Violet hiked to the summit with Polly Elms and Joel Hinley. Violet had snuck a pack of Virginia Slims in her jeans pocket and smoked a cigarette at the summit before Mike Higgis told her to put it out. Violet posed for pictures and ate trail mix. She became anxious to start back, so she left the summit with Joel and two friends. A mile from the parking lot, Violet started walking faster than everyone else. The group had to slow down because Barbee Stuart had a cramp. Violet didn't stop.

"She called us slow pokes and skipped ahead," said Joel. "When she reached the last visible part in the trail, she stopped to light another cigarette and waved at us. She walked around the bend and out of sight."

Joel and the others moved on, a.s.suming Violet would be waiting at the bus. But at 3:35 P.M., when Mike Higgis took roll, "Where's the rest?" I asked. "That's all I took." "All the articles were about disappearances like this?" "Pretty odd, huh?" I only shrugged. I couldn't remember if my oath of secrecy extended ex clusively over the Blueblood Histories or the entire entire night's conversation with Hannah, and so all I said was: "I think Hannah's always been interested in the subject. Disappearances." night's conversation with Hannah, and so all I said was: "I think Hannah's always been interested in the subject. Disappearances."

"Oh, yeah?" I feigned a yawn and handed him the page. "I wouldn't worry about it." He shrugged, obviously disappointed by my reaction, and folded the paper. I prayed-for my continued sanity-that would be the end of it. Unfortunately, for the next forty-five minutes, as we wandered the Whitestone rooms, the dust-iced tables, the never-sat-in chairs, no matter what what I said to pacify him, he wouldn't stop blathering about the articles (poor Violet, wonder what happened, why would Hannah have those papers, why should she care). I a.s.sumed he was simply vamping, doing Liz in I said to pacify him, he wouldn't stop blathering about the articles (poor Violet, wonder what happened, why would Hannah have those papers, why should she care). I a.s.sumed he was simply vamping, doing Liz in The Last Time I Saw Paris, The Last Time I Saw Paris, until his little face caught the light of a constellation -Hercules the Giant-flickering in the kitchen ceiling and I saw his expression: it wasn't affected, but genuinely concerned (surprisingly weighty, too, a seriousness usually a.s.sociated only with unabridged dictionaries and old gorillas). until his little face caught the light of a constellation -Hercules the Giant-flickering in the kitchen ceiling and I saw his expression: it wasn't affected, but genuinely concerned (surprisingly weighty, too, a seriousness usually a.s.sociated only with unabridged dictionaries and old gorillas).

Soon we drifted back into the Purple Room, and Nigel, removing his gla.s.ses, instantly fell asleep in front of the fireplace, clutching the mink possessively like he was afraid it'd tiptoe out before he woke. I returned to the leather couch. A marmalade smear of morning was spreading through the sky, visible beyond the trees through the gla.s.s-pane doors. I wasn't tired. No, thanks to Nigel (now snoring), my mind was circling like a dog after its tail. What was the reason for Hannah's addiction to disappearances -Life Stories brutally cut off so they remained beginnings and middles, never an end? ("A Life Story without a decent ending is sadly no story at all," Dad said.) Hannah couldn't be a Missing Person herself, but perhaps her brother or sister had been one, or one of the girls in the photographs Nigel and I had glimpsed in her room, or else the lost love she refused to confirm the existence of-Valerio. A connection between these Missing Persons and her life, however distant or gauzy, had to exist: "People only very, very rarely develop fixations wholly unrelated to their private histories," wrote Josephson Wilheljen, MD, in WiderThan the Sky WiderThan the Sky (1989). (1989).

There was, too, the supremely itchy feeling I'd seen seen her somewhere before, when she had a similar eggsh.e.l.l haircut-a feeling her somewhere before, when she had a similar eggsh.e.l.l haircut-a feeling so so persistent, the next day, sunny and freezing, when Leulah dropped me off at home, I found myself weeding through some of the contemporary biographies in Dad's library, persistent, the next day, sunny and freezing, when Leulah dropped me off at home, I found myself weeding through some of the contemporary biographies in Dad's library, Fuzzy Man: The Life and Times of Andy Warhol Fuzzy Man: The Life and Times of Andy Warhol (Benson 1990), (Benson 1990), Margaret Thatcher: The Woman, The Myth Margaret Thatcher: The Woman, The Myth (Scott 1999), (Scott 1999), Mikhail Gorbachev: The Lost Prince of Moscow Mikhail Gorbachev: The Lost Prince of Moscow (Vadivarich, 1999), flipping to the centers and inspecting the photographs. It was a pointless exercise, I knew, but frankly, the feeling, though relentless, was also sort of vague; I couldn't vouch that it was authentic, that I wasn't simply mixing Hannah up with one the Lost Boys in a production of (Vadivarich, 1999), flipping to the centers and inspecting the photographs. It was a pointless exercise, I knew, but frankly, the feeling, though relentless, was also sort of vague; I couldn't vouch that it was authentic, that I wasn't simply mixing Hannah up with one the Lost Boys in a production of Peter Pan Peter Pan Dad and I caught at the University of Kentucky at Walnut Ridge. At one point, I actually thought I'd found her-my heart swooped when I saw a black-and-white picture of what Dad and I caught at the University of Kentucky at Walnut Ridge. At one point, I actually thought I'd found her-my heart swooped when I saw a black-and-white picture of what had had to be Hannah Schneider reclining on a beach in a chic vintage bathing suit and headlight sungla.s.ses-until I read the caption: "St. Tropez, Summer of 1955, Gene Tierney." (I'd stupidly picked up to be Hannah Schneider reclining on a beach in a chic vintage bathing suit and headlight sungla.s.ses-until I read the caption: "St. Tropez, Summer of 1955, Gene Tierney." (I'd stupidly picked up Fugitives from a Chain Gang Fugitives from a Chain Gang [De Winter, 1979], an old biography of Darryl Zanuck.) [De Winter, 1979], an old biography of Darryl Zanuck.) My next foray into Private Investigation led me down into Dad's study where I searched for "Schneider" and "Missing Person" on the Internet, a survey that belched up nearly five thousand pages. "Valerio" and "Missing Person" yielded 103.

"Are you down there?" Dad called into the stairwell.

"Doing research," I shouted.

"Have you eaten lunch?"

"No."

"Well, get your skates on-we just received twelve coupons in the mail for Lone Steer Steakhouse -ten percent off All-You-Can-Eat Spare Ribs, Buffalo Wings, Molten Onions and something they call, rather disturbingly, a Volcanic Bacon-Bit Potato."

Quickly, I scanned a few pages, seeing nothing remotely interesting or relevant-court doc.u.ments detailing motions of Judge Howie Valerio of Shelburn County, records of Loggias Valerio born in 1789, Ma.s.sachusetts - and switched off Dad's laptop.

"Sweet?"

"I'm coming," I called.

I hadn't had time to conduct any more recon work on Hannah or Missing Persons by the time Jade picked me up that Sunday, and when we arrived at Hannah's house, I thought to myself-more than a little relieved-perhaps I'd never have to again; Hannah, with renewed exhilaration, was dashing around the house in bare feet and a black housedress, smiling, engaged in six things at once and speaking in chic sentences that snubbed punctuation: "Blue did you meet Ono-is that the timer going off-oh Christ the asparagus." (Ono was a tiny green shaving of bird missing an eye who apparently hadn't taken to Lennon at all; she was putting as much birdcage between herself and him as she could.) Hannah also had taken the trouble to make the haircut look marginally more stylish, urging some of the edgier, meaner parts to lie down, chill out off to the side of her forehead. Everything was fine-perfect really-as the seven of us sat in the dining room eating our steaks, asparagus and corn on the cob (even Charles was smiling and when he told one of his stories he actually told it to all all of us, not Hannah exclusively)-but then she opened her mouth. of us, not Hannah exclusively)-but then she opened her mouth.

"March twenty-sixth," she said. "The beginning of Spring Break. It's our big weekend. So mark your calendars."

"Big weekend for what?" asked Charles.

"Our camping trip."

"Who said anything about a camping trip?" asked Jade.

"I did."

"Where?" asked Leulah.

"The Great Smokies. It's less than an hour's drive."

I almost choked on my steak. Nigel and I locked eyes across the table.

"You know," continued Hannah brightly, "campfires and ghost stories and gorgeous vistas, fresh air-"

"Ramen noodles," muttered Jade.

"We don't have to eat ramen noodles. We can eat anything we like."

"Still sounds wretched." sounds wretched."

"Don't be like that."

"My generation doesn't do wilderness. We'd rather go to a mall."

"Well, maybe you should aspire to something beyond your generation."

"Is it safe?" Nigel interjected, as offhandedly as he could.

"Of course." Hannah smiled. "So long as you're not stupid. But I've been up there a million times. I know the trails. I just went actually." "With who?" asked Charles. She smiled at him. "Myself." We stared at her. It was, after all, January. "When?" Milton asked. "Over vacation." "You weren't freezin'?" "Forget about freezing," said Jade. "Weren't you bored? bored? There's nothing to do up there." There's nothing to do up there."

"No, I wasn't bored." bored."

"And what about the bears?" Jade went on. "Even worse, the bugs. I'm so so not an insect person. They not an insect person. They love me love me though. Every bug is obsessed with me. They stalk me. They're crazed fans." though. Every bug is obsessed with me. They stalk me. They're crazed fans."

"When we go in March, there won't be bugs. And if there are, I'll drown you in Off," Hannah said in a severe voice (see "1940 publicity still forTorrid Zone" Bulldog in a Henhouse: The Life of JamesCagney, Taylor, 1982, p. 339). Taylor, 1982, p. 339).

Jade said nothing, bulldozing her spinach with a fork.

"For goodness' sake," Hannah continued, frowning at us, "what-what's the matter with you? I try to plan something fun, a little different-didn't you read, weren't you inspired inspired by Th.o.r.eau, by Th.o.r.eau, Walden? Walden? Didn't you read it in English cla.s.s? Or don't they teach that anymore?" Didn't you read it in English cla.s.s? Or don't they teach that anymore?"

She looked at me. I found it difficult to look back. In spite of her styling efforts, the haircut was still distracting. It looked like one of those alarming styles directors used in 1950s movies to ill.u.s.trate that the main character had recently spent time in an inst.i.tution or been branded a harlot by bigoted townsfolk. And the longer you looked at her, the more her shorn head seemed to isolate and float on its own like Jimmy Stewart's in Vertigo, Vertigo, when he suffers from a nervous breakdown and psychedelic colors, the pinks and greens of madness, swirl behind him. The haircut made her eyes unhealthily huge, her neck pale, her ears vulnerable as snails missing sh.e.l.ls. Perhaps Jade was right; she when he suffers from a nervous breakdown and psychedelic colors, the pinks and greens of madness, swirl behind him. The haircut made her eyes unhealthily huge, her neck pale, her ears vulnerable as snails missing sh.e.l.ls. Perhaps Jade was right; she was was going to have a nervous breakdown. Perhaps she was "sick and tired of going along with Man's Great Lie" (see going to have a nervous breakdown. Perhaps she was "sick and tired of going along with Man's Great Lie" (see Beelzebub, Beelzebub, Shorts, 1992, Shorts, 1992, p. 212). Or a more frightening possibility: perhaps she'd read too much of the Charles Manson Blackbird Blackbird book. Even Dad said-Dad who wasn't in the least superst.i.tious or fainthearted-such an explicit dissection of the workings of evil was truly not safe for the "impressionable, the confused, or the lost." For this very reason, he no longer included it on his syllabus. book. Even Dad said-Dad who wasn't in the least superst.i.tious or fainthearted-such an explicit dissection of the workings of evil was truly not safe for the "impressionable, the confused, or the lost." For this very reason, he no longer included it on his syllabus.

"You know what I'm talking about, don't you?" know what I'm talking about, don't you?"

Her eyes were b.u.mper-stickered to my head.

" 'I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately,' " she started to recite. " 'I wanted to suck all that marrow out of life, and-and afterwards, learn that if I had not lived, that-that I,' what is it, something or other deliberately Her words slumped to the ground and stopped moving. No one spoke. She chuckled, but it was a sad, dying sound. "I need to read it again myself."

20.

The Taming of the Shrew.

Leontyne Bennett skillfully dissected in The Commonwealth of LostVanities The Commonwealth of LostVanities (1969) Virgil's renowned quotation: "Love conquers all." "For centuries upon centuries," he writes on p. 559, "we have been misinterpreting this famed trio of words. The uninformed ma.s.ses breathlessly hold up this dwarfish phrase as a justification for snogging in public squares, abandoning wives, cuckolding husbands, for the escalating divorce rate, for swarms of b.a.s.t.a.r.d children begging for handouts in the Whitechapel and Aldgate tube stations-when in fact, there is nothing remotely encouraging or cheerful about this oft-quoted phrase. The Latin poet wrote (1969) Virgil's renowned quotation: "Love conquers all." "For centuries upon centuries," he writes on p. 559, "we have been misinterpreting this famed trio of words. The uninformed ma.s.ses breathlessly hold up this dwarfish phrase as a justification for snogging in public squares, abandoning wives, cuckolding husbands, for the escalating divorce rate, for swarms of b.a.s.t.a.r.d children begging for handouts in the Whitechapel and Aldgate tube stations-when in fact, there is nothing remotely encouraging or cheerful about this oft-quoted phrase. The Latin poet wrote 'Amor vincit omnia,' 'Amor vincit omnia,' or 'Love conquers all.' He did not write, 'Love or 'Love conquers all.' He did not write, 'Love frees frees all' or all' or 'liberates' 'liberates' all, and therein lies the first degree of our flagrant misunderstanding. Conquer: to defeat, subjugate, ma.s.sacre, cream, make mincemeat out of. Surely, this cannot be a positive thing. And then, he wrote 'conquers all, and therein lies the first degree of our flagrant misunderstanding. Conquer: to defeat, subjugate, ma.s.sacre, cream, make mincemeat out of. Surely, this cannot be a positive thing. And then, he wrote 'conquers all'-not all'-not exclusively the unpleasant things, dest.i.tution, a.s.sa.s.sination, burglary, but exclusively the unpleasant things, dest.i.tution, a.s.sa.s.sination, burglary, but all, all, including pleasure, peace, common sense, liberty and self-determination. And thus we may appreciate that Virgil's words are not encouragement, but rather a caveat, a cue to evade, shirk, elude the feeling at all costs, else we risk the ma.s.sacre of the things we hold most dear, including our sense of self." including pleasure, peace, common sense, liberty and self-determination. And thus we may appreciate that Virgil's words are not encouragement, but rather a caveat, a cue to evade, shirk, elude the feeling at all costs, else we risk the ma.s.sacre of the things we hold most dear, including our sense of self."

Dad and I always snickered about Bennett's long-winded protestations (he never married and died, in 1984, of cirrhosis of the liver; no one attended his funeral but a housekeeper and an editor from Tyrolian Press) but by February, I actually noticed the value in what he prattled on about for over eight hundred pages. Because it was love that caused Charles to act increasingly sullen and inconsistent, wandering St. Gallway with his hair disheveled, a consumed look on his face (something told me he wasn't contemplating The Eternal Why). During Morning Announcements, he fidgeted restlessly in his seat (often banging the back of my chair) and when I turned around to smile at him, he didn't see me; he gazed at the stage the way sailor widows probably stared at the sea. ("I've had it with him," Jade announced.) Love, too, could pick me up and chuck me into a bad mood with the relative easiness of a tornado uprooting a farmhouse. Milton would only have to say, "Old Jo" (what he called Joalie now-a pet name the most devastating of all high school relationship developments; like superglue, it could hold any couple together for months), and instantly I'd feel like I was dying inside, as if my heart, lungs and stomach were all punching their time card, closing up shop and heading home, because there was no point of beating, breathing, day in, day out, if life was this sore.

And then there was Zach Soderberg.

I'd completely forgotten about him, with the exception of thirty seconds during the plane ride home from Paris, when a frazzled stewardess accidentally spilled b.l.o.o.d.y Mary mix on an elderly gentleman across the aisle. Instead of growling, the man's face crinkled into a smile as he dabbed his now gruesome-looking jacket with napkins, and he said without a smidgin of sarcasm: "Don't worry about it, my dear. Happens to the best of us." I'd thrown Zach contrite little smiles every now and then during AP Physics (but didn't wait to find out if he caught them or let them fall to the floor). I was taking Dad's counsel: "The most poetic of endings to love affairs isn't apology, excuse, extensive investigation into What Went Wrong-the St. Bernard of options, droopy-eyed and s...o...b..ry-but stately silence." One day, however, immediately following lunch, when I slammed my locker door, I found Zach standing directly behind me, smiling one of those tent smiles, one side hoisted way up, the other limp.

"h.e.l.lo, Blue," he said. His voice was stiff as new shoes.

My heart, rather unexpectedly, began to jump-rope. "Hi."

"How are you?"

"Fine." I had to come up with something decent to say, of course, an excuse, an apology, my reason for forgetting him at the Christmas Cabaret like a winter glove. "Zach, I'm sorry abo-"

"I have something for you," he interrupted, his voice not angry, but cheerfully official, as if he was Deputy Manager of Such-and-Such, happily emerging from his office to inform me I was a valued customer. He reached into his back pocket and handed me a thick blue envelope. It was emphatically sealed, even at the very, very corners, and my name had been written in schmaltzy cursive across the front.

"Feel free to do whatever you want with them, you know," he said. "I just got a part-time job at Kinko's, so I could inform you of some printing options. You could do a blow-up, poster-size, then total lamination. Or you could go the greeting card route. Or a calendar, wall or desk. Then there's the T-shirt option. That's pretty popular. We just got in some baby tees. And then, what do they call it-there's art print on canvas. That's very nice. Higher quality than you'd expect. We also offer sign and banner options in a range of sizes, including vinyl."

He nodded to himself and seemed on the verge of saying something more-his lips were cracked, barely, like a window-but then, frowning, he appeared to change his mind.

'Til see you in Physics," he said, turning on his heel and heading down the hall. Instantly, he was greeted by a girl who'd walked by only a minute ago-watching us out of the corner of her coin-slot eyes, then stopping by the water fountain and taking a drink of water. (She must have just trekked the Gobi Desert.) She was Rebecca of the camel teeth, a junior.

"Is your dad preaching this Sunday?" she asked him.

With a pang of irritation (as they continued their sacred conversation down the hall) I ripped open the giant envelope and inside, found glossyfoe-toes of Zach and me stationed around his living room, our shoulders rigid, irregular smiles pressed deep into our faces. of Zach and me stationed around his living room, our shoulders rigid, irregular smiles pressed deep into our faces.

In six of them, to my horror, my right bra strap was visible (so white it was almost neon purple and if one looked at the bra strap, then at something else, it drifted in one's vision), but in the last foe-toe, foe-toe, the one Patsy had taken in front of the sun-lit window (Zach's left arm rigid around my waist; he was a metal stand, I a collector's doll) the light between us had gone b.u.t.tery, splattering the lens, dissolving the outline of Zach's left side and my right so we blended together and our smiles went the same color of the white sky poured between the naked trees behind us. the one Patsy had taken in front of the sun-lit window (Zach's left arm rigid around my waist; he was a metal stand, I a collector's doll) the light between us had gone b.u.t.tery, splattering the lens, dissolving the outline of Zach's left side and my right so we blended together and our smiles went the same color of the white sky poured between the naked trees behind us.

Frankly, I barely recognized myself. Usually in pictures I was either Stork Stiff or Ferret Frightened, but in this, I looked strangely bewitching(literally: my skin was gold, there were paranormal pinp.r.i.c.ks of green in my eyes). I looked relaxed too, like the kind of person one might find squealing in delight while kicking up sand on a pifia-colada beach. I looked like I could be a woman who could forget herself entirely, let go of all the strings, let herself float away like a hundred helium balloons and everyone, everyone bound to the earth, stared at her enviously. ("A woman for whom reflection is as rare as a Giant Panda," Dad said.) my skin was gold, there were paranormal pinp.r.i.c.ks of green in my eyes). I looked relaxed too, like the kind of person one might find squealing in delight while kicking up sand on a pifia-colada beach. I looked like I could be a woman who could forget herself entirely, let go of all the strings, let herself float away like a hundred helium balloons and everyone, everyone bound to the earth, stared at her enviously. ("A woman for whom reflection is as rare as a Giant Panda," Dad said.) Without thinking, I turned to look after Zach -maybe I wanted thank him, maybe I wanted to say something more-but realized stupidly he was gone and I was left staring at the EXIT sign, the stampede of kids in stockings and shabby shoes rushing toward the stairs on their way to cla.s.s.

A week or two later, on a Tuesday evening I was sprawled across my bed, trudging through the battlefields of Henry V Henry V for AP English when I heard a car. Immediately, I went to the window and, peering through the curtains, watched a white sedan slink down the driveway like a punished animal, coming to a timid halt by the front door. for AP English when I heard a car. Immediately, I went to the window and, peering through the curtains, watched a white sedan slink down the driveway like a punished animal, coming to a timid halt by the front door.

Dad wasn't home. He'd left an hour before to go have dinner at Tijuana, a Mexican restaurant, with Professor Arnie Sanderson who taught Intro to Drama and History of the World Theater. "A sad young man," said Dad, "with funny little moles all over his face like enduring chicken pox." Dad said he wouldn't be home until eleven o'clock.

The headlights switched off. The engine died with a bloated belch. After a moment of stillness, the driver's door opened and a pillarlike white leg fell out of the car, then another. (This entrance of hers, at first glance, seemed to be an attempt to act out some red-carpet fantasy, yet when the woman came into full view, I realized it was nothing but the sheer challenge of maneuvering in what she wore: a tight white jacket doing its best to bind her waist, a white skirt like plastic wrap around a bouquet of stocky flowers, white stockings, exceedingly high white heels. She was a giant cookie dipped in icing.) The woman closed the door, and, somewhat hilariously, set about trying to lock the doors, having a hard time finding the keyhole in the dark, then the correct key. Adjusting her skirt (a movement akin to twisting a pillowcase around a pillow), she turned and tried not not to make a sound as she boosted herself up onto our porch, her swollen hair-a citrus yellow color-shuddering over her head like a loose lamp shade. She didn't ring the bell, but stood for a moment at the door, an index finger in her front teeth (the actor about to enter, suddenly uncertain of his first line). She shaded her eyes, bent to the left and looked in the window of our dining room. to make a sound as she boosted herself up onto our porch, her swollen hair-a citrus yellow color-shuddering over her head like a loose lamp shade. She didn't ring the bell, but stood for a moment at the door, an index finger in her front teeth (the actor about to enter, suddenly uncertain of his first line). She shaded her eyes, bent to the left and looked in the window of our dining room.

I knew who she was, of course. There'd been a series of anonymous phone calls just prior to our departure for Paris (my "h.e.l.lo?" was met with silence, then the hiccup of hanging up), and another less than a week ago. Swarms of June Bugs before her had shown up like this, out of the blue, in as many moods, conditions, and colors as a box of Crayola crayons (Brokenheart Burnt Umber, Seriously p.i.s.sed Cerulean, etc.).

They all had to see Dad again, wanted to pin him down, corner, cajole (in Zula Pierce's case, maim) him, make a Final Appeal. They approached this doomed confrontation with the weightiness of appearing in federal court, tucking their hair behind their ears, sporting no-nonsense suits, pumps, perfume and conservative bra.s.s earrings. June Bug Jenna Parks even toted an unwieldy leather briefcase for her her final showdown, which she primly rested on her knees, opened with the cliched bite of all briefcase openings and, not wasting any time, returned to Dad a bar napkin on which he'd written, in happier days, " 'A woman's face with Nature's own hand painted / Hast thou, the master-mistress of my pa.s.sion.' " They always made sure to add s.e.xy punctuation to this expert appearance (crimson mouth, complex lingerie under a faintly transparent blouse) to tempt Dad, hint at what he was missing. final showdown, which she primly rested on her knees, opened with the cliched bite of all briefcase openings and, not wasting any time, returned to Dad a bar napkin on which he'd written, in happier days, " 'A woman's face with Nature's own hand painted / Hast thou, the master-mistress of my pa.s.sion.' " They always made sure to add s.e.xy punctuation to this expert appearance (crimson mouth, complex lingerie under a faintly transparent blouse) to tempt Dad, hint at what he was missing.

If he was home, he ushered them into the den in the manner of a cardiologist about to deliver bad news to a heart patient. Before closing the door, however, he'd ask me (Dad the all-knowing doctor, me the flighty nurse) to prepare a tray of Earl Gray tea.

"Cream and sugar," he'd say with a wink-a suggestion that made an unlikely smile sprout on the June Bug's bleak face.

After I put on the kettle, I'd return to the closed door in order to eavesdrop on her deposition. No, she couldn't eat, couldn't sleep, couldn't touch or even look at another man ("Not even Pierce Brosnan and I used to think he was wonderful," Connie Madison Parker confessed). Dad would speak-something m.u.f.fled, inaudible -and then the door would open and the June Bug emerged from the courtroom. Her blouse was untucked, her hair full of static and, in the most disastrous part of this metamorphosis, her face, before, so meticulously made up, now, a Rorschach test.

She fled to her car, a little frown between her eyebrows like pleated fabric, and then she drove away in her Acura or Dodge Neon, as Dad, all resigned and weary sighs, settled comfortably into his reading chair with the Earl Gray tea I'd fixed for him (as he'd planned all along) to tackle another lecture on Third-World Mediation, another tome on Principles of Revolt.

It was always a tiny detail that made me feel guilty: the dirty grosgrain bow barely hanging on to the front of Lorraine Connelly's left high heel, or Willa Johnson's ruby triangle of polyester blazer; caught in the car door, it flapped in terror as she sped down the driveway not bothering to check for oncoming traffic before making the left onto Sandpiper Circle. Not that I hoped Dad would permanently keep one. It was an irksome thought, watching On the Waterfront On the Waterfront with a woman who smelled like apricot potpourri from a restaurant bathroom (Dad and I rewinding our favorite scene, the glove scene, ten sometimes twelve times as the June Bug crossed and uncrossed her legs in huffy annoyance), or listening to Dad explain his latest lecture concepts (Transformationism, Starbuckization) to a woman who did forceful, newscaster "Uh-huh uh-huhs," even when she didn't understand a word. with a woman who smelled like apricot potpourri from a restaurant bathroom (Dad and I rewinding our favorite scene, the glove scene, ten sometimes twelve times as the June Bug crossed and uncrossed her legs in huffy annoyance), or listening to Dad explain his latest lecture concepts (Transformationism, Starbuckization) to a woman who did forceful, newscaster "Uh-huh uh-huhs," even when she didn't understand a word.

Still, I couldn't help but feel ashamed when they cried (an empathy I wasn't entirely sure they deserved; apart from a few flat questions about boys or my mother, none of them ever talked to me, eyeing me as if I were a few grams of plutonium, unsure if I was radioactive or benign).

Obviously it wasn't fantastic what Dad was doing, making perfectly realistic women act like-well, as if they were determined to resurrect old story lines of Guiding Light-but Guiding Light-but I did wonder if it was entirely his fault. Dad never lied about the fact he'd already logged his one Great Love. And everyone knew I did wonder if it was entirely his fault. Dad never lied about the fact he'd already logged his one Great Love. And everyone knew one one was the maximum of Great Loves a person could stumble upon in a lifetime, though some gluttonous people refused to accept it, mistakenly muttering on about seconds and thirds. Everyone was quick to hate the heartbreaker, the Casanova, the libertine, completely overlooking the fact that was the maximum of Great Loves a person could stumble upon in a lifetime, though some gluttonous people refused to accept it, mistakenly muttering on about seconds and thirds. Everyone was quick to hate the heartbreaker, the Casanova, the libertine, completely overlooking the fact that some some libertines were completely candid about what they wanted (excitement between lectures) and if it was all so appalling why did everyone keep flying onto their porches? Why didn't they spiral off into the summer night, expiring with peace and poise in the soft shadows of the tulip trees? libertines were completely candid about what they wanted (excitement between lectures) and if it was all so appalling why did everyone keep flying onto their porches? Why didn't they spiral off into the summer night, expiring with peace and poise in the soft shadows of the tulip trees?

If Dad wasn't home when a June Bug unexpectedly materialized, I was to follow his specific instructions: under no circ.u.mstances should I allow her into the house. "Smile and tell her to hold on to that fabulous human quality which, unfortunately, people no longer have the slightest sense of-pride. of-pride. No, there was never anything wrong with Mr. Darcy. You may also elucidate that the saying is true: it No, there was never anything wrong with Mr. Darcy. You may also elucidate that the saying is true: it will will all feel better in the morning. And if she still insists, which is likely-some of them have dispositions of pit bulls with bones-you'll have to let drop the word all feel better in the morning. And if she still insists, which is likely-some of them have dispositions of pit bulls with bones-you'll have to let drop the word police. police. That's all you need to say, That's all you need to say, poelease, poelease, and with any luck she'll fly from the house -if my prayers are answered, from our lives-like a chaste soul out of h.e.l.l." and with any luck she'll fly from the house -if my prayers are answered, from our lives-like a chaste soul out of h.e.l.l."

Now I was tiptoeing downstairs, more than a little nervous (it wasn't easy being Dad's Human Resource) and just as I reached the front door, she rang the bell. I looked through the peephole, but she'd turned to look over her shoulder at the yard. With a deep breath, I switched on the porch light and opened the door. "Howdy," she said. I froze. Standing in front of me was Eva Brewster, Evita Peron. "Nice to see you," she said. "Where is he?" I couldn't speak. She grimaced, burped "ha," and pushed both the door and me to the side as she walked inside. "Gareth, honey, I'm home!" "Gareth, honey, I'm home!" she shouted, her face upturned as if expecting Dad to materialize from the ceiling. she shouted, her face upturned as if expecting Dad to materialize from the ceiling.

I was so shocked, I could only stand and stare. "Kitty," I realized, had been a pet name, which she'd doubtlessly had at some point in her life and resurrected so they'd have a secret. I should have known-at the very least thought thought about it. They'd had them before. Sherry Piths had been Fuzz. Ca.s.sie Bermondsey had been both Lil' and Squirts. Zula Pierce had been Midnight Magic. Dad found it humorous when they had catchy names that tripped off the tongue, and his smile, when saying this name, she probably mistook for Love, or, if not Love, some seed of Caring, which would eventually grow into the ma.s.sive vine of Affection. It might be a nickname her father gave her when she was six or her Secret Hollywood Name (the name she about it. They'd had them before. Sherry Piths had been Fuzz. Ca.s.sie Bermondsey had been both Lil' and Squirts. Zula Pierce had been Midnight Magic. Dad found it humorous when they had catchy names that tripped off the tongue, and his smile, when saying this name, she probably mistook for Love, or, if not Love, some seed of Caring, which would eventually grow into the ma.s.sive vine of Affection. It might be a nickname her father gave her when she was six or her Secret Hollywood Name (the name she should should have been called, the one that would have been her pa.s.sport to the Paramount lot). have been called, the one that would have been her pa.s.sport to the Paramount lot).

"You going to speak? Where is he?" "At dinner," I said, swallowing, "with a-a colleague." "Uh-huh. Which one?" "Professor Arnie Sanderson." "Right. Sure." Sure." She made another sulky noise, crossed her arms so her jacket winced, She made another sulky noise, crossed her arms so her jacket winced, and continued down the hall to the library. Dimly, I followed. She sauntered over to Dad's legal pads neatly stacked on the wooden table by the bookshelves. She grabbed one, ruffling the pages.

"Ms. Brewster-?" "Eva." "Eva." I took few steps closer. She was approximately six inches taller than me and st.u.r.dy as a silo. "I-I'm sorry, but I don't know if you should be here. I have homework." She threw her head back and laughed (see "Shark Death Cry," Birds and Beasts, Birds and Beasts, Barde, 1973, p. 244). "Oh, come Barde, 1973, p. 244). "Oh, come on," on," she said looking at me, flinging the legal pad to the floor. "One of these days you're going to have to lighten up. Though with she said looking at me, flinging the legal pad to the floor. "One of these days you're going to have to lighten up. Though with him, him, yeah, I got you -it's a tall order. I'm sure I'm not the only one he keeps in a constant state of terror." She moved past me, out of the library, down the hall toward the kitchen, affecting the air of a real estate agent inspecting the wallpaper, rugs, doorjambs and ventilation in order to determine a price the market could bear. I understood now: she was drunk. But she was a concealed drunk. She'd vigorously zipped up most of the drunkenness so it was scarcely visible, only in her eyes, which weren't red, but swollen (and a little bit sluggish when they blinked), also in her walk, which was slow and forced, as if she had to organize every step or she'd topple like a FOR SALE sign. Every now and then, too, a word jammed in her mouth and began to slide back into her throat until she said something else and it coughed out. yeah, I got you -it's a tall order. I'm sure I'm not the only one he keeps in a constant state of terror." She moved past me, out of the library, down the hall toward the kitchen, affecting the air of a real estate agent inspecting the wallpaper, rugs, doorjambs and ventilation in order to determine a price the market could bear. I understood now: she was drunk. But she was a concealed drunk. She'd vigorously zipped up most of the drunkenness so it was scarcely visible, only in her eyes, which weren't red, but swollen (and a little bit sluggish when they blinked), also in her walk, which was slow and forced, as if she had to organize every step or she'd topple like a FOR SALE sign. Every now and then, too, a word jammed in her mouth and began to slide back into her throat until she said something else and it coughed out.

"Just taking a teensy-weensy look around," she muttered, trailing her chubby, manicured hand along the kitchen counter. She pressed PLAY on the answering machine ("You have no new messages.") and squinted at June Bug Dorthea Driser's ugly cross-st.i.tch quotations hanging in rows along the wall by the telephone ("Love Thy Neighbor," "To Thine Own Self Be True").

"You knew about me, didn't you?" she asked. I nodded. "Because he was weird that way. All the secrets and lies. Remove one from the ceiling and the whole thing collapses on top of you. Nearly kills you. He lies about everything-even 'Nice to see you,' and 'Take care.' care.' " She tilted her head, thinking. "Any idea how you get to be a man like that? What happened to him? Did his mother drop him on his head? Was he the nerd who wore an ugly brace on his leg and everyone beat him to a pulp at lunchtime-?" " She tilted her head, thinking. "Any idea how you get to be a man like that? What happened to him? Did his mother drop him on his head? Was he the nerd who wore an ugly brace on his leg and everyone beat him to a pulp at lunchtime-?"

She was opening the door leading down to Dad's study. "-If you could shed some light on that it'd be great, because I, for one, am pretty confounded - confounded - " "Ms. Brewster-?" "-keeps me awake at night-" She was clunking down the stairs. "I-I think my dad would prefer that you wait up here." She ignored me, walking the rest of the way down. I heard her fumble " "Ms. Brewster-?" "-keeps me awake at night-" She was clunking down the stairs. "I-I think my dad would prefer that you wait up here." She ignored me, walking the rest of the way down. I heard her fumble with the switch to the overhead lights, then yank the chain of Dad's green desk lamp. I hurried after her. When I entered the study she was, as I both expected and feared, inspecting the six b.u.t.terfly and moth cases. Her nose was almost touching the gla.s.s of the third case from the window and a small cloud had formed over the female Euchloron megaera, Euchloron megaera, the Verdant Sphinx Moth. It wasn't her fault she was drawn to them; they were the most riveting things in the room. Not that Lepidoptera displayed in Ricker cases was a unusual thing ("Let's Make a Deal" Lupine told Dad and me they were a dime a dozen at estate sales, and could be purchased on the street in New York City for "forty big ones") but many of these specimens were exotics, rarely seen outside of a textbook. Apart from the three Ca.s.sius Blues (which looked quite dreary in comparison to the Paris Peac.o.c.k just next to them-three wan orphans standing beside Rita Hayworth), my mother had purchased the others from b.u.t.terfly farms in South America, Africa and Asia (all of them supposedly humane, allowing the insects a full life and natural death before collection; "You should have heard her on the phone drilling them about the living conditions," Dad said. "You'd have thought we were adopting a child."). The Cairns Birdwing the Verdant Sphinx Moth. It wasn't her fault she was drawn to them; they were the most riveting things in the room. Not that Lepidoptera displayed in Ricker cases was a unusual thing ("Let's Make a Deal" Lupine told Dad and me they were a dime a dozen at estate sales, and could be purchased on the street in New York City for "forty big ones") but many of these specimens were exotics, rarely seen outside of a textbook. Apart from the three Ca.s.sius Blues (which looked quite dreary in comparison to the Paris Peac.o.c.k just next to them-three wan orphans standing beside Rita Hayworth), my mother had purchased the others from b.u.t.terfly farms in South America, Africa and Asia (all of them supposedly humane, allowing the insects a full life and natural death before collection; "You should have heard her on the phone drilling them about the living conditions," Dad said. "You'd have thought we were adopting a child."). The Cairns Birdwing (4.8 in.), the Madagascan Sunset Moth (3.4 in.) were so luminescent, they looked as if they weren't real, but crafted by Nicholas and Alexandra's legendary toymaker, Sacha Lurin Kuznetsov. With the most dazzling materials at his fingertips-velvet, silks, furs-he could craft chinchilla teddy bears, 24-carat dollhouses in his sleep (see Imperial Indulgence, Imperial Indulgence, Lipnokov, 1965). Lipnokov, 1965).

"What is this stuff?" asked Eva, moving to examine the fourth box, jutting out her chin.

"Just some bugs." I was standing right right behind her. Gray lint b.a.l.l.s pimpled the sides of her white wool jacket. A strand of her sulphur orange hair swerved into a ? on her left shoulder. If we'd been in a film noir it would've been the moment I jammed a pistol into her back through the pocket of my trench coat and said, through teeth: "Make a funny move and I'll blow you from here to next Tuesday." behind her. Gray lint b.a.l.l.s pimpled the sides of her white wool jacket. A strand of her sulphur orange hair swerved into a ? on her left shoulder. If we'd been in a film noir it would've been the moment I jammed a pistol into her back through the pocket of my trench coat and said, through teeth: "Make a funny move and I'll blow you from here to next Tuesday."

"I don't like this kinda thing," she said. "Gives me the creeps."

"How'd you meet my dad?" I asked as cheerfully as I could.

She turned around, narrowing her eyes. They really were were an incredible color: the softest blue-violet in all the world, so pure, it actually seemed cruel to make it witness this scene. an incredible color: the softest blue-violet in all the world, so pure, it actually seemed cruel to make it witness this scene.

"He didn't tell you?" she asked suspiciously.

I nodded. "I think he did. I just can't remember."

She stepped away from the cases and bent over Dad's desk to scrutinize his desk calendar (stuck in May 1998) covered with his illegible scrawl. "I'm the type of person who stays professional," she said. "A lot of the other teachers don't. Some father comes by, tells them he likes their teaching style and suddenly they're in the throes of some cheap romance. And I tell them over and over, you're meeting at lunch hours, you're driving by his house in the middle of the night-you really think it's going to turn into something cute? Then your dad comes along. He wasn't fooling anyone. The average woman, sure. But me? I knew knew he was a fraud. That's the funny thing, I he was a fraud. That's the funny thing, I knew, knew, but I didn't know, you know what I mean? Because he also had such a but I didn't know, you know what I mean? Because he also had such a heart. heart. I've never been one of those romantic types. But suddenly I thought I could save him. Only you can't save a fraud." I've never been one of those romantic types. But suddenly I thought I could save him. Only you can't save a fraud."

With her long fingernails (painted the pink of kitten noses) she was riffling through Dad's mug of pens. She picked one out-his favorite actually, an 18-carat gold Mont Blanc, a good-bye gift from Amy Pinto, one present from a June Bug he'd actually liked. Eva turned it in her fingers, sniffing it like a cigar. She put it in her purse.

"You can't take that," I said, horrified.

"If you don't win Hollywood Squares, Hollywood Squares, you still get a consolation prize." you still get a consolation prize."

I couldn't breathe. "Maybe you'd be more comfortable in the living room," I suggested. "He'll be home" -I looked at my watch and to my panic it was only nine-thirty-"in a few minutes. I can make you some tea. I think we have some Whitman's chocolates-"

"Tea, huh? How civilized. Tea. Tea. That's something That's something he he would say." She threw me a look. "You should watch that, you know. Because sooner or later we all turn into our parents. would say." She threw me a look. "You should watch that, you know. Because sooner or later we all turn into our parents. Poof." Poof."

She slumped down into Dad's office chair, pulled open a drawer and started to page through the legal pads.

"Won't know what hit .. . 'Interrelationships Between Domestic and International Politics from Greek Site-Cit-City States to the Present-Day.' " She frowned. "You get any of this c.r.a.p? I had a good time with the guy, but mostly I thought what he said was a load of dung. 'Quant.i.tative methods.' 'The role of external powers in peacekeeping processes - ' "

"Ms. Brewster?"

"Yeah."

"What are your . . . plans?"