I thought his performance campy and over-the-top, but to my surprise, he went over like Vanessa Redgrave in Mary, Queen of Scots. Mary, Queen of Scots. Officer Donnie Lee, those big wrinkles pressing through his great clay forehead (as if invisible hands were starting to rework him into a vase or ashtray), only tapped his end-chewed blue Bic pen on the side of his notepad. Officer Donnie Lee, those big wrinkles pressing through his great clay forehead (as if invisible hands were starting to rework him into a vase or ashtray), only tapped his end-chewed blue Bic pen on the side of his notepad.

"You kids watch yourselves. I don't wanta hear or see you in this kinda venue again. Do I make myself clear?"

Without even waiting for our "Yes, sir, absolutely, sirs," he moved on to take the contact details of the whiney Marilyn shivering next to us in her skimpy SevenYear Itch SevenYear Itch dress with a gruesome brown stain down the front. dress with a gruesome brown stain down the front.

"How long's this gonna take anyway? I got a babysitter."

"Ma'am, if you'd just bear with us now . . ."

Nigel grinned. "Nothing like a well-placed honey pot to attract flies," he whispered.

Officer Lee didn't let anyone leave until after 5.00 A.M. When we were finally allowed outside, we discovered a blued, tubercular morning: sky wan, gra.s.s sweaty, a cold breeze wheezing through the trees. Purple feathers roamed the lawn, chasing each other under the POLICE LINE DO NOT CROSS tape, pestering a Hulk mask playing dead.

We followed the wearied procession to the parked cars, bypa.s.sing the crowd who wanted to stay to see something (a fairy, a gorilla, a blond golfer struck by lightning), the two police cars, the empty ambulance, the paramedic with dark, sunken eyes smoking a cigarette. Gold-chromed Nefert.i.ti in front of us prattled on and on as she wobbled down the driveway in silver heels like ice picks: "There's respons'bility comes with ownin' a puwl," she said, "second I got outta bed, I had a bad bad feelin', I'm serius." feelin', I'm serius."

In numb silence, we climbed into the car and waited another fifteen minutes for Jade.

"I made a statement," she said proudly as she climbed into the backseat, mashing me against Nigel as she pulled the door closed. "It was exactly like TV only the cop wasn't hot or tan."

"What was he?" asked Nigel.

Jade waited until our eyes were crawling all over her.

"Lieutenant Arnold Trask was a pig."

"You see the guy who died?" asked Milton from the front seat.

"I saw everything," she said. "What do you want to know? First thing I'll tell you, which I found really really weird, was that he was weird, was that he was blue. blue. I'm not even kidding. And the arms and legs just flopped there. Arms and legs don't usually I'm not even kidding. And the arms and legs just flopped there. Arms and legs don't usually flop, flop, you know what I mean? He was inflated like a raft. Something had blown him up a little - " you know what I mean? He was inflated like a raft. Something had blown him up a little - "

"If you don't stop I'm going to be sick," said Leulah.

"What?"

"Did you see Hannah?" asked Charles, starting the car.

"Sure," said Jade, nodding. "That was the worst of it. They brought her outside and she started screaming like some clinically insane person. One of the officers had to take her away. I felt like I was watching an after-school special about a mother who's not granted custody of her kids. After that I didn't see her. Someone said the guy from the ambulance gave her a sedative and she went to lie down."

In the pale blued morning, hundreds of bare trees crowded the guardrail, nodding at us, extending condolences. I could see Charles clenching his jaw as he turned onto the highway, heading back to Jade's. His cheek looked unusually hollow, as if someone had hacked at it with a knife. I thought about Dad, those awful instances he fell into a Bourbon Mood with The Great White Lie The Great White Lie (Moon, 1969) or E. B. Carlson's (Moon, 1969) or E. B. Carlson's Silence Silence (1987) slung over his corduroy knee. He was known to mention what he rarely mentioned, how my mother died. "It was my fault," he'd tell not me but my shoulder or leg. "Honestly, sweetheart. It's disgraceful. I should have been there." (Even Dad, who prided himself on never dodging anything, like many people, preferred to address a body part when drunk and afflicted.) (1987) slung over his corduroy knee. He was known to mention what he rarely mentioned, how my mother died. "It was my fault," he'd tell not me but my shoulder or leg. "Honestly, sweetheart. It's disgraceful. I should have been there." (Even Dad, who prided himself on never dodging anything, like many people, preferred to address a body part when drunk and afflicted.) And I hated those moments, when Dad's face, the one thing I secretly believed strong and permanent, fixed as volcanic rock Head Sculptures on Easter Island (if anyone was still going to be standing after nine hundred years, it'd be Dad). For a brief moment, in the kitchen, or in some corner of smudged darkness in his study, I saw him fragile and smaller somehow, human certainly, but forlorn, frail as tissue pages in a motel Bible.

Of course, he always recovered splendidly. He mocked his self-pity, quoted something about Man's worst enemy being Himself. And even though, when he stood up, he was Dad again, Dad, my Man of the Moment, my Man Who Would Be King, Man Who Would Be King, he'd been highly contagious because / was moody for hours afterward. It was what accidental deaths did to people, made everybody's sea floor irregular and uneven, causing tidal currents to collide, surge upwards, thereby resulting in small yet volatile eddies churning at everybody's surface. (In the more dangerous cases, it created a lasting he'd been highly contagious because / was moody for hours afterward. It was what accidental deaths did to people, made everybody's sea floor irregular and uneven, causing tidal currents to collide, surge upwards, thereby resulting in small yet volatile eddies churning at everybody's surface. (In the more dangerous cases, it created a lasting whirlpool in which the strongest swimmers could drown.) There was no dinner at Hannah's that Sunday.

I spent the weekend in a swampy mood: stifling afternoons of homework, thoughts about Death and Hannah leaching my head. I hated when people partic.i.p.ated in what Dad called "Sing-along Sorrow" ("Everyone's eager to mourn so long as it's not their their child who was decapitated in the car accident, not child who was decapitated in the car accident, not their their husband stabbed by a gutter binger desperate for crack."); yet when I read the brief article about Smoke Harvey in husband stabbed by a gutter binger desperate for crack."); yet when I read the brief article about Smoke Harvey in The Stockton Observer, The Stockton Observer, staring at the accompanying photo (some horrific Christmas shot: tuxedo, grin, a forehead shiny as chrome), I couldn't help but feel, if not Loss or Sadness, then a sense of Missed Conversation, what one felt on the interstate when seeing an arresting person sleeping in the pa.s.senger seat of a pa.s.sing van, a secret cirrus-smudge on the window. staring at the accompanying photo (some horrific Christmas shot: tuxedo, grin, a forehead shiny as chrome), I couldn't help but feel, if not Loss or Sadness, then a sense of Missed Conversation, what one felt on the interstate when seeing an arresting person sleeping in the pa.s.senger seat of a pa.s.sing van, a secret cirrus-smudge on the window.

"So tell me," Dad said dryly, folding down a corner of The Wall Street Journal The Wall Street Journal to look at me, "how were your Joycean hooligans? You didn't fill me in when you got home. Have you made it to Calypso yet?" to look at me, "how were your Joycean hooligans? You didn't fill me in when you got home. Have you made it to Calypso yet?"

I was curled up on the couch by the window, trying to get my mind off the costume party by reading British chick-lit cla.s.sic One Night Stand One Night Stand (Zev, 2002), hidden within the larger hardback (Zev, 2002), hidden within the larger hardback Thus Spake Zarathustra Thus Spake Zarathustra (Nietzsche, 1883-85), for Dad's sake. (Nietzsche, 1883-85), for Dad's sake.

"They're fine," I said, trying to sound blase. "How was Kitty?"

Dad had had a date with her, and the fact that their dirty wine gla.s.ses were still in the sink when I returned home (on the counter, an empty bottle of cabernet), I could presume whatever drunk delusion I'd entertained about Dad's looming presence at Hannah's party, decked in the costume he himself had said made him "look like the love child of Marie Antoinette and Liberace," was exactly that-a delusion. (Kitty wore copper lipstick, and judging from the bristly strand of hair I'd found clinging to the back of the couch in the library, she brutally a.s.saulted her locks with Clorox. It was the color of a Yellow Page.) Dad looked confounded by my question. "How shall I answer that? Let's see. Well, she's lively as ever."

If I felt the Everglades, I couldn't imagine what Great Dismal Swamp Hannah was trudging through, when she woke up in her strange blank bedroom in the night and thought about Smoke Harvey, the man whose arm she'd squeezed like a giddy teenager when she was on the stairs, a man now dead. That Monday, however, I was marginally rea.s.sured when Milton found me at my locker after school. He said Charles had gone to see her on Sunday.

"How is she?" I asked.

"She's okay. Charles said she's still kinda in a state of shock, but otherwise peachy."

He cleared his throat, stuck his hands in his pockets with ox-in-sun slowness. I suspected Jade had recently tipped him off to my feelings-"Gag's gaga over you," I could just hear her saying, "like so gone, so gone, like like fixated"- fixated"- because lately, when he looked at me, a shabby smile drifted across his face. His eyes circled over me like old flies. I suffered no hope, no daydreams, that he felt anything similar to the way I did, which wasn't l.u.s.t or love ("Juliet and Romeo be d.a.m.ned, you can't be in because lately, when he looked at me, a shabby smile drifted across his face. His eyes circled over me like old flies. I suffered no hope, no daydreams, that he felt anything similar to the way I did, which wasn't l.u.s.t or love ("Juliet and Romeo be d.a.m.ned, you can't be in love love until you've flossed your teeth next to the person at least three hundred times," Dad said) but acute electricity. I'd spot him lumbering across the Commons; I'd feel struck by lightning. I'd see him in the Scratch and he'd say, "Howdy, Retch"; instantly I was a light bulb in a series circuit. I wouldn't have been surprised if, in Elton, when he trudged by my AP Art History cla.s.s on his way to the infirmary (he was always on the verge of measles or mumps), my hair rose off my neck and stood on end. until you've flossed your teeth next to the person at least three hundred times," Dad said) but acute electricity. I'd spot him lumbering across the Commons; I'd feel struck by lightning. I'd see him in the Scratch and he'd say, "Howdy, Retch"; instantly I was a light bulb in a series circuit. I wouldn't have been surprised if, in Elton, when he trudged by my AP Art History cla.s.s on his way to the infirmary (he was always on the verge of measles or mumps), my hair rose off my neck and stood on end.

"She wants to take us to dinner tonight," he said. "Wants to talk about what happened. Can you make it at five?"

I nodded. "I'll have to make up something good for my dad."

He squinted. "What chapter are we on?"

"Proteus."

He laughed as he turned away. His laugh was always a big bubble rising through a quagmire: one gurgle and it was gone.

Charles was right. Hannah was was peachy. peachy.

At least she looked peachy initially, when Jade, Leulah and I were ushered by the maitre d' into the dining room and saw her waiting for us, alone at the round table.

She'd taken the others to Hyacinth Terrace restaurant before. It was where she took them for special occasions-birthdays, holidays, someone's grand achievement on a Unit Test. The restaurant attempted, with the intensity of any dedicated Emergency Medicine physician, to resuscitate Victorian England with a "heady culinary voyage that artfully blends The Old with The New" (see www.hyacinthterracewnc.net). Housed in a pristine green and pink Victorian house, the restaurant was perched on one side of Marengo Mountain and resembled a depressed Yellow-shouldered Amazon Parrot desperate to return to its natural habitat. Walking in, one could see no sprawling view of Stockton from the giant fan-shaped windows, nothing but that notorious local fog frothing off the greasy chimneys of Horatio Mills Gallway's old paper mill twenty-seven miles east (now Parcel Supply Corp.), a haze with a fondness for hitching a ride on a recurring Westerly and smothering Stock-ton's valley like a maudlin lover in a humid hug.

It was early, approximately 5.15 P.M., and Hannah was the only one in the dining room apart from an elderly couple eating by the window. A gold, five-tiered chandelier at the center of the room hung like an upside-down d.u.c.h.ess shamelessly exposing to the paying public her ankle boots and froufrou petticoat.

"h.e.l.lo," Hannah said, as we made our way to the table. "The boys should be here in ten minutes," said Jade, sitting down. "They had to wait for Charles to finish practice."

She nodded. She wore a black turtleneck sweater, a gray wool skirt and the starched-and-pressed expression of someone running for office in the heat of an election, moments before he/she is to appear on a televised stage for a debate. There was a series of nervous gestures (a sniff, swipe of the tongue over teeth, a smoothing of skirt) and one weak attempt at conversation ("How was school?") with ensuing lack of follow-up ("I'm glad."). I could tell she was planning to say something very specific to us on this Special Occasion, and I grew worried as I watched her press her lips together and smile at her winegla.s.s, as if mentally reviewing her cordial-yet-threatening greeting of the candidate of the opposing party.

I didn't know what to do. I pretended to be enchanted by the giant menu with the dishes floating down the page in lacy handwriting: Puree of Parsnip-Pear Soup with Infusion of Black Truffle and MicroGreens. Puree of Parsnip-Pear Soup with Infusion of Black Truffle and MicroGreens.

My suspicions were confirmed when Charles and the others arrived, though she waited to deliver her speech until the skinny waiter took our orders then bounded away like a deer hearing rifle shots.

"If our friendship is to continue," she said in a stiff voice, sitting too straight, sweeping her hair officially behind her shoulders, "and there were moments yesterday when I really thought it wouldn't be possible -in the future, when I tell you not to do something, don't don't do it." do it."

Staring at each of us, she let those words march all over the table, through the hummingbird plates and the wooden napkin rings and the bottle of pinot noir, around the gla.s.s centerpiece of roses craning their thin necks and yellow heads over the rim like newly hatched chicks desperate to be fed.

"Is that clear?"

I nodded.

"Yes!' said Charles.

"Yes!' said Leulah.

"Mmm' said Nigel.

"What you did on Sat.u.r.day was inexcusable. It hurt me. Deeply. On top of everything, everything so, so awful awful that happened, I still can't quite fathom what you did to me. That you'd put me at risk, disrespect me so-because, let me tell you, in the that happened, I still can't quite fathom what you did to me. That you'd put me at risk, disrespect me so-because, let me tell you, in the only only stroke of luck that night, Eva Brewster ended up not coming because her terrier was sick. So if it weren't for a f.u.c.king stroke of luck that night, Eva Brewster ended up not coming because her terrier was sick. So if it weren't for a f.u.c.king terrier terrier I'd be fired right now. Do you understand? We'd all be fired, because if she I'd be fired right now. Do you understand? We'd all be fired, because if she had had come, if she'd seen any of you, you would've been expelled. I guarantee it. I'm sure you weren't drinking fruit punch and I couldn't have pulled strings to get you out of it. No. Everything you've worked for, college, it'd be lost. And for what? A prank you thought would be come, if she'd seen any of you, you would've been expelled. I guarantee it. I'm sure you weren't drinking fruit punch and I couldn't have pulled strings to get you out of it. No. Everything you've worked for, college, it'd be lost. And for what? A prank you thought would be fun? fun? Well, it wasn't fun. It was sickening." Well, it wasn't fun. It was sickening."

Her voice was too loud. Also jarring was her use of the word f.u.c.king, f.u.c.king, because she never swore. Yet Hyacinth Terrace gave no surprised stares, no waiterly raised eyebrows. The restaurant was meandering along like some humming grandmother refusing to accept the fact that the price of milk had gone up 600 percent since Her Day. The waiters bowed, deeply immersed in table settings, and across the room, a turnip-haired kid in a loose tuxedo walked to the piano, sat down, began to play Cole Porter. because she never swore. Yet Hyacinth Terrace gave no surprised stares, no waiterly raised eyebrows. The restaurant was meandering along like some humming grandmother refusing to accept the fact that the price of milk had gone up 600 percent since Her Day. The waiters bowed, deeply immersed in table settings, and across the room, a turnip-haired kid in a loose tuxedo walked to the piano, sat down, began to play Cole Porter.

She took a deep breath. "Since I've known each of you, I've treated you as adults. As my equals and friends. That you would treat our friendship with such flagrant contempt, it knocks the wind out of me."

"We're sorry," said Charles in a thimble-voice I'd never heard before. She turned to him, lacing her long, manicured fingers together in perfect This-is-the-church-this-is-the-steeple architecture.

"I know you're sorry, Charles. It isn't the point. When you grow up-and from the looks of things, you have a while-you learn things never go back to normal simply because everyone's sorry. Sorry is ridiculous. A good friend of mine is dead. dead. And, and I'm And, and I'm upset upset..."

Hannah's demoralizing soliloquy lasted all through the Appetizer and well into the Main Course. By the time our attending antelope sprung through the dining room to place dessert menus in front of us, we resembled a band of political dissidents in 1930s USSR after a year of laboring in Siberia and other brutal Arctic Lands. Leulah's shoulders slumped. She looked harrowingly close to collapsing. Jade did nothing but stare into her hummingbird plate. Charles looked puffy and miserable. A doomed expression had torpedoed Milton and was in the process of sinking his entire bulky body under the table. Though Nigel showed no discernible signs of either sorrow or regret, I noticed he'd been able to eat only half of his Pride Hills lamb shank and had not touched his leek whipped potatoes.

I, of course, listened to every word she said and felt renewed sadness every time she looked at me without bothering to disguise her Utter Disappointment and Disillusion. Her Utter Disappointment and Disillusion didn't seem as severe when she looked at the others, and I was certain my observation wasn't an example of Dad's "Theory of Arrogance"-that everyone always a.s.sumes they're the Princ.i.p.al Character of Desire and/or Loathing in everybody else's Broadway play.

Sometimes, apparently so distraught, Hannah let go of the rope of her words and came to a dead stop in a silence that stretched on and on, arid and relentless as far as the eye could see. The restaurant with its shines and clinks, its fanned napkins and resplendent forks (in which you could identify microscopic things lodged in your teeth), its dowager d.u.c.h.ess hanging there, desperate to be let down to go dance a quadrille with an eligible man of society-it all felt indifferent and d.a.m.ned, hopeless as a Hemingway short story teeming with mean conversations, hopes lost between their bullet point words, voices voluptuous as rulers. Perhaps it was because on my personal timeline there was a small red rectangle positioned solely between the years 1987 and 1992, discreetly labeled NATASHA ALICIA BRIDGES VAN MEER, MOTHER, but I was aware now, as ever, that between all people there were First Times You See Them and Last Times You See Them. I felt certain this was a Last Time I See Them. We were going to have to say good-bye and this shiny place served as well a setting as any to be our terminus.

The only thing that kept me from melting onto my dessert menu was Hannah's bedroom. The objects in that room annotated her relentlessly, gave me what I felt were secret insights into her every word and dart of her eyes, every crumple in her voice. I knew it was an appallingly professorial thing to do-Hannah finishing off an entire bottle of wine by herself ill.u.s.trated how distressed she was; even her hair was exhausted as it slung itself across her shoulders and stopped moving-but I couldn't help myself: I was Dad's daughter and thus p.r.o.ne to bibliography. Hannah's eye sockets looked gray, as if they'd been lightly shaded with one of Mr. Moats' drawing pencils.1 She sat schoolhouse-strict.2 When she wasn't berating us, she sighed, rubbed the stem of her winegla.s.s between her thumb and forefinger the way commercial housewives notice dust.31 sensed, somewhere within the context of these singular details, within her knife collection, empty walls, shoe boxes and thatch bedspread was Hannah's Plot, her Princ.i.p.al Characters -most significantly, her Primary Themes. Maybe she was simply a matter of Faulkner: she had to be read very closely, word by painful word (never skimmed, pausing to make critical notes in the margin), including her bizarre digressions (costume party) and improbabilities (Cottonwood). Eventually, I'd come to her last page and discover what she was all about. Maybe I could even Cliffs Note Cliffs Note her. her.

"Can you tell us about the man who died?" Leulah asked suddenly, without looking Hannah in the eye. "I don't mean to be nosy and I understand if you don't want to talk about it. But I think I'd sleep better if I knew a little about him. What he was like."

Rather than replying in a bleak voice that, in light of our cavalier betrayal, it certainly was was nosy and none of her business, after a thoughtful stare at the dessert menu (her eyes fell somewhere between the Pa.s.sion Fruit Sorbet and the Pet.i.t Fours), Hannah drained the rest of her wine and began a surprising and quite captivating exposition of nosy and none of her business, after a thoughtful stare at the dessert menu (her eyes fell somewhere between the Pa.s.sion Fruit Sorbet and the Pet.i.t Fours), Hannah drained the rest of her wine and began a surprising and quite captivating exposition of Smoke Wyannoch Harvey: The Life. Smoke Wyannoch Harvey: The Life.

A pallor hinting at acute insomnia, melancholy or the unknown illness that necessitated her having a small pharmacy in her bathroom cabinet.

A bearing that mimicked the stiff Quaker chair in the corner of her bedroom.

The tired and contemplative look on Hannah's face gave her an odd sort of fill-in-the-blankness, which made me wonder if my initial suspicions had been incorrect, that she was, was, in fact, that little round-eyed girl in the three framed photographs positioned on that bureau. And yet, why would she put in fact, that little round-eyed girl in the three framed photographs positioned on that bureau. And yet, why would she put those those photos on display? The absence of her mother or father in the pictures seemed to indicate she wasn't on the cheeriest of terms with them. Yet Dad said happy photos on exhibition as a representation of deep feeling was a facile a.s.sumption; he said if a person was so insecure he/she had to have constant rea.s.surance of all "gay ol' times," well, then "the sentiments obviously weren't all that profound to begin with." For the record, there were no framed pictures of me around our house, and the only cla.s.s portrait Dad had ever ordered was the one from Sparta Elementary in which I'd sat, knees glued together, in front of a background that looked like Yosemite, sporting pink overalls and a lazy eye. "This is cla.s.sic," Dad said. "That they shamelessly send me an order form so I can pay $69.95 for prints large and small of a photo in which my daughter looks as if she just suffered a great blow to her head -it just shows you, we are simply strapped to a motorized a.s.sembly line moving through this country. We're supposed to pay out, shut up or get tossed in the rejects bin." photos on display? The absence of her mother or father in the pictures seemed to indicate she wasn't on the cheeriest of terms with them. Yet Dad said happy photos on exhibition as a representation of deep feeling was a facile a.s.sumption; he said if a person was so insecure he/she had to have constant rea.s.surance of all "gay ol' times," well, then "the sentiments obviously weren't all that profound to begin with." For the record, there were no framed pictures of me around our house, and the only cla.s.s portrait Dad had ever ordered was the one from Sparta Elementary in which I'd sat, knees glued together, in front of a background that looked like Yosemite, sporting pink overalls and a lazy eye. "This is cla.s.sic," Dad said. "That they shamelessly send me an order form so I can pay $69.95 for prints large and small of a photo in which my daughter looks as if she just suffered a great blow to her head -it just shows you, we are simply strapped to a motorized a.s.sembly line moving through this country. We're supposed to pay out, shut up or get tossed in the rejects bin."

"I met him in Chicago," she said, clearing her throat as the waiter vaulted forth to fill her gla.s.s with what little was left in the wine bottle. "The Valhalla chocolate cake with the . . ."

"White chocolate ice cream and caramel creme sauce?" he chirped.

"For everyone. And can I see your list of brandies?"

"Certainly, madam." He bowed and retreated into his peachy gra.s.sland of round tables and gold chairs.

"G.o.d. It was ages ago," Hannah said. She picked up her dessert spoon and began to somersault it in her fingers. "But, yes. He was a remarkable man. Excruciatingly funny. Generous to a fault. A great storyteller. Everyone wanted to be around him. When Smoke-Dubs, I mean, everyone important to him called him Dubs-when Dubs told a story you laughed so hard your stomach hurt. You thought you'd die." I mean, everyone important to him called him Dubs-when Dubs told a story you laughed so hard your stomach hurt. You thought you'd die."

"People who tell a good story are amazing," said Leulah sitting up eagerly in her chair.

"The house alone was straight out of Gone with the Wind. Gone with the Wind. Enormous. White columns, you know, and a long white fence and big magnolias. Built in eighteen-something. It's in southern West Virginia, outside of Findley. He called it Moorgate. I-I can't remember why." Enormous. White columns, you know, and a long white fence and big magnolias. Built in eighteen-something. It's in southern West Virginia, outside of Findley. He called it Moorgate. I-I can't remember why."

"Have you been to Moorgate?" asked Leulah breathlessly.

Hannah nodded. "Hundreds of times. It used to be a tobacco plantation, four thousand acres, but Smoke only has a hundred and twenty. And it's haunted. There's an awful story about the house-what was it, I can't remember. Something to do with slavery . . ."

She tilted her head, trying to remember, and we leaned forward like first graders during Story Hour.

"It was just before the Civil War. Dubs told me all of this. I guess the master's daughter, beautiful, the belle of the county, she fell in love with a slave and became pregnant with his child. When it was bom, the master had the servants take it down to the bas.e.m.e.nt and put it in the furnace. So every now and then, during thunderstorms, or on summer nights when there were crickets in the kitchen -Smoke was very specific about the crickets-you can hear a baby crying, way, way down in the bas.e.m.e.nt. In the walls. There's also a willow tree in the front yard, which had supposedly been used for beatings, and if you go up to the trunk, carved faintly into the bark are the initials of that girl and the slave who loved each other. Dorothy Ellen, his first wife, hated the tree, thought it was evil. She was very religious. But Smoke refused to cut it down. He said you couldn't pretend the terrible things in life didn't happen. You can't clean it up. You keep all the refuse and the scars. It's how you learn. And try to make improvements."

"That's one old willow tree," Nigel said.

"Smoke was a person with a sense of history. Do you know what I mean?" She happened to be looking at me with a very intense look, so I automatically nodded. But in truth, I did did know what she meant. Da Vinci, Martin Luther King, Jr., Genghis Kahn, Abraham Lincoln, Bette Davis-if you read their definitive biographies, you learned that even when they were a month old, cooing in some wobbly crib in the middle of nowhere, they already had something historic about them. The way other kids had baseball, long division, Hot Wheels and hula hoops, these kids had History and thus tended to be p.r.o.ne to colds, unpopular, sometimes plagued with a physical deformity (Lord Byron's clubfoot, Maugham's severe stutter, for example), which pushed them deep into exile in their heads. It was there they began to dream of human anatomy, civil rights, conquering Asia, a lost speech and being (within a span of only four years) a jezebel, a marked woman, a little fox and an old maid. know what she meant. Da Vinci, Martin Luther King, Jr., Genghis Kahn, Abraham Lincoln, Bette Davis-if you read their definitive biographies, you learned that even when they were a month old, cooing in some wobbly crib in the middle of nowhere, they already had something historic about them. The way other kids had baseball, long division, Hot Wheels and hula hoops, these kids had History and thus tended to be p.r.o.ne to colds, unpopular, sometimes plagued with a physical deformity (Lord Byron's clubfoot, Maugham's severe stutter, for example), which pushed them deep into exile in their heads. It was there they began to dream of human anatomy, civil rights, conquering Asia, a lost speech and being (within a span of only four years) a jezebel, a marked woman, a little fox and an old maid.

"He sounds dreamy," said Jade.

"Sounded," said Nigel very quietly.

"So were you two, uh . . . ?" asked Charles. He let the sentence make its own way into that renowned motel bed with sandpaper sheets and proverbial shrieking mattress.

"He was a friend," friend," Hannah said. "I was too tall for him. He liked women who were little dolls, porcelain baby dolls. All of his wives, Dorothy Ellen, Clarisse, poor Janice. They were all under five feet." She giggled girlishly-a much-welcomed sound-sighed and rested her head in her hand, the pose of an unknown woman one came across in some second-hand biography, in a black-and-white photo accompanied by the caption, "At a Cuernavaca party, late 1970s." (It wasn't Hannah said. "I was too tall for him. He liked women who were little dolls, porcelain baby dolls. All of his wives, Dorothy Ellen, Clarisse, poor Janice. They were all under five feet." She giggled girlishly-a much-welcomed sound-sighed and rested her head in her hand, the pose of an unknown woman one came across in some second-hand biography, in a black-and-white photo accompanied by the caption, "At a Cuernavaca party, late 1970s." (It wasn't her her biography, but the portly n.o.bel Prize-winner she sat next to; but so arresting were the dark eyes, the sleek hair, the strict expression, one wondered who she was, and didn't want to keep reading when there was no other mention of her.) biography, but the portly n.o.bel Prize-winner she sat next to; but so arresting were the dark eyes, the sleek hair, the strict expression, one wondered who she was, and didn't want to keep reading when there was no other mention of her.) She talked on and on about Smoke Harvey, through the warm Valhalla chocolate cake, through the selection of English Farmhouse Cheeses, through two piano renditions of "I Could Have Danced All Night." She was like Keats' Grecian Urn left under a running faucet, overflowing, unable to stop herself.

The waiter returned her credit card and she still didn't stop talking. Frankly, at this point, it made me a little edgy. As Dad said famously after his first date with June Bug Betina Mendejo in Cocorro, California (Betina managed to air her every piece of Dirty Linen at Tortilla Mexicana, telling Dad how her ex-husband, Jake, stole everything from her, including her Pride and Ego): "Funnily enough, it is the subject one dreads talking about at length one ends up talking about at length, often without the slightest provocation."

"Anyone want the last selection of English Farmhouse Cheese?" asked Nigel, pausing only for a second before helping himself to the last selection of English Farmhouse Cheese.

"It was my fault!' Hannah said.

"No, it's wasn't," said Charles.

She didn't hear him. Sticky redness had oozed into her face. "I invited him," she said. "We hadn't seen each other in years, exchanged a few calls, sure, but, you know, he was busy. I wanted him to come to the party. Richard, whom I work with at the shelter, had invited some of his friends from all over the world-he'd worked in the Peace Corps for thirteen years, still keeps in touch with a lot of the people he worked with. An international crowd. It was supposed to be fun. And I sensed Smoke needed a break from things. One of his daughters, Ada, had just gotten a divorce. Shirley, another daughter, had just had a baby and named it Chrysanthemum. Can you imagine, a person with the name Chrysanthemum? He called me up, howling about it. It was the last thing we talked about."

"What'd he do for a living?" asked Jade quietly. "He was a banker," Nigel said, "but he also wrote a book, didn't he? Devil'sTreason Devil'sTreason or something." Again, Hannah didn't seem to hear. "The last thing we talked about was chrysanthemums," she said to the tablecloth. or something." Again, Hannah didn't seem to hear. "The last thing we talked about was chrysanthemums," she said to the tablecloth.

The darkness in the fan-shaped window had soothed the room and the gold chairs, the fleur-de-lys wallpaper; even the dowager chandelier relaxed a little, like a family finally rid of an affluent guest and they could now squash the seat cushions, eat with their fingers, remove their stiff, uncomfortable shoes. The kid at the piano was playing, "Why Can't a Woman Be More Like a Man," which happened to be one of Dad's favorites.

"Some people are fragile as-as b.u.t.terflies and sensitive and it's your responsibility not to destroy them," she went on. "Just because you can." can."

She was staring at me me again, minute reflections of light dancing in her eyes, and I tried to smile rea.s.suringly, but it was difficult because I could see how drunk she was. Her eyelids sagged like lazy window shades and she was trying too hard to herd her words together so they jostled, b.u.mped, stepped all over each other. again, minute reflections of light dancing in her eyes, and I tried to smile rea.s.suringly, but it was difficult because I could see how drunk she was. Her eyelids sagged like lazy window shades and she was trying too hard to herd her words together so they jostled, b.u.mped, stepped all over each other.

"Grow up in a country," she said, "a house of-of privilege, endless commodity, you think you're better than other people. You think you belong to a f.u.c.king country club so you can kick people in the face on your way to acquiring more things." things." She was staring at Jade now and said She was staring at Jade now and said things things as if biting it off the end of a candy bar. "It takes years to overturn th-this conditioning. I tried my whole life and I as if biting it off the end of a candy bar. "It takes years to overturn th-this conditioning. I tried my whole life and I still still exploit people. I'm a pig. Show me what a man hates and I'll show you what he is. Can't remember who said that. . ." exploit people. I'm a pig. Show me what a man hates and I'll show you what he is. Can't remember who said that. . ."

Her voice went dead. Her teary eyes drifted toward the center of the table, bobbing around the rose centerpiece. All of us were sort of madlyeyeing each other, holding our breaths in mutual queasiness-what people do in restaurants when a soiled drunk person walks in and starts shouting through a mouthful of kernel teeth about working for The Man. It was as if Hannah had sprung a leak and her character, usually so meticulous and contained, was spilling all over the place. I'd never seen her speak or behave in this way, and I doubted the others had either; they stared at her with sickened yet fascinated expressions, as if watching crocodiles mate on the Nature Channel. each other, holding our breaths in mutual queasiness-what people do in restaurants when a soiled drunk person walks in and starts shouting through a mouthful of kernel teeth about working for The Man. It was as if Hannah had sprung a leak and her character, usually so meticulous and contained, was spilling all over the place. I'd never seen her speak or behave in this way, and I doubted the others had either; they stared at her with sickened yet fascinated expressions, as if watching crocodiles mate on the Nature Channel.

Her teeth snagged her bottom lip, there was a little manifestoed frown between her eyebrows. I was deathly afraid she'd go on about needing to go live on a kibbutz or relocating to Vietnam where she'd become a hash-smoking beatnik ("Hanoi Hannah," we'd have to call her) or else she'd turn on us, chastise us for being like our parents, odious and square. Even more frightening was the possibility she might cry. Her eyes were wet, murky tide-pools where things unseen lived and glowed. I felt there were few things in the world more horrific than the adult weep-not the rogue tear during a long-distance commercial, not the stately sob at a funeral, but the cry on the bathroom floor, in the office cubicle, in the two-car garage with one's fingers frantically pressing down on one's eyelids as if there was an ESC key somewhere, a RETURN.

But Hannah didn't cry. She lifted her head, looking around the dining room with the confused expression of someone who'd just woken up in a bus station with seams and the b.u.t.ton of a shirtsleeve imprinted on her forehead. She sniffed.

"Let's get out of this f.u.c.king place," she said.

For the rest of the week, even a little bit after that, I noticed Smoke Wyannoch Harvey, age 68, was still sort of alive.

Hannah had brought him back to life like Frankenstein his Monster by her deluge of detail, and thus, in all of our heads (even that of the painfully pragmatic Nigel) Smoke didn't really seem dead, but simply offstage somewhere, kidnapped.

Jade, Leulah, Charles and Milton had been outside on the patio as Smoke lurched to his death (Nigel and I simply told the others we were "amusing ourselves inside," which technically was the truth). They were plagued by the If Onlys.

"If only I'd been paying attention," said Lu.

"If only I hadn't smoked the rest of that joint," said Milton.