I couldn't help but stare at her (her left arm boa-constricting her hip) like an investigator inspecting fingerprints on a bedpost, desperate to find the truth -if only a smudge of it. I knew it was an absurd thing-lunacy, guilt and love couldn't be eked out by connecting freckles, or shining a tiny light in the dugout of a collarbone-but I couldn't help myself. Some of the things Jade had said had stuck to me. Could Could she have purposefully drowned that man? Had she really slept with Charles? Was there a lost love hiding somewhere in her outskirts, her periphery-Valerio? Even when she was in a sullen, distracted mood, as she was now, Hannah she have purposefully drowned that man? Had she really slept with Charles? Was there a lost love hiding somewhere in her outskirts, her periphery-Valerio? Even when she was in a sullen, distracted mood, as she was now, Hannah still still grabbed one's headlines, shoved other less captivating stories (Dad, Fort Peck) to page 10. FADE OUT: Dad, Fort Peck (my dream he'd go play Che in the Democratic Republic of the Congo), FADE IN: Hannah Schneider twisted along the couch like a piece of shimmering trash that had washed up on a beach, her face speckled with sweat, her fingertips nervously playing with the seam meandering through her dress. grabbed one's headlines, shoved other less captivating stories (Dad, Fort Peck) to page 10. FADE OUT: Dad, Fort Peck (my dream he'd go play Che in the Democratic Republic of the Congo), FADE IN: Hannah Schneider twisted along the couch like a piece of shimmering trash that had washed up on a beach, her face speckled with sweat, her fingertips nervously playing with the seam meandering through her dress.

"So you didn't make it to the dance?" I probed, my voice flimsy.

The question shook her awake; it was obvious she'd forgotten the question of why I was here, that I'd just shown up in a four-door Chevy Colorado truck in Sunburst Orange, unannounced, with no shoes. Not that I minded; Dad was a man who always a.s.sumed he was the Primary Subject, Group Focus, Chief Plan Under Discussion, so the fact that Hannah, after I'd mentioned my fight with him, blatantly snubbed him, shook him off as a non-event-it was kind of fantastic.

"Things ran late," she said blandly. "We made pie." She looked at me. "Jade went, didn't she? She stormed out of here saying she was going to find you."

I nodded.

"She can be a strange girl. Jade. Jade. Sometimes she can say things that are - how should I .. . well, they're horrifying." "I don't think she means anything by it," I suggested quietly. Hannah tilted her head. "No?" "Sometimes people say things simply to fill silence. Or as a way to shock Sometimes she can say things that are - how should I .. . well, they're horrifying." "I don't think she means anything by it," I suggested quietly. Hannah tilted her head. "No?" "Sometimes people say things simply to fill silence. Or as a way to shock and provoke. Or as exercise. Verbal aerobics. Loquacious cardio. There are any number of reasons. Only very rarely are words used strictly for their denotative meanings," I said, and yet Dad's comments from "Modes of Oration and the Brawn of Language" weren't making the slightest dent in Hannah. She wasn't paying attention. Her gaze was snagged somewhere near the piano in the dark corner of the room. And then, scowling (lines I'd never noticed before darting through her forehead), she reached over the arm of the couch, yanked open the end-table drawer and seized a half-empty pack of Camel cigarettes. She tapped one out, windmilled it agitatedly between her fingers and looked at me with anxious interest, like I was a dress on sale, the last in her size.

"Surely, you must realize," she said. "You're such a perceptive person; you don't miss anything" -she interrupted herself-"or maybe not. not. No. She hasn't told you. I think she's jealous-you speak so lovingly of your father. I'm sure it's hard for her." No. She hasn't told you. I think she's jealous-you speak so lovingly of your father. I'm sure it's hard for her."

"Tell me what?" I asked.

"Do you know anything at all about Jade? Her history?"

I shook my head.

Hannah nodded, and sighed again. She fished a pack of matches from the drawer and lit the cigarette quickly. "Well, if I tell you, you have to promise me you won't say anything to any of them. But I think it's important that you know. Otherwise, on nights like this, when she comes to you so angry . . . she was drunk, wasn't she?"

Slowly, I nodded.

"Well, on occasions like-well, like tonight, tonight, I can understand if you'd feel" -Hannah thought hard about what'd I'd feel, biting her lip like she was deciding what to order off a menu - I can understand if you'd feel" -Hannah thought hard about what'd I'd feel, biting her lip like she was deciding what to order off a menu - "confused. "confused. Disturbed, even. I know Disturbed, even. I know I I would. Knowing the truth will put everything into context for you. Maybe not immediately. No-you can't understand what something would. Knowing the truth will put everything into context for you. Maybe not immediately. No-you can't understand what something is is when you're close to it. That's like looking at a billboard an inch away. We're all .. . what do they say .. . farsighted .. . or is it near-but later, no, that's when"-she was talking all of this over with herself-"yes, that's when it always becomes clear. Afterward." when you're close to it. That's like looking at a billboard an inch away. We're all .. . what do they say .. . farsighted .. . or is it near-but later, no, that's when"-she was talking all of this over with herself-"yes, that's when it always becomes clear. Afterward."

She didn't immediately continue. She contemplated, with narrowed eyes, the fuming end of her cigarette, the tatty ears of Old b.a.s.t.a.r.d who'd crept over to her, licked her kneecap and then slumped to the rug, tired as a summer fling.

"What do you mean?" I asked softly.

A shy, sort of mischievous smile was sneaking into her face-though I couldn't be certain of this; every time she moved her head the yellow lamp-light raced across her cheekbones and mouth, but when she faced me fully it dashed away.

"You can't tell anyone what I tell you," she said sternly. "Not even your father. Promise me."

I felt a nervous knife-stab in my chest. "Why?"

"Well, he's protective, isn't he?"

I supposed Dad was was protective. I nodded. protective. I nodded.

"Yes, well, it'd traumatize him, I'm sure," she said distastefully. "And what's the point of that?"

Fear began to course through me. It made me woozy, like I'd injected it into my arm. I found myself rewinding the last six minutes, trying to figure out how we'd taken this bizarre detour. I'd shown up, intent to perform a quiet, un-ch.o.r.eographed routine on Dad, but I'd been shoved into the wings, and here she was, the seasoned artiste commanding the stage, about to begin her monologue-a terrifying monologue by the sound of things. Dad said it was imperative to avoid people's fervent confidences and confessions. "Tell the person that you must leave the room/' he instructed, "that you ate something, that you're ill, that your father has scarlet fever, that you feel the end of the world is imminent and you must rush to the grocery store to stock up on bottled water and gas masks. Or simply fake a seizure. Anything, sweet, anything at all to rid yourself of that intimacy they plan to lay on you like a slab of cement."

"You won't say anything?" she asked.

For the record, I did did consider telling her Dad was riddled with smallpox, that I had to race to his bedside to hear his humble and heartfelt Final Words. But in the end, I found myself nodding, the unavoidable human response when someone asks if you'd like to hear a secret. consider telling her Dad was riddled with smallpox, that I had to race to his bedside to hear his humble and heartfelt Final Words. But in the end, I found myself nodding, the unavoidable human response when someone asks if you'd like to hear a secret.

"When Jade was thirteen, she ran away from home," she said, waiting for a moment, letting those words land somewhere in the darkness on the other side of the room before continuing.

"From what she told me, she was raised to be a very rich, spoiled girl. Her father gave her everything. But he was the worst kind of hypocrite-he was from oil money, so he had the blood and suffering of thousands on his hands, and her mother"-Hannah raised her shoulders, shivered theatrically-"well, I don't know if you've ever had the pleasure of meeting her, but she's someone who doesn't bother to get dressed. She wears a bathrobe in the middle of the day. Anyway, Jade had a best friend growing up-she told me this-a beautiful girl, fragile. They were like sisters. She could confide in her, tell her everything under the sun-you know, the kind of friend everyone wants but never has-for the life of me, I can't remember her name. What was was it? Something elegant. Anyway"-she flicked ashes off her cigarette-"she was considered problematic. Was caught stealing for the third or fourth time. She was going to be sent to a juvenile detention center. So she ran away. Made it all the way to San Francisco. Can you imagine? it? Something elegant. Anyway"-she flicked ashes off her cigarette-"she was considered problematic. Was caught stealing for the third or fourth time. She was going to be sent to a juvenile detention center. So she ran away. Made it all the way to San Francisco. Can you imagine? Jade? Jade? Atlanta to San Francisco-she was in Atlanta at the time, before her parents divorced. That's twenty-nine-hundred miles. She hitchhiked with truckers, families she encountered at rest stops and was finally picked up by the police at a drug store-Lord's Drugstore, I think it was. Of all names, Atlanta to San Francisco-she was in Atlanta at the time, before her parents divorced. That's twenty-nine-hundred miles. She hitchhiked with truckers, families she encountered at rest stops and was finally picked up by the police at a drug store-Lord's Drugstore, I think it was. Of all names, Lord's Lord's Drugstore." Hannah smiled and exhaled, the smoke tripping over itself. "She said it changed the course of her life. Those six days." Drugstore." Hannah smiled and exhaled, the smoke tripping over itself. "She said it changed the course of her life. Those six days."

She paused for a moment. The living room seemed to have sunk a few inches deeper into the ground, weighed down with the story.

As she'd started to speak, her voice weirdly relentless, trudging its way through the words, instantly my head switched off the lights and film-reeled: I saw Jade in grainy twilight (tight jeans, umbrella-thin) marching determinedly through the weedy junk along a highway-one in Texas or New Mexico-her gold hair ignited by the headlights, her face red from the unblinking eyes of the cars. But then, when I barreled past her in my mental eighteen-wheeler, I looked back and saw with surprise, it wasn't Jade: only a girl that looked like her. Because "hitchhiked with truckers" didn't sound like her and neither did the "beautiful, fragile" friend. Dad said it took a certain, rare revolutionary spirit to abandon "one's home and family, however bleak the conditions, and hurtle oneself into the unknown." Sure, every now and then, Jade slipped into handicapped stalls with hombres hombres taking their fashion Must Haves off of Wanted posters, got so drunk her head hung from her shoulders like a squirt of glue, but for the girl to take such a chance, a running leap into the air and not be sure where she'd land, if she'd even make it to the other side-it seemed unbelievable. Of course, no detailed history of a human being could be laughed at or dismissed out of hand: "Never presume to know what a person is, was, or will be capable of," Dad said. taking their fashion Must Haves off of Wanted posters, got so drunk her head hung from her shoulders like a squirt of glue, but for the girl to take such a chance, a running leap into the air and not be sure where she'd land, if she'd even make it to the other side-it seemed unbelievable. Of course, no detailed history of a human being could be laughed at or dismissed out of hand: "Never presume to know what a person is, was, or will be capable of," Dad said.

"Leulah was in a similar situation," Hannah continued. "Ran away with her math teacher when she was thirteen, too. She said he was handsome and pa.s.sionate. In his late twenties. Mediterranean. I want to say Turkish. She thought she was in love. love. They made it all the way to-where was it .. . Florida, I think, before he was arrested." She took a long drag on her cigarette, letting the smoke drool out of her mouth as she talked on. "This was at her school before St. Gallway, somewhere in South Carolina. Anyway, Charles was a ward of a state for most of his life. His mom was a prost.i.tute, junkie-the usual fare. No dad. Finally, he was adopted. Nigel, too. Both of his parents are in a Texas prison for killing a police officer. I can't remember the exact circ.u.mstances. But they shot him dead." They made it all the way to-where was it .. . Florida, I think, before he was arrested." She took a long drag on her cigarette, letting the smoke drool out of her mouth as she talked on. "This was at her school before St. Gallway, somewhere in South Carolina. Anyway, Charles was a ward of a state for most of his life. His mom was a prost.i.tute, junkie-the usual fare. No dad. Finally, he was adopted. Nigel, too. Both of his parents are in a Texas prison for killing a police officer. I can't remember the exact circ.u.mstances. But they shot him dead."

She raised her chin, staring at the cigarette smoke cowering above the lamp. It seemed deathly afraid of Hannah-as I was, in that moment. I was afraid of her tone of voice, which threw out these secrets impatiently as if she'd been forced to play a dull game of horseshoes.

"It's kind of funny," she continued (and she must have sensed my alarm because her voice was now pasteled, the harsher edges shaded with fingertips), "the moments on which life hinges. I think growing up you always imagine your life-your success-depends on your family and how much money they have, where you go to college, what sort of job you can pin down, starting salary." Her lips curled into a laugh before there was sound. (She'd been poorly dubbed.) "But it doesn't, you know. You wouldn't believe this, but life hinges on a couple of seconds you never see coming. And what you decide in those few seconds determines everything from then on. Some people pull the trigger and it all explodes in front of them. Other people run away. And you have no idea what you'll do until you're there. When your moment comes, Blue, don't be afraid. Do what you need to do."

She pulled herself upright, swung her bare feet onto the carpet, stared at her hands. They sat on each leg crumpled and useless like Dad's discarded lecture beginnings. A piece of her hair had fallen over her left eye turning her into a pirate and she didn't bother tucking it behind her ear.

Meanwhile, my heart was trying to crawl into my mouth. I didn't know if it was right to pa.s.sively sit there, listening to these awful skin-and-bones confessions, or to try to run for it, scramble to the door, fling it open with the force of Scipio Africa.n.u.s when he ruthlessly sacked Carthage, sprinting to the truck, taking off into the pillaged night, gravel flying, tires wailing like captives. But where would I go? Back to Dad, like some president's middle initial no one remembered, like some day in History on which nothing ground-breaking occurred apart from a few Catholic missionaries arriving in the Amazon and a minor native uprising in the East.

"And then Milton," Hannah said, her voice sort of caressing his name. "He was involved in that street gang-I can't remember what it was, something 'night'-"

"Milton?" I repeated. I saw him immediately: junkyard, leaning against a chain-link fence (he was always swaybacked against something), combat boots, one of those scary nylon scarves in red or black knotted over his head, his eyes tough, his skin faintly rifle colored. I repeated. I saw him immediately: junkyard, leaning against a chain-link fence (he was always swaybacked against something), combat boots, one of those scary nylon scarves in red or black knotted over his head, his eyes tough, his skin faintly rifle colored.

"Yes. Milton." She repeated, mimicking me. "He's older than everyone thinks. Twenty-one. G.o.d-don't let on you know. He had a few lost years, blackouts, when he doesn't even remember what he did. He lived on the streets . . . raised h.e.l.l. But of course, I understand. When you don't know what to believe, you feel like you're sinking, so you grab on to as many different ideas as possible. Even the crazy ones. Eventually one will keep you afloat."

"So this was when he was in Alabama?" I asked.

She nodded.

"So that must be why he got his tattoo," I said.

I'd seen it by now-the tattoo-and the breath-taking occasion in which he'd shown it to me had become a timeless film clip I replayed incessantly in my head. We'd been alone in the Purple Room-Jade and the others had gone to the kitchen to make pot brownies -and Milton was fixing himself a drink at the bar, plopping ice cubes into his gla.s.s, leisurely, as if counting out ducats. He'd pushed up the long shirtsleeves of his Nine Inch Nails T-shirt, so on his right bicep I could just just make out the black toes of something. "You wanta see it?" he'd asked suddenly, and then strolled over to me, whiskey in hand, sitting down, hard, so his back collided with my left knee, the couch wincing. His brown eyes stapled to mine, he pulled up the sleeve, sloooowly-obviously enjoying my rapt attention-to reveal, not the crude black splotch everyone at St. Gallway whispered about, but a cheeky cartoon angel the size of a beer can. She was winking like a lascivious grandpa, one chubby knee in the air, the other leg straight down as if she'd frozen solid doing a jack-knife off a diving board. "There she is," Milton said in his drooping voice, "Miss America." Before I could speak, hunt and gather a few words, he'd stood, pushed the sleeve down and wandered from the room. make out the black toes of something. "You wanta see it?" he'd asked suddenly, and then strolled over to me, whiskey in hand, sitting down, hard, so his back collided with my left knee, the couch wincing. His brown eyes stapled to mine, he pulled up the sleeve, sloooowly-obviously enjoying my rapt attention-to reveal, not the crude black splotch everyone at St. Gallway whispered about, but a cheeky cartoon angel the size of a beer can. She was winking like a lascivious grandpa, one chubby knee in the air, the other leg straight down as if she'd frozen solid doing a jack-knife off a diving board. "There she is," Milton said in his drooping voice, "Miss America." Before I could speak, hunt and gather a few words, he'd stood, pushed the sleeve down and wandered from the room.

"Yes," Hannah said abruptly. "So anyway," she was tapping out another cigarette, "they all had things happen to them, earthquakes, you know, when they were twelve, thirteen, things most people don't have the guts to recover from." She lit it swiftly, tossed the matches onto the coffee table. "Know anything about The Gone?"

Hannah, I noticed, had been about to run out of gas when she talked about Milton. If she'd started out in a slick and self-a.s.sured Monte Carlo roadster with Jade's story, by the time Milton's yarn rolled around, she was in one of those rusty jalopies panting along the side of the highway, hazards on. I sensed she was experiencing pangs of remorse about what she was doing, weighing me down with this confession; her face looked like a pause between sentences as her mind ran back over to the words she'd just said, poking them, listening to their little heartbeats, hoping they weren't fatal.

But now, with this new question, she seemed to have regained speed. She stared at me, a fierce look on her face (her eyes gripping my eyes, not letting go), a look that reminded me of Dad; as he combed supplemental textbooks on Rebellion and Foreign Affairs in order to find that bright bloom of evidence that, when transplanted into his lecture, would have the capacity to stun, to intimidate, make the "little s.h.i.ts melt in their seats, leaving them mere stains on the carpet," he often sported this militant look, making his features look so hard, I felt if I was blind and had to run my hand over his face to recognize him, he'd feel like a bit of stone wall.

"They're missing persons," Hannah said. "They fall through those ubiquitous cracks, in the ceiling, on the floor. Runaways, orphans, they're kidnapped, killed-they vanish from public record. After a year, the police stop looking. They leave behind nothing but a name, and even that's forgotten in the end. 'Last seen in the evening hours of November 8, 1982, as she was completing her shift at an Arby's in Richmond, Virginia. She drove away in a blue 1988 Mazda 626, which was later found abandoned on the side of the road, in what was possibly a staged accident.' "

She fell silent, lost in memory. Certain memories were like that- swamps, bogs, pits-and while most people avoided these muggy, unmapped, wholly uninhabited recollections (wisely understanding they were liable to disappear in them forever), Hannah seemed to have taken the risk and tiptoed into one of hers. Her gaze had fallen, lifeless, to the floor. Her bent head eclipsed the lamp and a thin ribbon of light clung to her profile.

"Who are you talking about?" I asked as gently as I could. Noah Fish-post, MD, in his captivating book on the adventures of modern psychiatry, Meditations on Andromeda Meditations on Andromeda (2001), mentioned one had to proceed as un.o.btrusively as possible when questioning a patient, because truth and secrets were cranes, dazzling in size yet notoriously shy and wary; if one made too much noise, they'd disappear into the sky, never to be seen again. (2001), mentioned one had to proceed as un.o.btrusively as possible when questioning a patient, because truth and secrets were cranes, dazzling in size yet notoriously shy and wary; if one made too much noise, they'd disappear into the sky, never to be seen again.

She shook her head. "No -I used to collect them as a girl. I'd memorize the listings. I could recite hundreds of them. The fourteen-year-old girl disappeared on October 19,1994, when she was walking home from school. She was last seen at a pay telephone booth between 2:30 and 2:45 on of Lennox and Hill.' 'Last seen by her family in their residence in Cedar Springs, Colorado. At approximately 3:00 A.M. a family member noticed the television still on in her bedroom, but she was no longer inside.

Goose b.u.mps pinched my arms.

"I think it was why I sought them out," she said. "Or they sought me- I can't even remember anymore. I was worried they'd fall through the cracks, too."

Her gaze finally picked itself up and I saw, with horror, her face was red. There were giant tears looming in her eyes.

"And then there's you," she said.

I couldn't breathe. Run for Larsons truck, I told myself. Run for the high way, for Mexico, because Mexico was where everyone went when they had to escape (though no one ever got there; they were all killed tragically, mere yards from the border) or if not Mexico, then Hollywood, because Hollywood was where everyone went when they wanted to reinvent themselves and end up a movie star (see The Revenge of Stella Verslanken, The Revenge of Stella Verslanken, Botando, 2001). Botando, 2001).

"When I saw you in that grocery store back in September, I saw a lonely person." She didn't say anything for a moment, just let those words rest there like tired workmen on a curb. "I thought I could help."

I felt like a wheeze. No -I was a cough, a bed creak, something humiliating, the frayed ruffle on discolored pantaloons. But just as I was going to glue together some childish excuse to run out of her house, never to return ("The most catastrophic thing to befall any man, woman or child is abject pity," wrote Carol Mahler in the Plum Award-winning Color Doves Color Doves [1987]) -I glanced over at Hannah and was struck dumb. [1987]) -I glanced over at Hannah and was struck dumb.

Her anger, irk, aggravation-whatever that mood was she'd been mired in since I'd first arrived, when the phone screamed, when she'd sworn me to secrecy, even the apparent melancholy of moments ago-had fizzled. She was now disturbingly peaceful (see "Lake Lucerne," A Question of Switzerland, Question of Switzerland, Porter, 2000, p. 159). Porter, 2000, p. 159).

True, she'd lit yet another cigarette, and smoke tangled out of her fingers. She'd also fluffed her hair and so it swayed one way, then the other across her forehead as if seasick. But her face, rather bluntly, boasted the relieved and somewhat satisfied expression of a person who'd just accomplished something, a harrowing feat; it was a face of slammed-shut textbooks, doors dead bolted, switched-off lights, or else, after a bow, amidst a drizzle of applause, heavy red curtains swinging closed.

Jade's words slammed into my head: "She's really the worst actress on the planet. If she was an actress, she wouldn't even make the B movies. She'd be in the D or the E movies." "She's really the worst actress on the planet. If she was an actress, she wouldn't even make the B movies. She'd be in the D or the E movies."

"Anyway," Hannah went on, "who cares about any of that now-the reasons for things. Don't think about it. Ten years from now-that's when you decide. After you've taken the world by storm. Are you sleepy?" She asked this quickly and evidently had no interest in my answer because she yawned into her fist, stood up, and stretched in the lazy royal way of her own white Persian cat-Lana or Turner, I wasn't sure which-who, with a heralding thrash of tail, strolled out of the darkness beneath the piano bench and meowed. when you decide. After you've taken the world by storm. Are you sleepy?" She asked this quickly and evidently had no interest in my answer because she yawned into her fist, stood up, and stretched in the lazy royal way of her own white Persian cat-Lana or Turner, I wasn't sure which-who, with a heralding thrash of tail, strolled out of the darkness beneath the piano bench and meowed.

17.

The Sleeping Beauty and Other Fairy Tales.

I couldn't sleep. Oh, no-now that I was alone in a strange, stiff bed, a pale morning soaking through the curtains, the overhead lamp a giant eye staring down at me, The Histories of the Bluebloods began to creep out of the underbrush like exotic nocturnal animals at nightfall (see "Zorilla," "Shrew," "Jerboa," "Kinkajou" and "Small-Eared Zorro," Encyclopedia of Living Things, Encyclopedia of Living Things, 4th ed.). I had very little experience dealing with Dark Pasts, apart from close readings of 4th ed.). I had very little experience dealing with Dark Pasts, apart from close readings of Jane Eyre Jane Eyre (Bronte, 1847) and (Bronte, 1847) and Rebecca Rebecca (Du Maurier, 1938) and though I'd always secretly seen splendor in melancholic chills, ashy circles stamped under the eyes, wasted silence, now, knowing each of them had suffered (if Hannah could be believed), it worried me. (Du Maurier, 1938) and though I'd always secretly seen splendor in melancholic chills, ashy circles stamped under the eyes, wasted silence, now, knowing each of them had suffered (if Hannah could be believed), it worried me.

After all, there was Wilson Gnut, the calmly handsome kid I knew at Luton Middle in Luton, Texas, whose father hanged himself on Christmas Eve. Wilson's own ensuing tragedy had nothing to do with his father, but in the way he was treated at school. People weren't mean to him-quite the contrary, they were sweet as pie. They held open doors, offered homework to plagiarize, allowed him to cut in line at all water fountains, vending machines and gym uniform distributions. But lurking within their benevolence was the universal understanding that because of his father, a Secret Door had been opened for Wilson, and anything and everything dark and deviant could fly out of it-suicide, sure, but other frightening things too, like Necrophilia, Polyorphantia, Menazoranghia, maybe even Zootosis.

With the quiet precision of Jane Goodall alone at her observation post in a tropical forest of Tanzania, I observed and doc.u.mented the array of looks elicited in Wilson's presence by students, parents and faculty alike. There was the Relieved Glance of "Darn Glad I Ain't You" (after smiling amiably at Wilson, performed covertly to a commiserating third party), the Sorry Look of "He'll Never Git Over It" (performed to the floor and/or immediate s.p.a.ce around Wilson), the Meaningful Gaze of "Kid'll End Up Crooked as a Dog's Hind Leg" (performed deep into Wilson's brown eyes) and the Simple Gawk of the Unbelieving (mouth open, eyes unfocused, overall demeanor near vegetative, performed at Wilson Gnut's back as he sat quietly at his desk).

There were gestures too, like the Just-Whistlin'-Dixie Wave (performed after school in car windows as students drove away with their parents and noticed Wilson still waiting for his mother, who had stringy hair, a goat laugh and wore beads, a gesture always accompanied by one of three remarks: "So sad, what happened," "Cain't imagine what he's goin' through" or the bluntly paranoid, "Dad's not goin' kill himself anytime soon. Is he?"). There was also the That's-Him-Thar Point, the That's-Him-Thar Point in the Opposite Direction of Wilson Gnut (a Texan's attempt at subtlety) and worst of all, the Quick Conniption (performed by students when Wilson Gnut's hands accidentally touched theirs, on door handles, for example, or pa.s.sing Unit Tests around cla.s.s, as if Wilson Gnut's misfortune was an illness transmitted via hands, elbows or fingertips).

In the end-and this was the tragedy-Wilson Gnut ended up agreeing with everyone. He, too, began to believe a Secret Door had been opened just for him and awaited something dark and deviant, which, any moment now, would come flying out. It wasn't his fault, of course; if the world insinuates you're a Dog That Don't Hunt, a Cowboy With No s.h.i.t Kickers, In Low Cotton, you tend to believe it's true. Wilson stopped spearheading basketball games at break, disappeared from Olympics of the Mind. And even though, on multiple occasions, I overheard a few well-meaning kids asking him if he wanted to accompany them after school to KFC, Wilson avoided eye contact, mumbled, "No, thanks," and disappeared down the hall.

I thus concluded, with the same awe of Jane Goodall discovering the chimpanzees' nimble use of tools to extract termites, it really wasn't so much the tragic event itself, but others having knowledge of it that prevented recovery. Individuals could live through almost anything (see Das unglaubliche Leben der Wolfgang Becker, Das unglaubliche Leben der Wolfgang Becker, Becker, 1953). Even Dad was in awe of the human body and Dad was never in awe of anything. "It really is staggering, what the corpus can withstand." Becker, 1953). Even Dad was in awe of the human body and Dad was never in awe of anything. "It really is staggering, what the corpus can withstand."

After this observation, if he was in a Bourbon Mood and feeling theatrical, Dad did Brando as Colonel Kurtz.

" 'You have to have men who are moral,' " droned Dad, slowly turning his head toward me, widening his eyes in an attempt to portray Genius and Insanity simultaneously, " 'and at the same time, able to use their primordial instincts to kill without feeling, without pa.s.sion, without judgment . . .' " (Dad always raised his eyebrows and stared at me pointedly on "judgment.") " 'Because it's judgment that defeats us.' "

Of course, I had to question the soundness of what Hannah had told me, of Hannah herself. There had been an undeniable sound-staginess to her words, evidence of fake palms (vagueness over exact locations), a prop warehouse (winegla.s.s, endless cigarettes), wind machines (tendency to romanticize), publicity stills (heavy gazes at the ceiling, the floor)-theatrical flairs that brought to mind the lovelorn posters caking her cla.s.sroom. It was also also true, plenty of confidence men were capable of spinning grim fairy tales under pressure, replete with backstory, artful cross-reference, dashes of irony and twists of fate without a single flick of the eyes. And yet, while such villainous scheming was true, plenty of confidence men were capable of spinning grim fairy tales under pressure, replete with backstory, artful cross-reference, dashes of irony and twists of fate without a single flick of the eyes. And yet, while such villainous scheming was remotely remotely plausible, it didn't exactly seem feasible for Hannah Schneider. Sharpies and short-changers concocted such elaborate fictions to escape the slammer; what was Hannah's motivation for making up forlorn pasts for each of the Bluebloods, brutally pushing them outside, locking the door, making them stand in the rain? No, I felt certain there was a basic truth to what she'd told me, even if it had Hannified studio lighting and white people in pancake makeup playing savages. plausible, it didn't exactly seem feasible for Hannah Schneider. Sharpies and short-changers concocted such elaborate fictions to escape the slammer; what was Hannah's motivation for making up forlorn pasts for each of the Bluebloods, brutally pushing them outside, locking the door, making them stand in the rain? No, I felt certain there was a basic truth to what she'd told me, even if it had Hannified studio lighting and white people in pancake makeup playing savages.

With these thoughts, morning sneaking toward the windows, flimsy curtains whispering to a draft, I fell asleep.

There's nothing like a bright and chipper morning to briskly send running all demons of the night before. (Contrary to popular belief, Unease, Inner Demons and Guilt Complexes were remarkably unsure of themselves and usually fled in the strong presence of Ease and Squeaky-Clean Conscience.) I woke up in Hannah's tiny guest room-walls the color of bluebells - and slumped out of bed. I pulled back the thin white curtain. The front lawn shivered excitedly. Blue sky ballooned overhead. Crisp brown leaves, en pointe, en pointe, were busy practicing were busy practicing glissades glissades and and grand jetes grand jetes down the driveway. On Hannah's moldy bird feeder (usually as forsaken as a house with asbestos insulation and lead paint) two fat cardinals lunched with a chickadee. down the driveway. On Hannah's moldy bird feeder (usually as forsaken as a house with asbestos insulation and lead paint) two fat cardinals lunched with a chickadee.

I made my way downstairs and found Hannah dressed, reading the newspaper.

"There you are," she said cheerfully. "Sleep well?"

She gave me clothes, old gray corduroy pants she said had shrunk in the wash, black shoes and a pale pink cardigan with tiny beads around the neck.

"Keep this stuff," she said, smiling. "It looks adorable on you."

Twenty minutes later, she drove behind me in her Subaru all the way to the BP gas station, where I left Larson's truck and keys with Big Red who had raw-carrot fingers and worked mornings.

Hannah suggested we grab a bite to eat before she drove me home, so we stopped at Pancake Haven on Orlando. A waitress took our order. The restaurant had an uncomplicated frankness: square windows, worn brown carpet that stuttered Pancake Haven Pancake Haven all the way to the bathrooms, people sitting quietly with their food. If there was Darkness or Doom in the world, it was remarkably courteous, waiting for everyone to finish breakfast.

"Is Charles .. . in love with you?" I asked suddenly. It shocked me, how easy it was to ask the question.

Her reaction wasn't outrage, but amus.e.m.e.nt. "Who told you that-Jade? I thought I explained it last night-her need to exaggerate everything, pit people against each other, make everything more exotic than it is. They all do it. I have no idea why." She sighed. "They also have me pining after some person-what's the name . . . Victor. Victor. Or Venezia, something out of Or Venezia, something out of Brave-heart. Brave-heart. It begins with V-" It begins with V-"

"Valerio?" I suggested quietly.

"Is that that it?" She laughed, a loud flirty sound, and a man in orange flannel sitting at the table next to us looked over at her, hopeful. "Believe me, if my knight in shining armor was wandering around out there-Valerio, right? - I'd be hightailing it after him. And when I found him, I'd hit him over the head with my club, toss him over my shoulder, bring him back to my it?" She laughed, a loud flirty sound, and a man in orange flannel sitting at the table next to us looked over at her, hopeful. "Believe me, if my knight in shining armor was wandering around out there-Valerio, right? - I'd be hightailing it after him. And when I found him, I'd hit him over the head with my club, toss him over my shoulder, bring him back to my lair lair and have my way with him." Still sort of giggling to herself, she unzipped her leather purse and handed me three quarters. "Now call your father." and have my way with him." Still sort of giggling to herself, she unzipped her leather purse and handed me three quarters. "Now call your father."

I used the payphone by the cigarette machine. Dad answered after the first ring. "Hi-"

"Where in G.o.d's name are you?"

"At a diner with Hannah Schneider."

"Are you all right?"

(I have to admit, it was thrilling to hear the tremendous anxiety in Dad's voice.) "Of course. I'm having french toast." "Oh? We'll I'm having a Missing Person's Report for breakfast. Last Seen.

Approximately two-thirty. Wearing. I'm not sure. Glad you called. Was that a dress you were wearing last night or a Hefty-Hefty Cinch Sak?"

"I'll be home in an hour."

"Delighted you've decided to again grace me with your presence."

"Well, I'm not going to Fort Peck."

"Eh-we can discuss it."

And then it came to me, like Alfred n.o.bel his idea of a weapon to end all war (see Chapter 1, "Dynamite," History's Missteps, History's Missteps, June, 1992). " 'In fear, one flees,' " I said. He hesitated, but only for a second. "A valid point. But we'll have to see. June, 1992). " 'In fear, one flees,' " I said. He hesitated, but only for a second. "A valid point. But we'll have to see.

On the other hand, I am in dire need of your a.s.sistance with these piteous student essays. If it meant putting myself at your disposal, say, trading Fort Peck for three or four hours of your time, I suppose I'd be willing to do so."

"Dad?"

"Yes?"

I don't know why, but I couldn't say anything.

"Don't tell me you've gotten a tattoo across your chest that reads, 'Raised in h.e.l.l,' " he said. "No." "You've obtained a piercing." "No." "You wish to join a cult. A division of extremists who practice polygamy and call themselves Man's Agony."