She rolled off the sofa and walked toward the kitchenette behind Mirtha's desk. She opened the small refrigerator door and, crouching down, was illuminated by a rectangle of gold light so her dress became transparent and you could see, in this X-ray, how thin she was, how her shoulders were no wider than a coat hanger.

"There's that eggnog in here," she said. "Want some?"

"No."

"There's tons. Three full containers."

"Mirtha probably measures how much is left at the end of every day. We don't want to get in trouble."

Jade stood up with the pitcher, banging the door closed with her foot.

"It's Mirtha Grazeley, who everyone knows is the Mad freakin' Hatter. Who'll listen to her if she croaks there's something missing? Besides. Most people just aren't that organized. Isn't that what you you said the other said the other soir, soir, 'no method to the madness' and such?" She opened one of the cabinets and took out two gla.s.ses. "All I'm saying is that I happen to think Hannah got 'no method to the madness' and such?" She opened one of the cabinets and took out two gla.s.ses. "All I'm saying is that I happen to think Hannah got rid rid of the man like I happen to know my mother's the Loch Ness Monster. Or Bigfoot. I haven't decided what monster she is but I'm positive she's one of the big ones." of the man like I happen to know my mother's the Loch Ness Monster. Or Bigfoot. I haven't decided what monster she is but I'm positive she's one of the big ones."

"What was her motive then?" I asked. ("In my opinion," said Curry, "it is also a very useful achievement to make certain the speaker remains on course, does not skirt around what he knows, prattling on about latchkeys and boilers.") "Monsters don't need a motive. They're monsters so they just-"

"I mean Hannah."

She looked at me, exasperated. "You don't get it, do you? No one needs needs a motive in this day and age. People look for motives and such because they're afraid of like, total chaos. But motives are out like clogs. The truth is, some people just like to execute, like some people have a thing for ski b.u.ms with moles all over like G.o.d spilled peppercorns or paralegals with full-sleeve tattoos." a motive in this day and age. People look for motives and such because they're afraid of like, total chaos. But motives are out like clogs. The truth is, some people just like to execute, like some people have a thing for ski b.u.ms with moles all over like G.o.d spilled peppercorns or paralegals with full-sleeve tattoos."

"Then why him?"

"Who?"

"Smoke Harvey," I said. "Why him and not me, for example?"

She made a sarcastic Ha Ha sound as she handed me the gla.s.s and sat down. "I don't know if you're aware of it but Hannah's completely obsessed with you. It's like you're her freaking lost sound as she handed me the gla.s.s and sat down. "I don't know if you're aware of it but Hannah's completely obsessed with you. It's like you're her freaking lost child. child. I mean, we knew about you before you even freaking showed up at this place. It was so freaking weird." I mean, we knew about you before you even freaking showed up at this place. It was so freaking weird."

My heart stopped. "What are you talking about?"

Jade sniffed. "Well, you met her at that shoe store, correct?"

I nodded.

"Well, like, immediately after that, or maybe even the day of, of, she was talking on and on about this Blue person who was so amazing and wonderful and we'd have to become friends with you or like, she was talking on and on about this Blue person who was so amazing and wonderful and we'd have to become friends with you or like, die. die. Like you were the f.u.c.king Second Coming. She still acts that way. When you're not around she's always, 'Where's Blue, anyone seen Blue?' Blue, Blue, Blue, for Christ sake. But it's not just you. She has all kinds of abnormal fixations. Like the animals and the furniture. All those men in Cottonwood. s.e.x for her's like shaking hands. And Charles. She's completely f.u.c.ked him up and doesn't even realize it. She thinks she's doing all of us a big favor by being friends with us, educating us or whatever-" Like you were the f.u.c.king Second Coming. She still acts that way. When you're not around she's always, 'Where's Blue, anyone seen Blue?' Blue, Blue, Blue, for Christ sake. But it's not just you. She has all kinds of abnormal fixations. Like the animals and the furniture. All those men in Cottonwood. s.e.x for her's like shaking hands. And Charles. She's completely f.u.c.ked him up and doesn't even realize it. She thinks she's doing all of us a big favor by being friends with us, educating us or whatever-"

I swallowed. "Something really did happen between Charles and Hannah?"

"Hel/o? Of course. I'm like, ninety ninety percent positive. Charles won't tell anyone a thing, not even Black, because she's brainwashed him. But last year? Lu and I went to pick him up and we found him crying like I'd never seen a person cry in my whole life. His face was screwed up like this." She demonstrated. "He'd had a tantrum. The whole house was destroyed. He'd thrown paintings, attacked the wallpaper-huge chunks ripped right off the walls. We found him crying in a little ball by the TV. There was a knife on the floor, too, and we were afraid he was going to try to commit suicide or something-" percent positive. Charles won't tell anyone a thing, not even Black, because she's brainwashed him. But last year? Lu and I went to pick him up and we found him crying like I'd never seen a person cry in my whole life. His face was screwed up like this." She demonstrated. "He'd had a tantrum. The whole house was destroyed. He'd thrown paintings, attacked the wallpaper-huge chunks ripped right off the walls. We found him crying in a little ball by the TV. There was a knife on the floor, too, and we were afraid he was going to try to commit suicide or something-"

"He didn't, did he?" I asked quickly.

She shook her head. "No. But I think the reason he was freaking out was that Hannah told him they'd have to stop. Or who knows, maybe it just happened the one time. I mean, it was probably probably an accident. I don't think she set out to f.u.c.k him up, but she definitely did something, because he's not himself anymore. I mean, you should have seen him last year, the year before. He was amazing. This really happy person everyone loved. Now he's always p.i.s.sed off." an accident. I don't think she set out to f.u.c.k him up, but she definitely did something, because he's not himself anymore. I mean, you should have seen him last year, the year before. He was amazing. This really happy person everyone loved. Now he's always p.i.s.sed off."

She took a long drink of the eggnog. The darkness hardened her profile so her face looked like one of the colossal decorative jade masks Dad and I observed in the Olmec Room at the Garber Natural History Museum in Artesia, New Mexico. " The Olmec people were a singularly artistic civilization, deeply intrigued by the human face,' " Dad read grandly from the printed explanation on the wall. " 'They believed that though the voice often lies, the face itself is never deceitful.' "

"If you really think these things about Hannah," I managed to say, "how can you spend time with her?"

"I know. It's weird." She scrunched her mouth to one side, thinking. "I guess she's like crack." She sighed, hugging her shins. "It's a mint chocolate chip ice cream thing."

"What does that mean?" I asked, when she didn't immediately elaborate.

"Well." She tilted her head. "Have you ever felt that you loved, loved loved mint chocolate chip? That it was always your favorite flavor over every other in the entire world? But then one day you hear Hannah going on and on about b.u.t.ter pecan. b.u.t.ter pecan this and b.u.t.ter pecan that and then you find yourself ordering b.u.t.ter pecan all the time. And you realize you like b.u.t.ter pecan best. That you probably liked it all along and just hadn't known." She was quiet for a moment. "You never eat mint chocolate chip again." mint chocolate chip? That it was always your favorite flavor over every other in the entire world? But then one day you hear Hannah going on and on about b.u.t.ter pecan. b.u.t.ter pecan this and b.u.t.ter pecan that and then you find yourself ordering b.u.t.ter pecan all the time. And you realize you like b.u.t.ter pecan best. That you probably liked it all along and just hadn't known." She was quiet for a moment. "You never eat mint chocolate chip again."

At this point, I felt as if I was drowning in the shadowed floats and the holdfasts and the Blood Henry Starfish clinging to the overhead lamp, but I told myself to take a deep breath, remember I couldn't believe all or any of what she said -not necessarily. Much of what Jade swore by, when she was drunk or sober, could be trapdoors, quicksand, trompe l'oeil, the hoax of light as it speeds through the air at a variety of temperatures.

I'd made the mistake of taking her words at face value for the first and last time when she confided to me how much she "hated" her mother, was "dying" to go live with her father, a judge in Atlanta, who was "decent" (despite having run off some four years prior with a woman she simply referred to as Meathead Marcy, about whom little was known, except that she was a paralegal with full-sleeve tattoos) and then, not fifteen minutes later, I watched her pick up the phone to call her mother, who was still in Colorado, happily trapped in some avalanche of a love affair with the ski instructor.

"But when are you coming home? I hate being looked after by Morella. I need you for my proper emotional development," she said tearfully, before noticing me, shouting, "What the f.u.c.k are you you looking at?" and slamming the door in my face. looking at?" and slamming the door in my face.

Though lovable (her signature tic, that absentminded way of blowing her hair out of her face couldn't be surpa.s.sed in charm by Audrey Hepburn), also blessed with the enviable properties of a mink coat-graceful, unreasonable and impractical no matter what she was draped over, whether it be couches or people (a quality that didn't diminish even when she was marginally torn and tatty, as she was now)-Jade was nevertheless one of those people whose personality proved to be the bane of modern mathematicians. She was neither a flat nor a solid shape. She showed no symmetry at all. Trigonometry, Calculus and Statistics all proved useless. Her Pie Chart was a muddle of arbitrary wedges, her Line Graph, the silhouette of the Alps. And just when one listed her under Chaos Theory-b.u.t.terfly Effects, Weather Predictions, Fractals, Bifurcation diagrams and whatnot-she showed up as an equilateral triangle, sometimes even a square.

Now she was on the floor with her filthy feet over her head, demonstrating a Pilates exercise that she explained, "made more blood flow along the spinal cord." (Somehow this translated into living longer.) I downed my gla.s.s of egg-nog.

"I say we go to her cla.s.sroom," she said in a keyed-up whisper. She swung her skinny legs back onto the carpet in the fast, violent movement of a guillotine. "We could take a look around. I mean, it's not completely insane to imagine that she'd keep evidence in her cla.s.sroom."

"Evidence of what?" what?" "I told you. Murder. She killed that Smoke person." I took a deep breath. "Criminals put things where people are the least likely to look, right?" "I told you. Murder. She killed that Smoke person." I took a deep breath. "Criminals put things where people are the least likely to look, right?"

she asked. "Well, who'd think to look in her cla.s.sroom?" "We would." "We find something? Then we know. know. Not that it means anything. I Not that it means anything. I mean, giving her the benefit of the doubt, maybe Smoke had it coming to him. Maybe he clubbed seals." "Jade - " "We don't find anything? Who cares? No harm, no foul." "We cannot cannot go to her cla.s.sroom." "Why not?" "Any number of reasons. One, we might get caught and kicked out of go to her cla.s.sroom." "Why not?" "Any number of reasons. One, we might get caught and kicked out of school. Two, it makes no logical sense- "

"Oh, f.u.c.k off!" she shouted. she shouted. "Can you forget your f.u.c.king stellar college career for once and have a good time? You're a f.u.c.king drag!" "Can you forget your f.u.c.king stellar college career for once and have a good time? You're a f.u.c.king drag!" She looked furious, but then almost immediately, the anger slipped off her face. She sat up, an inchworm smile. "Just She looked furious, but then almost immediately, the anger slipped off her face. She sat up, an inchworm smile. "Just think, think, Olives," she whispered. "We have a higher cause. Undercover investigations. Recon work. We could end up on the Olives," she whispered. "We have a higher cause. Undercover investigations. Recon work. We could end up on the news. news. We could be America's f.u.c.king sweethearts." We could be America's f.u.c.king sweethearts."

I stared at her. " 'Once more unto the breach, dear friends/ " I said. "Good. Now help me find my shoes."

Ten minutes later, we were scurrying down the hall. Hanover had an old accordion floor, wheezing flat notes with every step. We pushed open the door, rushed down the hollow stairwell, outside into the cold, down the sidewalk trickling in front of the courtyard and Love. Stalact.i.tes of shadow grew around us, making Jade and me instinctively pretend we were nineteenth-century schoolgirls pursued by Count Dracula. We shivered and leaned into each other tightly, pretzeling our arms. We began to run, her hair splashing against my bare shoulder and face.

Dad once noted (somewhat morbidly, I thought at the time) that American inst.i.tutions would be infinitely more successful in facilitating the pursuit of knowledge if they held cla.s.ses at night, rather than in the daytime, from 8:00 P.M. to 4:00 or 5:00 in the morning. As I ran through the darkness, I understood what he meant. Frank red brick, sunny cla.s.srooms, symmetrical quads and courts -it was a setting that mislead kids to believe that Knowledge, that Life itself, was bright, clear and freshly mowed. Dad said a student would be infinitely better off going out into the world if he/she studied the periodic table of elements, Madame Bovary, Madame Bovary, the s.e.xual reproduction of a sunflower, for example, with deformed shadows congregating on the cla.s.sroom walls, silhouettes of fingers and pencils leaking onto the floor, gastric howls from unseen radiators and a teacher's face not flat and faded, not delicately pasteled by a golden late afternoon, but serpentine, gargoyled, Cyclopsed by the inky dark and feeble light from a candle. He/she would understand "everything and nothing," Dad said, if there was nothing discernible in the windows but a lamppost mobbed by blaze-crazy moths and darkness, reticent and unfeeling, as darkness always was. the s.e.xual reproduction of a sunflower, for example, with deformed shadows congregating on the cla.s.sroom walls, silhouettes of fingers and pencils leaking onto the floor, gastric howls from unseen radiators and a teacher's face not flat and faded, not delicately pasteled by a golden late afternoon, but serpentine, gargoyled, Cyclopsed by the inky dark and feeble light from a candle. He/she would understand "everything and nothing," Dad said, if there was nothing discernible in the windows but a lamppost mobbed by blaze-crazy moths and darkness, reticent and unfeeling, as darkness always was.

Two tall pines somewhere to our left inadvertently touched branches, the sound of a madman's prosthetic limbs. "Someone's coming!" Jade whispered. We raced down the hill, past silent Graydon, and the bas.e.m.e.nt of Love Auditorium, and Hypocrite's Alley, where the music cla.s.srooms with their long windows were vacant and blind like Oedipus after he hollowed out his eyes.

"I'm scared," she whispered, tightening her grip on my wrist. "I'm terrified. And freezing." "Have you seen School of h.e.l.l?" School of h.e.l.l?" "No." "Serial killer's a Home Ec teacher." "Ow." "Baking 203. Bakes the students into souffles. Isn't that sick?" "I stepped on something. I think it went through my shoe." "We have to hurry, Retch. We can't get caught. We'll "No." "Serial killer's a Home Ec teacher." "Ow." "Baking 203. Bakes the students into souffles. Isn't that sick?" "I stepped on something. I think it went through my shoe." "We have to hurry, Retch. We can't get caught. We'lldie." She broke away from me and skipped up the steps of Loomis, yanking on She broke away from me and skipped up the steps of Loomis, yanking on the doors covered with dark, leafy announcements for Mr. Crisp's production of The Bald Soprano The Bald Soprano (Ionesco, 1950). They were locked. "We'll have to go in another way," she whispered excitedly. "Through the (Ionesco, 1950). They were locked. "We'll have to go in another way," she whispered excitedly. "Through the window. Or the roof. I wonder if there's a chimney. We'll pull a Santa, Retch.

A Santa."

She grabbed my hand. Taking cues from movies featuring cat burglars and silent a.s.sa.s.sins, we circled the building, crunching through the shrubs and pine needles, trying the windows. Finally, we found one that wasn't latched, which Jade forced open into a narrow s.p.a.ce of inward-leaning gla.s.s leading into Mr. Fletcher's Driver's Ed cla.s.sroom. She slipped through the opening easily, landing on one foot. As I went through, I skinned my left shin on the window catch, my stockings ripped, and then I crashed onto the carpet, hitting my head on the radiator. (A poster on the wall featuring a kid wearing braces and a seat belt: "Always Check Your Blind Spot, on the Road and in Life!") "Move it, slowpoke," Jade whispered and disappeared through the door.

Hannah's cla.s.sroom, Room 102, was located at the very end of the root-ca.n.a.l hallway, a Casablanca Casablanca poster taped to the door. I'd never been in her cla.s.sroom before, and inside, when I opened the door, it was surprisingly bright; yellow-white floodlight from the sidewalk outside radiated through the wall of windows, X-raying the twenty-five or thirty desks and chairs and flinging long, skeletal shadows across the floor. Jade was already perched cross-legged on the stool at the front desk, one or two of the drawers hanging open. She paged intensely through a textbook. poster taped to the door. I'd never been in her cla.s.sroom before, and inside, when I opened the door, it was surprisingly bright; yellow-white floodlight from the sidewalk outside radiated through the wall of windows, X-raying the twenty-five or thirty desks and chairs and flinging long, skeletal shadows across the floor. Jade was already perched cross-legged on the stool at the front desk, one or two of the drawers hanging open. She paged intensely through a textbook.

"Find any smoking guns?" I asked. She didn't answer, so I turned and walked down the first row of desks, staring up at the row of framed movie posters on the walls (Visual Aid 14.0).

In total, there were thirteen, including the two in the back by the bookshelf. Maybe it was because of the eggnog, but it only took a minute to realize how odd the posters were -not the fact that every one was foreign, or an American movie in Spanish, Italian or French, or even that they were each s.p.a.ced some three inches apart and straight as soldiers, a level of exact.i.tude you learned never to expect from the Visual Aids caking the walls of a cla.s.sroom, not even one of Science or Mathematics. (I went up to II Caso Thomas Crown, II Caso Thomas Crown, moved back the frame and saw, around the nail, distinct pencil lines, where she'd made the measurements, the blueprint of meticulousness.) moved back the frame and saw, around the nail, distinct pencil lines, where she'd made the measurements, the blueprint of meticulousness.) With the exception of two (per un Pugno di Dollari, Fronte del Porto), (per un Pugno di Dollari, Fronte del Porto), all the posters featured an embrace or kiss of some kind. Rhett was there grasping Scarlett, sure; and Fred holding onto Holly and Cat in the rain all the posters featured an embrace or kiss of some kind. Rhett was there grasping Scarlett, sure; and Fred holding onto Holly and Cat in the rain (Colazione da Tiffany); (Colazione da Tiffany); but there was also Ryan O'Neal Historia del Amoring with Ali MacGraw; Charlton Heston clutching Janet Leigh, making her head fall at an uncomfortable angle in but there was also Ryan O'Neal Historia del Amoring with Ali MacGraw; Charlton Heston clutching Janet Leigh, making her head fall at an uncomfortable angle in La Soif du Mal; La Soif du Mal; and Burt Lancaster and Deborah Kerr getting a great deal of sand in their bathing suits. In a funny way too, I noticed-and I didn't think I was getting too carried away-the way the woman was positioned in each of the posters, it could very well have been and Burt Lancaster and Deborah Kerr getting a great deal of sand in their bathing suits. In a funny way too, I noticed-and I didn't think I was getting too carried away-the way the woman was positioned in each of the posters, it could very well have been Hannah Hannah embraced from there to eternity. She had their same fine china bones, their hairpin, coastal-road profiles, the hair that tripped and fell down their shoulders. embraced from there to eternity. She had their same fine china bones, their hairpin, coastal-road profiles, the hair that tripped and fell down their shoulders.

It was surprising, because she'd never struck me as the dizzy type to surround herself with firework displays of untold pa.s.sion (as Dad called it, a "big to-don't"). That she'd so meticulously a.s.sembled these Coming Attractions that had come and gone-it made me a little sad.

"Somewhere in a woman's room there is always something, an object, a detail, that is her, wholly and unapologetically," Dad said. "With your mother, of course, it was the b.u.t.terflies. Not only could you ascertain the extreme care she took in preserving and mounting them, how much they meant to her, but each one shed a tiny yet persistent light on the complex woman she was. Take the glorious Forest Queen. It reflects your mother's regal bearing, her fierce reverence for the natural world. The Clouded Mother of Pearl? Her maternal instinct, her understanding of moral relativism. Natasha saw the world not in blacks or whites, but as it really is-a decidedly dim landscape. The Mechanitis Mimic? She could impersonate all the greats, from Norma Shearer to Howard Keel. The insects themselves were her in many ways-glorious, heartbreakingly fragile. And so you see, considering each of these specimens, we end up with -if not your mother precisely- precisely-at the very least, a close approximation of her soul."

I wasn't sure why, at this moment, I thought of the b.u.t.terflies, except that these posters seemed to be the details that were Hannah, "wholly and unapologetically." Maybe Burt Lancaster and Deborah Kerr getting sand in their bathing suits were her ardor for living coupled with a pa.s.sion for the sea, the origin of all life, and Bella di giorno Bella di giorno featuring Catherine Deneuve with her mouth hidden, was her need for shiftiness, secrets, Cottonwood. featuring Catherine Deneuve with her mouth hidden, was her need for shiftiness, secrets, Cottonwood.

"Oh, G.o.d," Jade said behind me. She threw a thick paperback into the air and it fluttered, crashing against the window.

"What?"

She didn't say anything, only pointed at the book on the floor, her breathing exaggerated. I walked over to the windows and picked it up.

It was a gray book with the photograph of a man on the front, its t.i.tle in orange letters: Blackbird Singing in the Dead of Night: The Life of Charles Blackbird Singing in the Dead of Night: The Life of Charles Milles Manson (Ivys, 1985). The cover and pages were extremely tattered. (Ivys, 1985). The cover and pages were extremely tattered.

"So?" I asked.

"Don't you know who Charles Manson is?" is?"

"Of course."

"Why would she have that book?"

"A lot of people have it. It's the definitive biography."

I didn't feel like going into the fact that J had the book too, that Dad included it on the syllabus for a course he'd last taught at the University of Utah at Rockwell, Seminar on Characteristics of a Political Rebel. The author, Jay Burne Ivys, an Englishman, had spent hundreds of hours interviewing a.s.sorted members of the Manson Family, which, in its heyday, included at least one hundred and twelve people, and thus the book was remarkably comprehensive in Parts II and III explaining the origins and codes of Manson's ideology, the daily activities of the sect, the hierarchy (Part I entailed a fastidious psychoa.n.a.lysis of Manson's difficult childhood, which Dad, not being a Freud aficionado, found less effective). Dad addressed the book, juxtaposed with Miguel Nelson's Zapata Zapata (1989), for two, sometimes three cla.s.ses under the lecture t.i.tle "Freedom Fighter or Fanatic?" "Fifty-nine people who encountered Charles Manson during his years living in Haight-Ashbury went on the record saying he had the most magnetic eyes and most stirring voice of any human being they'd ever encountered," Dad boomed into the microphone at the lectern. "Fifty-nine (1989), for two, sometimes three cla.s.ses under the lecture t.i.tle "Freedom Fighter or Fanatic?" "Fifty-nine people who encountered Charles Manson during his years living in Haight-Ashbury went on the record saying he had the most magnetic eyes and most stirring voice of any human being they'd ever encountered," Dad boomed into the microphone at the lectern. "Fifty-nine different different sources. So what was it? The It-factor. Charisma. He had it. So did Zapata. Guevara. Who else? Lucifer. You're born with, what? That certain je ne sais quoi, and according to history, you can move, with relatively little effort, a group of ordinary people to take up guns and fight for your cause, whatever cause it is; the nature of the cause actually matters very little. If you say so -if you toss them something to believe in-they'll murder, give their lives, call you Jesus. Sure, you laugh, but to this day, Charles Manson receives more fan mail than any other inmate in the entire U.S. penitentiary system, some sixty thousand letters per year. His CD, sources. So what was it? The It-factor. Charisma. He had it. So did Zapata. Guevara. Who else? Lucifer. You're born with, what? That certain je ne sais quoi, and according to history, you can move, with relatively little effort, a group of ordinary people to take up guns and fight for your cause, whatever cause it is; the nature of the cause actually matters very little. If you say so -if you toss them something to believe in-they'll murder, give their lives, call you Jesus. Sure, you laugh, but to this day, Charles Manson receives more fan mail than any other inmate in the entire U.S. penitentiary system, some sixty thousand letters per year. His CD, Lie, Lie, continues to be a mover on Amazon .com. What does that tell us? Or, let me rephrase that. What does that tell us about continues to be a mover on Amazon .com. What does that tell us? Or, let me rephrase that. What does that tell us about us?" us?"

"There's no other book in here, Gag," Jade said in a nervous voice. "Look." I walked over to the desk. Inside the open drawer were a pile DVDs, All All the Kings Men, The Deer Hunter, La Historia Oficial, a few others, but no a few others, but no books. "I found it in the back," she said. "Hidden." I opened the shabby cover, flipped through a few pages. Maybe it was the stark light in the room, slashing and deboning everything, including Jade (her emaciated shadow fell to the floor, crawled toward the door), but I felt genuine chills skidding down my neck when I saw the name written in faded pencil in the upper corner of the t.i.tle page. Hannah Schneider. Hannah Schneider.

"It doesn't mean anything," I said, but noticed, with surprise, I was trying to convince myself. Jade's eyes widened. "You think she wants to kill us?" she whispered. "Oh, please." "Seriously. We're targets because we're bourgeois." I frowned. "What is it with you and that word?" "It's Hannah's word. Ever noticed when she's drunk everyone's a pig?" "She's just kidding," I said. "Even my Dad jokes about that sometimes."

But Jade, her teeth bricked into a tiny wall, grabbed the book from my hands and started furiously spinning through the pages, stopping at the black-andwhite photographs in the middle, tilting them so they caught the light. " 'Charles called Susan Atkins s.e.xy Sadie,' " she read slowly. "Ew. Look how freaky this woman looks. Those eyes. Honestly, they kind of look like Hannah's-"

"Stop it," I said, s.n.a.t.c.hing the book from her. "What's the matter with you?"

"What's the matter with you?" you?" Her eyes were narrowed, tiny incisions. Sometimes, Jade had a very severe way of looking at you that made you feel as if she was a 1780 sugarcane plantation owner and you, the branded slave on the Antiguan auction block who hadn't seen your mother and father in a year and probably never would again. "You miss your coupon, is that it? You want to give birth to food stamps?" Her eyes were narrowed, tiny incisions. Sometimes, Jade had a very severe way of looking at you that made you feel as if she was a 1780 sugarcane plantation owner and you, the branded slave on the Antiguan auction block who hadn't seen your mother and father in a year and probably never would again. "You miss your coupon, is that it? You want to give birth to food stamps?"

At this point, I think we would have broken into an argument, which would have ended with me fleeing the building, probably in tears, her laughing and shouting a variety of names. The terrified look on her face, however, caused me to turn and follow her stare out the windows.

Someone was walking down the sidewalk toward Loomis, a heavy-set figure wearing a bulging, bruise-colored dress. "It's Charles Manson," Jade whimpered. "In drag." drag." "No," I said. "It's the dictator." "No," I said. "It's the dictator."

In horror, we watched Eva Brewster move to the front doors of Loomis, yanking on the handles before turning and walking out onto the lawn by the giant pine tree, shading her eyes as she peered into the cla.s.sroom windows.

"Oh, f.u.c.k me," me," said Jade. said Jade.

We leapt across the room, to the corner by the bookshelf where it was pitch black (under Cary and Grace, as it so happened, Caccia al ladro). Caccia al ladro). "Blue!" Eva shouted. The sound of Evita Peron shouting one's name could make anyone's heart lurch. Mine thrashed like an octopus thrown to the deck of a ship. "Blue!" Eva shouted. The sound of Evita Peron shouting one's name could make anyone's heart lurch. Mine thrashed like an octopus thrown to the deck of a ship.

uBlue!'

We watched her come to the window. She wasn't the most attractive woman in the world: she had a fire-hydrant's bearing, hair the fluffy texture of home insulation and dyed a hideous yellow-orange, but her eyes, as I'd observed once in the Main Office in Hanover, were shockingly beautiful, sudden sneezes in the dull silence of her face-big, wide-set, in a pale blue that tiptoed toward violet. She frowned now and deliberately pressed her forehead to the gla.s.s so it became one of those Ramsh.e.l.l Snails feeding on the side of aquariums. Although I was petrified and held my breath and Jade dug her nails into my right knee, the woman's puffy, slightly blued face, flanked by large, garish pine-cone earrings, didn't look look particularly angry or devious. Frankly, she appeared more frustrated, as if she'd come to the window with the express hope of glimpsing the rare Barkudia Skink, the limbless lizard notorious among the reptilian elite as something of a Salinger, gallingly incommunicado for eighty-seven years, and now it was choosing to stay hidden under a moist rock in the exhibit, ignoring her no matter how many times she shouted, tapped on the gla.s.s, waved shiny objects or took flash pictures. particularly angry or devious. Frankly, she appeared more frustrated, as if she'd come to the window with the express hope of glimpsing the rare Barkudia Skink, the limbless lizard notorious among the reptilian elite as something of a Salinger, gallingly incommunicado for eighty-seven years, and now it was choosing to stay hidden under a moist rock in the exhibit, ignoring her no matter how many times she shouted, tapped on the gla.s.s, waved shiny objects or took flash pictures.

"Blue!" she called again, a little more emphatically, craning her neck to glance over her shoulder. "Blue!" "Blue!"

She muttered something to herself, and hurried around the corner of the building, ostensibly to search the opposite side. Jade and I couldn't move, our chins conjoined to our knees, listening for the footsteps that reverberate down the linoleum asylum corridors of one's most terrifying dreams.

But the minutes dripped by and there was only silence and the occasional coughs, sniffs, and throat clearings of a room. After five minutes, I crawled past Jade (she was frozen solid in fetal position) and moved toward the window where I looked out and saw her again, this time standing on the front steps of Loomis.

It would have been a stirring view, one of the Thomas Hardy variety, if she'd been someone else-someone with decent posture, like Hannah - because her cottony hair was blowing up off her forehead and insistent wind had seized her dress and pushed it far behind her, giving her the wild, secret air of a widow staring at the sea, or a magnificent ghost, pausing for a moment before continuing a sad search along the mottled moors for relics of dead love, a Ruined Maid, a Trampwoman's Tragedy. But she was Eva Brewster: stout and sobering, bottlenecked, jug-armed and cork-legged. She tugged at the dress, scowled at the dark, took a last look at the windows (for a harrowing second, I thought she saw me) and then turned, heading briskly back down the sidewalk and disappearing.

"She's gone," I said.

"You sure?"

"Yeah."

Jade lifted her head and pressed a hand to her chest.

"I'm having a heart attack," she said.

"No, you're not."

"It's possible. My family has a history of heart failure. It happens just like this. Out of the blue." "You're fine." "I feel a tightness. Here. Here. That's what happens when you're having pulmonary embrosis." That's what happens when you're having pulmonary embrosis."

I stared out the window. Where the sidewalk twisted out of sight around Love Auditorium, a lone tree stood guard with a thick black trunk, its shivering, thin limbs with the tops bent backward into tiny wrists and hands, as if feebly holding up the sky.

"That was really strange, huh?" Jade made a face. "How she called your name like that-wonder why she wasn't calling my name."

I shrugged, trying to act nonchalant, though in truth I felt ill. Maybe I had the gauzy const.i.tution of a Victorian woman who fainted because she heard the word leg, leg, or perhaps I'd read or perhaps I'd read L'Idiot L'Idiot (Petrand, 1920) too attentively with its lunatic hero, the sickly and certifiable Byron Berintaux, who saw in every upholstered armchair his upcoming Death waving at him enthusiastically. Maybe I'd simply had too much darkness for one night. "Night is not good for the brain or the nervous system," contends Carl Brocanda in (Petrand, 1920) too attentively with its lunatic hero, the sickly and certifiable Byron Berintaux, who saw in every upholstered armchair his upcoming Death waving at him enthusiastically. Maybe I'd simply had too much darkness for one night. "Night is not good for the brain or the nervous system," contends Carl Brocanda in Logical Effects Logical Effects (1999). "Studies show neurons are constricted by 38 percent in individuals who live in locations with little daylight, and nerve impulses are 47 percent slower in prison inmates who go forty-eight hours without seeing the light of day." (1999). "Studies show neurons are constricted by 38 percent in individuals who live in locations with little daylight, and nerve impulses are 47 percent slower in prison inmates who go forty-eight hours without seeing the light of day."

Whatever it was, it wasn't until Jade and I crept our way outside, sneaking past the cafeteria, still lit but silent (a few teachers lingered on the patio, including Ms. Thermopolis, a dying ember by the wooden doors), hightailing it out of St. Gallway in the Mercedes without encountering Eva Brewster, roaring down Pike Avenue past Jiffy's Eatery, Dollar Depot, Dippity's, Le Salon Esthetique-when I realized I'd forgotten to return the Blackbird Blackbird book to Hannah's desk. I was actually still holding it and in my haste, confusion, the darkness, only dimly aware I'd been doing so. book to Hannah's desk. I was actually still holding it and in my haste, confusion, the darkness, only dimly aware I'd been doing so.

"How come you still have that book?" Jade demanded as we swung into a Burger King drive-thru. "She's going to know it's gone. Hope she doesn't dust for fingerprints -hey, what do you want to eat? Hurry and decide. I'm starved."

We ate Whoppers drenched in the acid light of the parking lot, barely speaking. I suppose Jade was one of those people who flung handfuls of wild accusations into the air, smiling as they rained on everyone's head, and then the festivities were over and she went home. She looked contented, refreshed even, as she jostled fries into her mouth, waved at some scab making his way to his pick-up balancing a tray of c.o.kes in his arms, and yet, deep in my chest, unavoidable as the sound of your heart when you stopped to hear it beating, I felt, as deadbeat gumshoe Peter Aekman (who had a weakness for the chalk-tube and flutes of skee) said at the end of Wrong Twist Wrong Twist (Chide, 1954), "like the bean-schnozzle been jammed far up my lousy, threatening to sneeze metal." I stared at the wrinkled cover of that book, where, despite the faded ink, the creases, the man's black eyes rose off the page. (Chide, 1954), "like the bean-schnozzle been jammed far up my lousy, threatening to sneeze metal." I stared at the wrinkled cover of that book, where, despite the faded ink, the creases, the man's black eyes rose off the page.

"So these are the eyes of the Devil," Dad remarked thoughtfully once, picking up and scrutinizing his own copy. "He looks out and sees you - doesn't he?"

Sweet Bird of Youth

There was an anecdote Dad recounted like clockwork whenever he had a colleague over for dinner. Having a guest was rare, occurring only once every two or three towns in which we lived. Customarily, Dad found it difficult to withstand the echoing howls of his a.s.sociates at Hattiesburg College of Arts and Science, the displays of chest-beating rampant among his Cheswick College cronies or professors at the University of Oklahoma at Flitch, eternally absorbed with feeding, grooming and being territorial to the exclusion of all else. (Dad regarded silverbacks-professors over sixty-five who had tenure, dandruff, rubbery shoes and quadrangle gla.s.ses that bugified their eyes-with particular disdain.) Once in a while, however, under the wild oak trees, Dad b.u.mped into his own kind (if not his exact subspecies or species, at least the same genus), a compatriot who'd made his way down from the foliage and learned to walk on two feet.

Naturally, this person never was as sophisticated an academic as Dad, nor as handsome. (The man was almost always saddled with a flattish face, an extensive, slanted forehead and an awning brow.) But Dad would cheerfully extend a Van Meer dinner invitation to this uncommonly advanced lecturer; and on a quiet Sat.u.r.day or Sunday night, big, fig-eyed Professor of Linguistics Mark Hill would turn up, with his hands enduringly tucked into the patch pockets of his shapeless dinner jacket, or a.s.sociate Professor of English Lee Sanjay Song, with his quince-and-cream complexion and teeth in a traffic jam, and somewhere between the spaghetti and the tiramisu Dad treated him to the story of Tobias Jones the d.a.m.ned.

It was a straightforward tale about a nervous, pale-skinned chap Dad encountered in Havana working at OPAI (Organization Panamaricana de la Ayuda International) (Organization Panamaricana de la Ayuda International) during the hot rum-soaked summer of 1983, a British kid from Yorkshire who, in the span of a single luckless week in August, lost his pa.s.sport, wallet, wife, right leg and dignity-in that order. (Every now and then, to illicit even more extreme cries of amazement from his audience, Dad reduced the tragedy to a neat span of twenty-four hours.) during the hot rum-soaked summer of 1983, a British kid from Yorkshire who, in the span of a single luckless week in August, lost his pa.s.sport, wallet, wife, right leg and dignity-in that order. (Every now and then, to illicit even more extreme cries of amazement from his audience, Dad reduced the tragedy to a neat span of twenty-four hours.) Never one for paying attention to physical details, Dad was disappointingly hazy on what the face of the Exceedingly Ill-fated looked like, but I was able to discern, out of Dad's poorly lit verbal portrait, a tall, pale man with stalk-like legs (after he was. .h.i.t by the Packard, leg), maize-colored hair, a clammy gold pocket watch repeatedly removed from his breast pocket and blinked at disbelievingly, a propensity for sighing, for cufflinks, for lingering too long in front of the chrome metal fan (the only one in the room) and for spilling cafe con leche on his trousers.

Dad's dinner guest listened in rapt attention as Dad narrated the beginning of the ill-starred week, which found Tobias showing off his new fiesta linen shirt to his co-workers at OPAI while a pack of gente de guarandabia gente de guarandabia ransacked his bungalow back at Comodoro Neptuno, all the way to the tale's miserable end, a mere seven days later, with Tobias prostrate in his lumpy bed at ransacked his bungalow back at Comodoro Neptuno, all the way to the tale's miserable end, a mere seven days later, with Tobias prostrate in his lumpy bed at el hospital, Julio Trigo el hospital, Julio Trigo missing a right leg and recuperating from an attempted suicide (fortunately, the attending nurse had been able to pry him off the window ledge). missing a right leg and recuperating from an attempted suicide (fortunately, the attending nurse had been able to pry him off the window ledge).

"And we never knew what happened to him," Dad said in closing with a thoughtful sip of wine. Professor of Psychology Alfonso Rigollo stared dolefully at the edge of the dinner table. And after he muttered, "s.h.i.t," or "Tough luck," Dad and he would discuss predestination, or the waywardness of a woman's love, or how Tobias might've had a chance for canonization if he hadn't tried to kill himself and had stood for something. (According to Dad, Tobias had definitely performed one of the three miracles required for sainthood: back in 1979 he'd somehow convinced the ocean-eyed Adalia to marry him.) Within twenty minutes, though, Dad would twist the conversation around to the real real reason he'd brought up Tobias Jones in the first place, to detail one of his favorite theories, "The Theory of Determination," because his final position (related with the intensity of Christopher Plummer murmuring, "The rest is silence.") was that Tobias was not, as it might appear, a defenseless victim of fate, but a victim of himself, of his own "sallow head." reason he'd brought up Tobias Jones in the first place, to detail one of his favorite theories, "The Theory of Determination," because his final position (related with the intensity of Christopher Plummer murmuring, "The rest is silence.") was that Tobias was not, as it might appear, a defenseless victim of fate, but a victim of himself, of his own "sallow head."

"And thus we are faced with the simple question," said Dad. "Is man's destiny determined by the vicissitudes of environment or free will? I argue that it is free will, because what we think, what we dwell upon in our heads, whether it be fears or dreams, has a direct effect upon the physical world. The more you think about your downfall, your ruin, the greater the likelihood that it will occur. And conversely, the more one thinks of victory, the more likely one will achieve it."

Dad always paused here for dramatic effect, staring across the room at the trite little daisy landscape hanging on the wall, or the pattern of horse heads and riding crops running up and down the faded dining room wallpaper. Dad adored all Suspensions and Silences, so he could feel everyone's eyes madly running all over his face like Mongol armies in 1215 sacking Beijing.

"Obviously," he continued with a slow smile, "it's a concept that has been b.a.s.t.a.r.dized of late in Western Culture, a.s.sociated with the runny-nosed Why-Nots and How-Comes of self-help and PBS marathons that drone on into the wee hours, begging you to pledge money and in return, receive forty-two hours of meditation tapes one can chant to when one is mired in traffic. Yet visualization is a concept that was once considered not so frothy, dating back to the founding of the Buddhist Mauryan Empire, around 320 B.c. History's great leaders understood it. Niccolo Machiavelli tipped Lorenzo de Medici off to it, though he called it 'prowess' and 'foresight.' Julius Caesar understood it-he saw himself conquering Gaul decades before he actually did so. Who else? Hadrian, Da Vinci certainly, another great man, Ernest Shackleton -oh, and Miyamoto Musashi. Take a look at his The Book of Five Rings. The Book of Five Rings. Members of Members of Nachtlich, Nachtlich, The Night.w.a.tchmen, also followed it, of course. Even America's most dashing leading man, the circus-educated Archibald Leach, understood it. He is quoted, in that funny little book we have, what is it, the - " The Night.w.a.tchmen, also followed it, of course. Even America's most dashing leading man, the circus-educated Archibald Leach, understood it. He is quoted, in that funny little book we have, what is it, the - "