"Have you met met them? them?

He considered this. "No."

"Seen pictures?"

He tilted his head. "No."

"Because they're figments of his unhinged imagination."

Dad laughed.

And then I was about to tell him about the other incredible incident of the day, Andreo Verduga with the suede jacket and the silver watch shuffling through the metro, but I stopped myself. I noticed how outlandish it was, such a coincidence, and reporting it in all seriousness made me feel stupid- tragic even. "It is adorable and healthily childlike secretly to believe in fairy tales, but the instant one articulates such viewpoints to other people, one goes from darling to dumbo, from childlike to chillingly out of touch with reality," wrote Albert Pooley in The Imperial Consort of the Dairy Queen The Imperial Consort of the Dairy Queen (1981, p. 233). (1981, p. 233).

"Can we go home?" I asked quietly.

To my surprise, Dad nodded. "I was actually going to ask you the very same thing this afternoon, after my dispute with Servo. I think we've had enough of la vie en rose, la vie en rose, don't you? Personally, I prefer to see life as it actually is." He smiled. don't you? Personally, I prefer to see life as it actually is." He smiled. "En noir." "En noir."

Dad and I said farewell to Servo, to Paris, two days before we were scheduled to depart. Perhaps it wasn't so incredible a thing, Dad calling the airline and changing the tickets. He looked deflated, eyes bloodshot, his voice p.r.o.ne to sighs. For the first time since I could remember, Dad had very little to say. Saying good-bye to Baba au Rhum, he managed only "thank you" and "see you soon" before climbing into the waiting taxi.

I, however, took my time.

"Next time I look forward to meeting Psyche and Elektra in person," I said, staring straight into the man's hole-punched eyes. I almost felt sorry for him: the bristly white hair drooped over his head like a plant that hadn't had nearly enough water or light. Tiny red veins were taking root around his nose. If Servo were in a Pulitzer Prize-winning play, he'd be the Painfully Tragic character, the one who wore bronze suits and alligator shoes, the man who worshipped all the wrong things so Life had to bring him to his knees.

" 'One's real life is, so often, the life that one does not lead,' " I added as I turned toward the taxi, but he only blinked, that nervous, sly smile again twitching through his face.

"So long, my dear, mmmm, safe flight."

On the drive to the airport, Dad barely said a word. He rested his head against the taxi window, mournfully staring out at the pa.s.sing streets -such an unusual pose for him, I covertly took the disposable camera out of my bag, and while the taxi driver muttered at people dashing across the intersection in front of us, I took his picture, the last photo on the roll.

They say when people didn't know you were taking their picture, they appeared as they really were in life. And yet Dad didn't know I was taking his picture and he appeared as he never never was-quiet, forlorn, somehow lost was-quiet, forlorn, somehow lost "As far as one journeys, as much as a man sees, from the turrets of the Taj Mahal to the Siberian wilds, he may eventually come to an unfortunate conclusion -usually while he's lying in bed, staring at the thatched ceiling of some substandard accommodation in Indochina," writes Swithin in his last book, the posthumously published Whereabouts, 1917 Whereabouts, 1917 (1918). "It is impossible to rid himself of the relentless, cloying fever commonly known as Home. After seventy-three years of anguish I have found a cure, however. You must go home again, grit your teeth and however arduous the exercise, determine, without embellishment, your exact coordinates at Home, your longitudes and lat.i.tudes. Only then, will you stop looking back and see the spectacular view in front of you." (1918). "It is impossible to rid himself of the relentless, cloying fever commonly known as Home. After seventy-three years of anguish I have found a cure, however. You must go home again, grit your teeth and however arduous the exercise, determine, without embellishment, your exact coordinates at Home, your longitudes and lat.i.tudes. Only then, will you stop looking back and see the spectacular view in front of you."

Part Three

Howl and Other Poems

Upon my return to St. Gallway and the commencement of Winter Term, the first odd thing I noticed about Hannah-rather, what the whole school noticed ("I think that woman was committed to an inst.i.tution over vacation," surmised Dee during second period Study Hall)-was that over Christmas Break, she'd cut off all her hair.

No, it was not one of those cute 1950s haircuts labeled by fashion magazines as chic chic and and gamine gamine (see Jean Seberg, (see Jean Seberg, Bonjour Tristesse). Bonjour Tristesse). It was harsh and choppy. And, as Jade noticed when we were at Hannah's for dinner, there was even a tiny bald patch behind her right ear. It was harsh and choppy. And, as Jade noticed when we were at Hannah's for dinner, there was even a tiny bald patch behind her right ear.

"What the h.e.l.l?" h.e.l.l?" said Jade. said Jade.

"What?" asked Hannah, spinning around.

"There's a-hole in your haircut! You can see your scalp!"

"Really?"

"You cut your own hair?" asked Lu.

Hannah stared at us and then nodded, visibly embarra.s.sed. "Yes. I know it's crazy and looks, well -different." She touched the back of her neck. "But it was late at night. I wanted to try something."

The acute masochism and self-hatred behind a woman willfully defacing her appearance was a concept that featured prominently in the angry tome by proto-feminist Dr. Susan Shorts, Beelzebub Conspiracy Beelzebub Conspiracy (1992), which I'd noticed peeking out of the L. L. Bean canvas tote belonging to my sixth-grade science teacher, Mrs. Joanna Perry of Wheaton Hill Middle. In order to better understand Mrs. Perry and her mood swings, I procured my own copy. In Chapter 5, Shorts contends that since 1010 B.c., many women who'd tried and failed to be self-governing were forced to take action upon their very selves, because their physical appearance was the lone thing on which they could immediately "exert power," due to the "colossal masculine plot at work since the beginning of time, ever since man began to walk on his two stubby, hairy legs and noticed that he was taller than poor woman," growls Shorts (p. 41). Many women, including St. Joan and Countess Alexandra di Whippa, "crudely chopped off their hair," and cut themselves with "clippers and knives" (p. 42-43). The more radical ones branded their stomachs with hot irons to the "distress and revulsion of their husbands" (p. 44). On p. 69, Shorts goes on to write, "A woman will mar her exterior because she feels she is a part of a greater scheme, a plot, which she cannot control." (1992), which I'd noticed peeking out of the L. L. Bean canvas tote belonging to my sixth-grade science teacher, Mrs. Joanna Perry of Wheaton Hill Middle. In order to better understand Mrs. Perry and her mood swings, I procured my own copy. In Chapter 5, Shorts contends that since 1010 B.c., many women who'd tried and failed to be self-governing were forced to take action upon their very selves, because their physical appearance was the lone thing on which they could immediately "exert power," due to the "colossal masculine plot at work since the beginning of time, ever since man began to walk on his two stubby, hairy legs and noticed that he was taller than poor woman," growls Shorts (p. 41). Many women, including St. Joan and Countess Alexandra di Whippa, "crudely chopped off their hair," and cut themselves with "clippers and knives" (p. 42-43). The more radical ones branded their stomachs with hot irons to the "distress and revulsion of their husbands" (p. 44). On p. 69, Shorts goes on to write, "A woman will mar her exterior because she feels she is a part of a greater scheme, a plot, which she cannot control."

Of course, one never thinks about d.a.m.ning feminist texts at the time, and even if one does, it's to be theatrical and over-the-top. So I simply imagined there came a point in a mature woman's life when she needed to radically change her appearance, discover what she really really looked like, without all the bells and whistles. looked like, without all the bells and whistles.

Dad, on Understanding Why Women Do the Things They Do: "One has a better chance of squeezing the universe onto a thumbnail."

And yet, when I sat next to Hannah at the dinner table and looked over at her as she daintily cut her chicken (haircut poised boldly atop her head like an atrocious hat worn to church), I suddenly had the nerve-racking feeling I'd seen seen her somewhere before. The haircut strip-searched her, uncovered her in a shoulder-cringing fashion, and now, crazily enough, the carved cheekbones, the neck-it was all vaguely familiar. I recognized her, not from an encounter (no, she was not one of Dad's long-lost June Bugs; it'd take more than glamorous hair to camouflage her somewhere before. The haircut strip-searched her, uncovered her in a shoulder-cringing fashion, and now, crazily enough, the carved cheekbones, the neck-it was all vaguely familiar. I recognized her, not from an encounter (no, she was not one of Dad's long-lost June Bugs; it'd take more than glamorous hair to camouflage their their brand of monkey face); the feeling was smokier, more remote. I sensed instead I'd seen her in a photograph somewhere, or in a newspaper article, or maybe in a snapshot in some discount biography Dad and I had read aloud. brand of monkey face); the feeling was smokier, more remote. I sensed instead I'd seen her in a photograph somewhere, or in a newspaper article, or maybe in a snapshot in some discount biography Dad and I had read aloud.

Instantly, she noticed I was staring at her (Hannah was one of those people who kept tabs on all eyes in a room) and slowly, as she took an elegant bite of food, she turned her head toward me and smiled. Charles was talking on and on about Fort Lauderdale-G.o.d, it was hot, stuck at the airport for six hours (telling this rambling story as he always did, as if Hannah was the only person at the table)-and the haircut drew attention to her smile, did to her smile what c.o.ke-bottle lenses did to eyes, made it huge (p.r.o.nounced, "HYOOOGE"). I smiled back at her and sat for the remainder of the meal with my eyes taped to my plate, shouting silently to myself in a dictator voice (Augusto Pinochet commanding the torture of an opponent)-to stop staring stop staring at Hannah. It was rude. at Hannah. It was rude.

"Hannah's going to have a nervous breakdown," Jade announced flatly that Friday night. She was wearing a jittery black-beaded flapper dress and sitting behind a huge gold harp, plucking the strings with one hand, a martini in the other. The instrument was covered with a thick film of dust like the layer of fat in a pan after frying bacon. "You can quote me on that."

"You've been sayin' that all f.u.c.kin' year," said Milton.

"Yawn," said Nigel.

"Actually I kind of agree," said Leulah solemnly. "That haircut's scary."

"Finally!" Jade shouted. "I have a convert! I have one, do I hear two, two, going, going, sold sold at the pathetic number of at the pathetic number of one." one."

"Seriously," Lu went on, "I think she might be clinically depressed."

"Shut up," Charles said.

It was 11:00 P.M. Sprawled across the leather couches in the Purple Room, we were drinking Leulah's latest, something she called c.o.c.kroach, a mishmash of sugar, oranges and Jack Daniel's. I don't think I'd said twenty words the entire evening. Of course, I was excited to see them again (also grateful Dad, when Jade picked me up in the Mercedes, said nothing but "See you soon, my dear," accompanied with one of his bookmark smiles, which would hold my place until I returned), but something about the Purple Room now felt stale.

I'd had fun on these types of nights before, hadn't I? Hadn't I always laughed and sloshed a little bit of Claw or c.o.c.kroach on my knees, and said quick things that sailed across the room? Or, if I'd never said quick things (Van Meers were not known for stand-up comedy), hadn't I allowed myself to drift in a pool with a deadpan expression on an inflatable raft wearing sungla.s.ses as Simon and Garfunkel went "Woo woo woo"? Or if I hadn't allowed myself to drift with a deadpan expression (Van Meers did not excel at poker), hadn't I let myself become, at least while I was in the Purple Room, a s.h.a.ggy-haired counterculture biker on my way to New Orleans in search of the real America, hobn.o.bbing with ranchers, hookers, rednecks and mimes? Or if I hadn't let myself be a counterculture roadie (no, the Van Meers were not naturally hedonistic) hadn't I let myself wear a striped shirt and shout in a frankfurter American accent, "New York Herald Tribune!" "New York Herald Tribune!" with eyeliner jutting out from my eyes, subsequently absconding with a small-time hood? with eyeliner jutting out from my eyes, subsequently absconding with a small-time hood?

If you were young and mystified in America you were supposed to find something to be a part of. That something had to be either shocking or rowdy, for within this brouhaha you'd find yourself, be able to locate your Self the way Dad and I had finally located such minuscule, hard-to-find towns as Howard, Louisiana, and Roane, New Jersey, on our U.S. Rand-McNally Map. (If you didn't find such a thing, your fate would sadly be found in plastics.) Hannah has ruined me, I thought now, pressing the back of my head into the leather couch. I'd resolved to dig an unmarked grave in the middle of nowhere and bury what she'd told me (shoe box it, save it for a rainy day much like her own alarming knife collection) but of course, when you deep-sixed something precipitously, inevitably it rose from the dead. And so, as I watched Jade pluck the harp strings in the absorbed manner of plucking hairs from an eyebrow, I couldn't help but envision her tossing her skinny arms around the barrel torsos of various truck drivers (three per state, thus the grand total for her journey from Georgia to California was twenty-seven grease-p.r.o.ne gear-jammers; roughly one per every 107.41 miles). And when Leulah took a sip of her c.o.c.kroach and some of it dribbled down her chin, I actually saw the twenty-something Turkish math teacher looming behind her, sinuously grooving to Anatolian rock. I saw Charles as one of those golden babies gurgling next to a woman with her eyes punched in, body naked, curled up on a carpet like overcooked shrimp, grinning madly at nothing. And then I thought now, pressing the back of my head into the leather couch. I'd resolved to dig an unmarked grave in the middle of nowhere and bury what she'd told me (shoe box it, save it for a rainy day much like her own alarming knife collection) but of course, when you deep-sixed something precipitously, inevitably it rose from the dead. And so, as I watched Jade pluck the harp strings in the absorbed manner of plucking hairs from an eyebrow, I couldn't help but envision her tossing her skinny arms around the barrel torsos of various truck drivers (three per state, thus the grand total for her journey from Georgia to California was twenty-seven grease-p.r.o.ne gear-jammers; roughly one per every 107.41 miles). And when Leulah took a sip of her c.o.c.kroach and some of it dribbled down her chin, I actually saw the twenty-something Turkish math teacher looming behind her, sinuously grooving to Anatolian rock. I saw Charles as one of those golden babies gurgling next to a woman with her eyes punched in, body naked, curled up on a carpet like overcooked shrimp, grinning madly at nothing. And then Milton Milton (who'd just arrived from his movie date with Joalie, Joalie who'd spent Christmas vacation skiing with her family at St. Anton, Joalie who sadly had not fallen into a mile-deep crevice on an unmarked trail), when he dug into his jean pocket to remove a piece of Trident, I thought for a split second he was actually removing a switchblade, similar to the ones the Sharks danced with in (who'd just arrived from his movie date with Joalie, Joalie who'd spent Christmas vacation skiing with her family at St. Anton, Joalie who sadly had not fallen into a mile-deep crevice on an unmarked trail), when he dug into his jean pocket to remove a piece of Trident, I thought for a split second he was actually removing a switchblade, similar to the ones the Sharks danced with in West Side Story West Side Story as they sang- as they sang- "Retch, what in h.e.l.l's the matter with you?" demanded Jade, squinting at me suspiciously. "You've been staring at everyone with freaky-a.s.s eyes all night. all night. You didn't see that Zach person over the break, did you? There's a good chance he turned you into a Stepford wife." You didn't see that Zach person over the break, did you? There's a good chance he turned you into a Stepford wife."

"Sorry. I was just thinking about Hannah," I lied.

"Yeah, well, maybe we should do something instead of just thinking all the time. At the very least, we should stage an intervention so she doesn't keep going to Cottonwood, 'cause if something happens? If she does something extreme? extreme? We'll all look back on this moment and detest ourselves. It'll be a thing we won't get over for years and years and then we'll die alone with tons of cats or be hit by cars. We'll end up road pizzas-" We'll all look back on this moment and detest ourselves. It'll be a thing we won't get over for years and years and then we'll die alone with tons of cats or be hit by cars. We'll end up road pizzas-"

"Will you shut the f.u.c.k up?" shouted Charles. "I-I'm tired of hearing this s.h.i.t every every f.u.c.king f.u.c.king weekend! weekend! You're a f.u.c.king moron! All of you!" You're a f.u.c.king moron! All of you!"

He banged his gla.s.s on the bar and raced from the room, his cheeks red, his hair the color of the palest, barest wood, the soft kind you could dent with your thumbnail, and then seconds later-none of us spoke-we heard the front door thump, the whining motor of his car as he sped down the driveway.

"Is it me or is it obvious none of this ends happily," Jade said.

Around 3:00 or 4:00 A.M., I pa.s.sed out on the leather couch. An hour later, someone was shaking me.

"Want to take a walk, old broad?"

Nigel was smiling down at me, his gla.s.ses pinching the end of his nose.

I blinked and sat up. "Sure."

Blue light velveted the room. Jade was upstairs, Milton had gone home ("home," I suspected, meant a motel rendezvous with Joalie) and Lu was sound asleep on the paisley couch, her long hair ivying over the armrest. I rubbed my eyes, stood and blearily plodded after Nigel, who'd already slipped into the foyer. I found him in the Parlor Room: walls painted mortified pink, a yawning grand piano, spindly palms and low sofas that resembled big, floating graham crackers you didn't dare sit on for fear they'd break and you'd get crumbs everywhere.

"Put this on if you're cold," Nigel said, picking up a long black fur coat that'd been left for dead on the piano bench. It sagged romantically in his arms, like a grateful secretary who'd just fainted.

"I'm okay," I said.

He shrugged and slipped it on himself (see "Siberian Weasel," Encyclopedia of Living Things, Encyclopedia of Living Things, 4th ed.). Frowning, he picked up a large, blue-eyed crystal swan that had been swimming across the top of an end table toward a large silver picture frame. The frame featured not a photo of Jade, Jefferson or some other beaming relative, but the black-and-white insert it had ostensibly been purchased with (FIRENZE, it read, 7" x 91/2"). 4th ed.). Frowning, he picked up a large, blue-eyed crystal swan that had been swimming across the top of an end table toward a large silver picture frame. The frame featured not a photo of Jade, Jefferson or some other beaming relative, but the black-and-white insert it had ostensibly been purchased with (FIRENZE, it read, 7" x 91/2").

"Poor fat drowned b.a.s.t.a.r.d," Nigel said. "No one remembers him anymore, you know?" "Who?"

"Smoke Harvey."

"Oh."

"That's what happens when you die. Everyone makes a big deal about it.

Then everyone forgets." "Unless you kill a state employee. A senator, or-or a police officer. Then everyone remembers." "Really?" He looked at me with interest, nodding. "Yeah," he said cheerfully. "You're probably right."

Customarily, when one stopped to consider Nigel-his face, ho-hum as a penny, his fiercely gnawed fingernails, his thin, wired gla.s.ses that forever evoked the image of an insect brazenly resting its tired, transparent wings on his nose-one was hard pressed to imagine what, what, exactly, he was thinking, what was the reason for the eyes that sparked, the tiny smile, reminiscent of those cute red pencils used to mark voting ballots. Now I couldn't help but a.s.sume he was thinking of his exactly, he was thinking, what was the reason for the eyes that sparked, the tiny smile, reminiscent of those cute red pencils used to mark voting ballots. Now I couldn't help but a.s.sume he was thinking of his real real parents, Mimi and George, Alice and John, Joan and Herman, whoever they were, tucked away in maximum-security prison. Not that Nigel ever looked particularly glum or brooding; if Dad were ever permanently incarcerated (if a handful of June Bugs had their way, he would be) I'd probably be one of those kids always jaw clenching and teeth grinding, fantasizing about killing my fellow students with cafeteria lunch trays and ball point pens. Nigel did a remarkable job of remaining positive. parents, Mimi and George, Alice and John, Joan and Herman, whoever they were, tucked away in maximum-security prison. Not that Nigel ever looked particularly glum or brooding; if Dad were ever permanently incarcerated (if a handful of June Bugs had their way, he would be) I'd probably be one of those kids always jaw clenching and teeth grinding, fantasizing about killing my fellow students with cafeteria lunch trays and ball point pens. Nigel did a remarkable job of remaining positive.

"So what do you think about Charles?" I whispered.

"Cute but not my type."

"No, I mean." I wasn't exactly sure how to phrase it. "What's happened between him and Hannah?"

"What-you've been talking to Jade?"

I nodded.

"I don't think anything's happened except he thinks he's madly in love with her. He's always always been madly in love with her. Since we were freshmen. I don't know why he wastes his time-hey, you think I could pa.s.s for Liz Taylor?" He set down the gla.s.s swan, twirled. The mink dutifully Christmas-treed around him. been madly in love with her. Since we were freshmen. I don't know why he wastes his time-hey, you think I could pa.s.s for Liz Taylor?" He set down the gla.s.s swan, twirled. The mink dutifully Christmas-treed around him.

"Sure," I said. If he was Liz, I was Bo Derek in Ten. Ten.

Smiling, he pushed his gla.s.ses higher onto his nose. "So we need to find the loot. The bounty. The big payoff." He spun on his heel, then darted out the door, across the foyer, up the white marble stairs.

At the top of the landing, he stopped, waiting for me to catch up. "Actually I wanted to tell you something."

"What?" I asked.

He pressed a finger to his lips. We were outside Jade's bedroom, and though it was completely dark and silent, her door was half open. He motioned for me to follow him. We crept down the carpeted hall and into one of the guest rooms at the very end.

He switched on a lamp by the door. Despite the rose-colored carpet and floral curtains, the room was claustrophobic, like being inside a lung. The musty, forsaken smell doubtlessly was what National Geographic National Geographic correspondent Carlson Quay Meade was talking about in the account of his excavation of the Valley of the Kings with Howard Carter in 1923, in correspondent Carlson Quay Meade was talking about in the account of his excavation of the Valley of the Kings with Howard Carter in 1923, in Revealing Tutankhamen: Revealing Tutankhamen: "I daresay I was troubled of what we might find in that eerie sepulcher, and though there was most certainly an air of excitement, due to the sickening stench, I was forced to remove my linen handkerchief and place it over my nose and mouth, proceeding thus into the cheerless tomb" (Meade, 1924). "I daresay I was troubled of what we might find in that eerie sepulcher, and though there was most certainly an air of excitement, due to the sickening stench, I was forced to remove my linen handkerchief and place it over my nose and mouth, proceeding thus into the cheerless tomb" (Meade, 1924).

Nigel closed the door behind me.

"So Milton and I went over to Hannah's early last Sunday, before you showed up," he said in a low, serious voice, leaning against the bed. "And Hannah had to slip away to the grocery store. While Milton was doing homework, I went outside and took a look inside her garage." His eyes widened. "You wouldn't believe believe the stuff I found. For one thing, there's all that old camping equipment-but then, I checked out some of the cardboard boxes. Most of them were full of junk, mugs, lamps, stuff she'd collected, a photo too-guess she went through a serious punk phase-but one huge box only contained trail maps, a the stuff I found. For one thing, there's all that old camping equipment-but then, I checked out some of the cardboard boxes. Most of them were full of junk, mugs, lamps, stuff she'd collected, a photo too-guess she went through a serious punk phase-but one huge box only contained trail maps, a thousand thousand of them. She'd marked some with a red pen." of them. She'd marked some with a red pen."

"Hannah used to go camping all the time. She told us about that incident when she saved someone's life. Remember?"

He held up his hand, nodding. "Right, well, then I came across a folder sitting right on top of everything. It was full of newspaper articles. Photocopies. A couple from The Stockton Observer. The Stockton Observer. Every single one was about a kid disappearing." Every single one was about a kid disappearing."

"Missing Persons?"

He nodded.

I was surprised how the reappearance of two simple words, Missing Persons, Missing Persons, could instantly make me feel so, well, could instantly make me feel so, well, disturbed. disturbed. Obviously, if Hannah hadn't launched into that hair-raising sermon about The Gone, if I hadn't witnessed her stonily reciting all those Last Seens, one by one, like some sort of severely unbalanced person, I wouldn't have been unsettled by what Nigel reported in the least. We knew Hannah, at some point in her life, had been a seasoned mountaineer, and the folder of photocopies as an isolated item didn't mean much. Dad for one, was a person with a highly impulsive intellectual mind and he was forever taking sudden explosive interest in a variety of haphazard subjects, from Einstein's early versions of the atomic bomb and the anatomy of a sand dollar, to gruesome museum installations and rappers who'd been shot nine times. But no subject matter for Dad was ever a fixation, an obsession-a Obviously, if Hannah hadn't launched into that hair-raising sermon about The Gone, if I hadn't witnessed her stonily reciting all those Last Seens, one by one, like some sort of severely unbalanced person, I wouldn't have been unsettled by what Nigel reported in the least. We knew Hannah, at some point in her life, had been a seasoned mountaineer, and the folder of photocopies as an isolated item didn't mean much. Dad for one, was a person with a highly impulsive intellectual mind and he was forever taking sudden explosive interest in a variety of haphazard subjects, from Einstein's early versions of the atomic bomb and the anatomy of a sand dollar, to gruesome museum installations and rappers who'd been shot nine times. But no subject matter for Dad was ever a fixation, an obsession-a pa.s.sion, pa.s.sion, sure; mention Che or Benno Ohnesorg and a gauzy look would appear in his eyes-but Dad did not memorize random facts and recite them in a brutal Bette Davis voice while puffing on cigarettes, his eyes whizzing madly around the room like balloons losing air. Dad did not pose, posture, cut off his own hair leaving a bald spot the size of a Ping-Pong ball. ("Life has few absolute pleasures and one is sitting back in that barber chair, getting one's hair trimmed by a woman with capable hands," Dad said.) And Dad did not, at unantic.i.p.ated moments, fill me with sure; mention Che or Benno Ohnesorg and a gauzy look would appear in his eyes-but Dad did not memorize random facts and recite them in a brutal Bette Davis voice while puffing on cigarettes, his eyes whizzing madly around the room like balloons losing air. Dad did not pose, posture, cut off his own hair leaving a bald spot the size of a Ping-Pong ball. ("Life has few absolute pleasures and one is sitting back in that barber chair, getting one's hair trimmed by a woman with capable hands," Dad said.) And Dad did not, at unantic.i.p.ated moments, fill me with fear, fear, a fear I couldn't put my hands on because as soon as I noticed it, it slipped through my fingers like steam, evaporated. a fear I couldn't put my hands on because as soon as I noticed it, it slipped through my fingers like steam, evaporated.

"I have one of the articles if you want to read it," Nigel said.

"You took took it?" it?"

"Just a page."

"Oh, great." great."

"What?"

"She's going to know you were snooping."

"No way, there were fifty pages there at least. least. She couldn't notice. Let me go get it. It's in my bag downstairs." She couldn't notice. Let me go get it. It's in my bag downstairs."

Nigel headed from the room (before disappearing out the door he gave a sort of delighted bulge of the eyes-a silent-movie Dracula expression). He returned a minute later with the article. It was a single page. Actually, it wasn't wasn't an article, but an excerpt from a paperback published by Foothill Press of Tupock, Tennessee, in 1992, an article, but an excerpt from a paperback published by Foothill Press of Tupock, Tennessee, in 1992, Lost But Not Found: People Who Vanished Without a Trace, and Other Baffling Events Lost But Not Found: People Who Vanished Without a Trace, and Other Baffling Events by J. Finley and E. Diggs. Nigel sat down on the bed and wrapped the mink tightly around himself, waiting for me to finish reading. by J. Finley and E. Diggs. Nigel sat down on the bed and wrapped the mink tightly around himself, waiting for me to finish reading.

Violet May Martinez.

So do not fear, for I am with you; so do not be dismayed, for I am your G.o.d. -Isaiah, 41:10 41:10 On August 29,1985, Violet May Martinez, 15, vanished without a trace. She was last seen in the Great Smoky Mountains National Park between Blindmans Bald and the parking lot near Burnt Creek.

Today her disappearance remains a mystery.

It was a sunny morning on August 29, 1985, when Violet Martinez took off with her Bible study group of Besters Baptist Church in Besters, N.C. They were heading to the Great Smoky Mountains National Park for a nature appreciation trip. A soph.o.m.ore at Besters High, Violet was known by her peers as fun and outgoing and had been voted Best Dressed by the yearbook.

Violet's father, Roy Jr., dropped her off at church that morning. Violet had blond hair and was 5'4". She was wearing a pink sweater, blue jeans, a gold "V" necklace and white Reeboks.

The church trip was chaperoned by Mr. Mike Higgis, a favorite church leader and Vietnam Vet who'd been active at the church for seventeen years.

Violet rode in the back of the bus next to her best friend, Polly Elms. The bus arrived at the Burnt Creek parking lot at 12:30 P.M. Mike Higgis announced they'd hike the trail to Blind-mans Bald, returning to the bus by 3:30 P.M. " 'Stand still,' " he said, quoting the Book of Job, " 'and consider the wondrous works of G.o.d.' "