Alright!' "

They sang "Let's Groove." Floss and the boys shrugged, snapped and foxtrotted with such concentration, one could almost see the moves running through their brains like Stock Exchange ticker tape (kick left front, touch back left, kick left, step left, kick right front, knee right). (kick left front, touch back left, kick left, step left, kick right front, knee right). "I'll be there, after a while, if you want my looove. We can boogie on down! On "I'll be there, after a while, if you want my looove. We can boogie on down! On down! down! Boogie on Boogie on down!" down!" Derek on his trumpet was playing a rudimentary melody. Zach sang solo with the occasional side step and shoulder lunge. His voice was earnest yet awful. He spun in place. Dee squeaked like a crib toy. Derek on his trumpet was playing a rudimentary melody. Zach sang solo with the occasional side step and shoulder lunge. His voice was earnest yet awful. He spun in place. Dee squeaked like a crib toy.

A sizable crowd of soph.o.m.ores and juniors gathered in front of the library doors, watching the Boy Band with their mouths open. Mr. Fletcher reappeared with Havermeyer, and Ms. Jessica Hambone, the librarian, who'd been married four times and resembled Joan Collins in her more recent years, had emerged from her office and was now standing by the Hambone Reserves Desk. Obviously, she'd intended to shut down the disturbance because shutting down disturbances, with the exception of fire drills and lunch, was the only reason Ms. Hambone ever emerged from her office, where she allegedly spent her day shopping www.QVC.com for Easter Limited-quant.i.ty Collectibles and G.o.ddess Glamour Jewelry. But she wasn't coming over to the scene with her arms in the air, her favorite words, "This is a library, people, not a gym," darting out of her mouth like Neon Tetra, her metallic green eye shadow (complimenting her Enchanted Twilight Lever-back earrings, her Galaxy Dreamworld bracelet) reacting against the overhead fluorescent lights to give her that explicit Iguana Look for which she was famous. No, Ms. Hambone was speechless, hand pressed against her chest, her wide mouth, deeply lip-lined like the chalk outline of a body at a crime scene, curled into a soft, wisteria-fairy-pin of a smile.

The boys were diligently Lindy Hopping behind Zach, who spun in place again. Ms. Hambone's left hand twitched.

At last, the music faded and they froze.

It was silent for a moment, and then everyone -the kids at the door, Ms. Hambone, those in second period Study Hall (all except Little Nose) - erupted into mind-numbing applause.

"Oh, my G.o.d," G.o.d," said Dee. said Dee.

"That did so so not happen," said Dum. not happen," said Dum.

I clapped and beamed as everyone stared at me with big astonished faces as if I were a Crop Circle. I beamed at Ms. Hambone dabbing her eyes with the frilly cuff of her Rococo poet's blouse. I beamed at Mr. Fletcher who looked so happy you'd think he just finished an exceptionally grueling crossword, like last week's Battle of Bunker Hill, "Not Waving but Drowning?" I even beamed at Dee and Dum, who were staring at me with incredulous yet fearful looks on their faces (see Rosemary at the end of Rosemary's Baby Rosemary's Baby when the old people shout, when the old people shout, "Hail Satan!"). "Hail Satan!").

"Blue van Meer," said Zach. He cleared his throat and approached my desk. The fluorescent lights made a soured halo around his hair so he looked like a hand-painted Jesus one finds hanging on clammy walls of churches that smell of Gruyere. "How about going to the Christmas formal with me?"

I nodded and Zach didn't pick up on my acute reluctance and horror. A Cadillac-sized smile drove away with his face as if I'd just agreed to pay him "in cayash," as Dad would say, for a Sedona Beige Metallic Pontiac Grand Prix, fully loaded, two grand over sticker price, driving it off the lot right then and there. He also didn't pick up on-no one did-the fact that I was experiencing a very severe lost Our Town Our Town feeling, which only intensified when Zach left the library with his Temptations, a supremely satisfied look on his face (Dad had described a similar look on Zwambee tribesmen in Cameroon after they'd impregnated their tenth bride). feeling, which only intensified when Zach left the library with his Temptations, a supremely satisfied look on his face (Dad had described a similar look on Zwambee tribesmen in Cameroon after they'd impregnated their tenth bride).

"Think they've had s.e.x?" s.e.x?" asked Dum with slitty eyes. She was sitting with her sister a few feet behind me. asked Dum with slitty eyes. She was sitting with her sister a few feet behind me.

"If they had s.e.x, you think he'd be skadiddiling over her? It's publicized knowledge the nanosecond you have s.e.x with a guy you go from being a headline to being all blurbatized in the obituary section. He just Timberlaked in front of our very eyes." very eyes."

"She must be insane in bed. She must be man's best friend."

"It takes six Vegas strippers and a leash to be man's best friend."

"Maybe her mom works at The Crazy Horse." They began to laugh shrilly, not even bothering to quiet down when I turned around to glare at them.

Dad and I had seen Our Town Our Town (Wilder, 1938) during a torrential downpour at the University of Oklahoma at Flitch (one of his students was making his Flitch stage debut as the Stage Manager). Although the play had its share of faults (there seemed to be great confusion with the address, as "In the Eye of G.o.d" came before "New Hampshire") and Dad found the carpe diem premise much too syrupy ("Wake me up if someone gets shot," he said as he nodded off), I still found myself more than a little moved when Emily Webb, played by a tiny girl with hair the color of sparks off railroad tracks, realized no one could see her, when she knew she had to say good-bye to Grover's Corners. In my case, though, it was skewed. I felt invisible though (Wilder, 1938) during a torrential downpour at the University of Oklahoma at Flitch (one of his students was making his Flitch stage debut as the Stage Manager). Although the play had its share of faults (there seemed to be great confusion with the address, as "In the Eye of G.o.d" came before "New Hampshire") and Dad found the carpe diem premise much too syrupy ("Wake me up if someone gets shot," he said as he nodded off), I still found myself more than a little moved when Emily Webb, played by a tiny girl with hair the color of sparks off railroad tracks, realized no one could see her, when she knew she had to say good-bye to Grover's Corners. In my case, though, it was skewed. I felt invisible though everyone everyone had seen me, and if Zach Soderberg and his mantelpiece hair were Grover's Corners, I could think of nothing I'd rather do than get the h.e.l.l out of town. had seen me, and if Zach Soderberg and his mantelpiece hair were Grover's Corners, I could think of nothing I'd rather do than get the h.e.l.l out of town.

This grim feeling reached a record high when, that same day, as I walked to AP Calculus in Hanover I pa.s.sed Milton walking hand in hand with Joalie Stuart, a soph.o.m.ore, one of those highly pet.i.te girls who could fit into a carry-on suitcase and look at home on a Shetland pony. She had a baby-rattle laugh: a jelly-bean sound that irked even if you were minding your own business about a light year away. Jade had informed me Joalie and Black were a magnificently happy couple in the Newman and Woodward tradition. "Nothing will come between those two," she said with a sigh.

"Hey there, Hurl," Milton said as he pa.s.sed me.

He smiled and Joalie smiled. Joalie was wearing a blue icing sweater and a thick brown velvet headband that looked like a giant woolly worm was rummaging behind her ears.

I'd never contemplated relationships very much (Dad said they were preposterous if I was under twenty-one and when I was over twenty-one Dad considered it Fine Points, Minutiae, a question of transportation or ATM location in a new town; "We'll figure it out when we get there," he said with a wave of his hand) and yet, in that moment, when I moved past Milton and Joalie, both of them smiling confidently in spite of the fact at distances greater than fifteen feet they looked like a gorilla walking a teacup Yorkie, I actually felt awed by the remote possibilities of the person you you liked ever liking you back a corresponding amount. And this mathematical conundrum started its long division in my head at breakneck speed, so by the time I sat down in the front row of AP Calculus and Ms. Thermopolis at the dry-erase board was trying to wrestle to the ground a robust function from our homework, I was left with a disturbing number. liked ever liking you back a corresponding amount. And this mathematical conundrum started its long division in my head at breakneck speed, so by the time I sat down in the front row of AP Calculus and Ms. Thermopolis at the dry-erase board was trying to wrestle to the ground a robust function from our homework, I was left with a disturbing number.

I suppose it was why, after years of playing the odds, some people cashed in their measly chips for their Zach Soderberg, the kid who was like a cafeteria, so rectangular and brightly lit there wasn't a millimeter of exciting murk or thrilling secret (not even under the plastic chairs or behind the vending machines). The only saturnine miasma to be found in him was maybe a bit of mold on the orange Jell-O. The boy was all creamed spinach and stale hot dog.

You couldn't make a grisly shadow on his wall if you tried.

I suppose it was just one of those December Dog Day Afternoons, Dog Day Afternoons, when Love and its wired cousins-l.u.s.t, Crush, Eat Up, Have It Bad (all of whom suffered from ADHD or Hyperkinetic Syndrome) were on the loose and in heat, terrorizing the neighborhood. Later that day, when Dad dropped me at home before heading back to the university for a faculty meeting, I was only five minutes into my homework when the telephone rang. I picked it up and no one said anything. A half hour later, when it rang again, I switched on the answering machine. when Love and its wired cousins-l.u.s.t, Crush, Eat Up, Have It Bad (all of whom suffered from ADHD or Hyperkinetic Syndrome) were on the loose and in heat, terrorizing the neighborhood. Later that day, when Dad dropped me at home before heading back to the university for a faculty meeting, I was only five minutes into my homework when the telephone rang. I picked it up and no one said anything. A half hour later, when it rang again, I switched on the answering machine.

"Gareth. It's me. Kitty. Look, I need to talk to you."Click.

Less than forty-five minutes later, she called again. Her voice was cratered and barren as the moon, exactly as Shelby Hollow's voice had been, and Jessie Rose Rubiman's before her, and Berkley Sternberg's, old Berkley who used The Art of Guiltless Living The Art of Guiltless Living (Drew, 1999) and (Drew, 1999) and Take Control of Your Life Take Control of Your Life (Nozzer, 2004) as coasters for her potted African violets. (Nozzer, 2004) as coasters for her potted African violets.

"I-I know you don't like it when I call, but I do do need to speak to you, Gareth. I have a feeling you're home and choosing not to pick up. Pick up the phone." need to speak to you, Gareth. I have a feeling you're home and choosing not to pick up. Pick up the phone."

She waited.

Whenever they waited, I always pictured them on the other end, standing in their yellowed kitchens, twisting the telephone cord around an index finger so it turned red. I wondered why it never occurred to them I I was the one listening, not Dad. I think if one of them had said my name, I would've picked up and done my best to console them, explained that Dad was one of those theories you could never know for certain, never prove beyond a reasonable doubt. And though there was a chance you could be struck by the lightning of genius it took to solve the man, the odds were so infinitesimal, so unbearable, the act of trying only had the effect of making one feel very small (see Chapter 53, "Superstrings and M-Theory, or Mystery Theory, the Theory of Everything," was the one listening, not Dad. I think if one of them had said my name, I would've picked up and done my best to console them, explained that Dad was one of those theories you could never know for certain, never prove beyond a reasonable doubt. And though there was a chance you could be struck by the lightning of genius it took to solve the man, the odds were so infinitesimal, so unbearable, the act of trying only had the effect of making one feel very small (see Chapter 53, "Superstrings and M-Theory, or Mystery Theory, the Theory of Everything," Incongruities, Incongruities, V. Close, 1998). V. Close, 1998).

"Okay. Call me when you get a chance. I'm at home. But you can reach me on my mobile if I go out. I might go out. I need eggs. On the other hand, I might stay home and make tacos. Okay. Forget this message. Speak to you soon."

In a seemingly astute statement Socrates wrote, "The hottest love has the coldest end." By these words, by their very definition-because I'm sure Dad never lied to them, never pretended his affections were anything not perfectly encapsulated by the words lackadaisical lackadaisical and and lukewarm- lukewarm-every one of Dad's ends should have been a sun-drenched, rosy affair. They should have been polo matches. They should have been picnics.

I don't think Dad ever quite understood it himself, treating these sobs as he did, with a muddle of embarra.s.sment and regret. When he came home that night, he did what he always did. He played the messages (turning down the volume when he realized who it was) and deleted them.

"Have you eaten, Christabel?" he asked.

He knew I'd heard her messages, but like Emperor Claudius in 54 A.D. upon hearing the thrum of Roman rumor that his dear wife, Agrippina, was plotting to poison him with a dish of mushrooms presented to him by his favorite eunuch, for some unknown reason, Dad chose to ignore these signs of impending doom (see Lives of the Caesars, Lives of the Caesars, Suetonius, 121 A.D.). Suetonius, 121 A.D.).

He never learned.

Two weeks later, the Sat.u.r.day night of Maxwell's Christmas Cabaret, I was being unlawfully detained at Zach Soderberg's house. I was wearing one of Jefferson Whitestone's old black c.o.c.ktail dresses, which Jade claimed Valentino himself had designed specifically for her, though when they feuded for the affections of "a shirtless bartender at Studio 54 named Gibb," she'd furiously ripped out the label, leaving the dress an amnesiac. ("This is how empires fall," Jade had said, sighing dramatically as she and Leulah pinned the armholes and waist so the thing no longer fit like a life jacket. "Trust me. You start breeding with the nimrods and that's the end of your civilization. But I suppose you couldn't help it. I mean, he asked you in front of all the whole school. school. What could you say, except that you'd be ecstatic to be his saltine? I feel sorry for What could you say, except that you'd be ecstatic to be his saltine? I feel sorry for you. you. That you have to spend an entire evening with the coupon." It's what they called Zach now, "the coupon," and it fit him. He really That you have to spend an entire evening with the coupon." It's what they called Zach now, "the coupon," and it fit him. He really was was all bar code, all Great Savings, all $5~0ff with Proof of Purchase.) all bar code, all Great Savings, all $5~0ff with Proof of Purchase.) "Have some bonbons," said Zach's dad, Roger, holding out a bowl of powdery chocolates.

"Don't force her to eat," said Zach's mom, Patsy, shooing his hand.

"You like chocolate? You must. Everyone likes chocolate."

"Roger," protested Patsy. "No girl wants to eat before a party, when she's got the jitters! hater's hater's when she gets the munchies. Zach, make sure she eats something." when she gets the munchies. Zach, make sure she eats something."

"Okay," said Zach, blushing like a nun. He raised his eyebrows and tossed me a repentant smile as Patsy got down on one knee in the snowdrift carpet of the living room and squinted at us through the Nikon's viewfinder.

Unbeknownst to Patsy, Roge had moved to my left and was holding out the ceramic bowl again.