"Making it up as I go along. Where'd you move from, anyway? He was always fuzzy about it. Fuzzy about a lot of things -"

"I don't mean to be rude, but I think I might have to call the police."

She threw the legal pads back in the drawer, hard, and looked at me. If her eyes had been buses I'd have been run over. If they'd been guns I'd have been shot dead. I found myself wondering-ridiculously-if she perhaps had a gun on her and perhaps she wasn't afraid to use it. "You really think that's a good idea?" she asked.

"No' I admitted.

She cleared her throat. "Poor Mirtha Grazeley, you know, crazy as a dog struck by lightning, but pretty organized when it comes to that Admissions Office. Poor Mirtha came back to school on Monday. Last term. Found her place, not as she'd left it but with a couple of moved chairs and messy seat cushions, a liter of eggnog gone. It also looked like someone had lost her cookies in the bathroom. Not pretty. I know it wasn't a professional job because the vandal left her shoes behind. Black. Size 9. Dolce & Gabbana. Not a lot of kids can afford the hoity-toity stuff. So I narrow it down to the big donors' kids, Atlanta types who let their kids run around in the Mercedes. I cross-reference that with the kids who went to the dance and come up with a list of suspects that, surprisingly, ain't all that long. But I have a conscience, you know. I'm not one of those people who get a kick out of wrecking some kid's future. It'd be sad. From what I hear the Whitestone girl has enough problems. Might not graduate."

I couldn't speak for a moment. The hum of the house was audible. As a child, some of our house hums were so loud, I used to think an invisible glee club had gathered in the walls, wearing burgundy choir robes, mouths open in earnest Os, chanting all night and all day.

"Why were you calling out my name?" I managed to ask. "At the dance - "

She looked surprised. "You heard me?"

I nodded.

"I thought thought I saw you two running toward Loomis." She made an odd "rumph" sound and shrugged. "Just wanted to chew the fat. Talk about your dad. Kinda like we're doing now. Not that there's much to say anymore. Jig is up. I I saw you two running toward Loomis." She made an odd "rumph" sound and shrugged. "Just wanted to chew the fat. Talk about your dad. Kinda like we're doing now. Not that there's much to say anymore. Jig is up. I know know who he is. Thinks he's G.o.d, but really, he's just a small. . ." who he is. Thinks he's G.o.d, but really, he's just a small. . ."

I thought she was going to stop there, at the searing declaration, "He's just a small," but then she ended it, her voice soft.

"A small little man."

She was silent, crossing her arms, tipping back in Dad's office chair. Even though Dad himself had warned me, one should never take notice of the words that barged out of an irate person's mouth, I still hated hated what she said. I noticed too, it was the crudest thing to say about a person-that they were small. I was only consoled by the fact that, in truth, what she said. I noticed too, it was the crudest thing to say about a person-that they were small. I was only consoled by the fact that, in truth, all all humans were small when one considered them in the Grand Scheme of Things, put them side by side with Time, the Universe. Even Shakespeare was small and Van Gogh-Leonard Bernstein too. humans were small when one considered them in the Grand Scheme of Things, put them side by side with Time, the Universe. Even Shakespeare was small and Van Gogh-Leonard Bernstein too.

"Who is she?" Eva demanded suddenly. She should have been triumphant, having made all those ground-breaking a.s.sertions about Dad, but there was a discernible sprain in her voice.

I waited for her to continue, but she didn't. "I'm not sure what you mean."

"You don't have to tell me who she is, but I'd appreciate it."

She was obviously referring to Dad's new girlfriend, but he didn't have one-at least, not to my knowledge. "I don't think he's seeing anyone, but I could ask him for you." "Fine" "Fine" she said, nodding. "I believe you. He's good. I'd never know, never even she said, nodding. "I believe you. He's good. I'd never know, never even suspect suspect if I hadn't been friends since second grade with Alice Steady who owns the Green Orchid on Orlando. 'What's the name of the guy you're dating again?' 'Gareth.' 'Uh-huh,' she says. Guess he came in, blue Volvo, used a credit card to buy a hundred bucks' worth of flowers. Said no to Alice's offer of free delivery. And that was sneaky, see-no delivery address, no evidence, right? And I know the flowers weren't for himself because Alice said he asked for one of the little message cards. And from the look on if I hadn't been friends since second grade with Alice Steady who owns the Green Orchid on Orlando. 'What's the name of the guy you're dating again?' 'Gareth.' 'Uh-huh,' she says. Guess he came in, blue Volvo, used a credit card to buy a hundred bucks' worth of flowers. Said no to Alice's offer of free delivery. And that was sneaky, see-no delivery address, no evidence, right? And I know the flowers weren't for himself because Alice said he asked for one of the little message cards. And from the look on your your face, they weren't for face, they weren't for you you either. Alice's one of those romantic types, says no man buys a hundred bucks' worth of barbaresco orientals for someone he isn't madly in love with. Roses, sure. Every cheap piece of a.s.s gets roses. But not barbaresco orientals. I'll be the first to admit I was upset-I'm not one of those people who pretends they never cared in the first place, but then he started not returning my calls, sweeping me under the rug like I'm crumbs or something. Not that I either. Alice's one of those romantic types, says no man buys a hundred bucks' worth of barbaresco orientals for someone he isn't madly in love with. Roses, sure. Every cheap piece of a.s.s gets roses. But not barbaresco orientals. I'll be the first to admit I was upset-I'm not one of those people who pretends they never cared in the first place, but then he started not returning my calls, sweeping me under the rug like I'm crumbs or something. Not that I care. care. I'm seeing someone else now. An optometrist. Divorced. His first wife I guess was a real clinker. Gareth can do whatever he wants with himself." I'm seeing someone else now. An optometrist. Divorced. His first wife I guess was a real clinker. Gareth can do whatever he wants with himself."

She fell silent, not out of exhaustion or reflection, but because her eyes had again snagged on the b.u.t.terflies in front of her.

"He really loves those things," she said.

I followed her gaze to the wall. "Not really."

"No?"

"He barely looks at them."

I actually saw the thought, the light bulb illuminating her head as if she were a comic book character.

She moved quickly, but so did I. I stood in front of them and hastily said something about receiving the flowers myself ("Dad talks about you all the time!" I cried rather pathetically) but she didn't hear me.

A garish flush bleeding into the back of her neck, she yanked open Dad's desk drawers and hurled every one of his legal pads (he organized them by university and date) into the air. They flew around the room like giant scared canaries.

I guess she found what she was looking for-a steel ruler, which Dad used for orderly cross-comparison diagrams in his lecture notes-and to my shock, she brutally shoved me aside and tried to stab it through the gla.s.s of one of the Ricker's cases. The ruler, silver aluminum, would have no part of it however, so with an infuriated "f.u.c.kin' A," she threw it to the floor and tried punching one of the boxes with her bare fist, and then with her elbow, and when that didn't work, she scratched the gla.s.s with her nails as if she were some lunatic sc.r.a.ping the silver skin off a lottery ticket.

Still thwarted, she turned, her eyes swerving around Dad's desk until they stopped on the green lamp (a parting gift from the agreeable Dean at the University of Arkansas at Wilsonville). She seized it, jerking the cord out of the wall, and raised it over her head. She used the base, solid bra.s.s, to shatter the gla.s.s of the first case.

At this point, I ran at her again, lurching at her shoulders, also shouting, "Please!" but I was too weak and, I suppose, too stunned by it all to be effective. She pushed me again, elbowing me right in the jaw so my neck twisted to the side and I fell down.

Gla.s.s rained everywhere, all over Dad's desk, the rug, my feet and hands, all over her, too. Tiny shards glittered in her hair and stuck to her thick white tights, trembling like beads of water. She couldn't remove the cases from the wall (Dad used special screws to hang them) but she ripped through the pieces of mounting paper and tore the brown cardboard backing from the frames, ripping every b.u.t.terfly and moth from their pins, squashing their wings so they became colored confetti, which, with eyes wide, her face creased like a wad of paper smoothed out, she tossed around the room, making something of a sacrament out of it like a priest gone mad with holy water.

At one point, with a m.u.f.fled growl, she actually bit into one, and resembled for a horrifying and faintly surreal moment, a ma.s.sive orange tabby eating a blackbird. (In the most peculiar of instances, one is struck by the most peculiar of thoughts, and in this case, as Eva bit into the wing of the Night b.u.t.terfly, Taygetisecho, Taygetisecho, I remembered the occasion when Dad and I were driving from Louisiana to Arkansas, when it was ninety degrees and the air-conditioning was broken, and we were memorizing a Wallace Stevens poem, one of Dad's favorites, "Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird." " 'Among twenty snowy mountains / The only thing moving / was the eye of the blackbird/ " Dad explained to the highway.) I remembered the occasion when Dad and I were driving from Louisiana to Arkansas, when it was ninety degrees and the air-conditioning was broken, and we were memorizing a Wallace Stevens poem, one of Dad's favorites, "Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird." " 'Among twenty snowy mountains / The only thing moving / was the eye of the blackbird/ " Dad explained to the highway.) When she stopped, when she finally stood still, astonished herself by what she'd just done, there was the utterest of all utter silences, reserved, I imagined, for the aftermath of ma.s.sacres and storms. You could probably hear the rustle of the moon if you concentrated, the earth too, its whoosh whoosh as it whirled around the sun at 18.5 miles per second. Eva then began to shiver an apology in a trembling voice that sounded as if it were being tickled. She cried a little too, a disquieting, low-pitched seeping sound. as it whirled around the sun at 18.5 miles per second. Eva then began to shiver an apology in a trembling voice that sounded as if it were being tickled. She cried a little too, a disquieting, low-pitched seeping sound.

I can't be sure of her crying, actually; I, too, had been hauled into a state of disorientation under which I could only repeat to myself, this did not actually happen this did not actually happen as I gazed at the surrounding debris, in particular, at the top of my right foot, my yellow sock, on which rested a brown and furry torso of some moth, the Bent-Wing Ghost Moth perhaps, slightly crooked, as if it were a bit of pipe cleaner. as I gazed at the surrounding debris, in particular, at the top of my right foot, my yellow sock, on which rested a brown and furry torso of some moth, the Bent-Wing Ghost Moth perhaps, slightly crooked, as if it were a bit of pipe cleaner.

Eva then put the lamp down on Dad's desk, tenderly, the way one handles a baby, and, avoiding my eyes, walked past me, up the stairs. After a moment, I heard the front door slam and the sputter of her car as she drove away.

With a samurai-like precision and clarity of mind that promptly settles over one following the weirder episodes of one's life, I resolved to clean everything up before Dad returned home.

I obtained a screwdriver from the garage and, one by one, removed the destroyed boxes from the wall. I swept up the gla.s.s and the wings, vacuumed under Dad's desk, along the edges of the floor, the bookshelves and stairs. I returned the legal pads to their respective drawers, organizing them by university and date, and then carried to my room their cardboard moving box (b.u.t.tERFLIES FRAGILE) in which I'd put all that was salvageable. It wasn't much-only torn white paper, a handful of brown wings still in one piece and the single Small Postman, Heliconius erato, Heliconius erato, which had emerged from the slaughter miraculously unscathed after hiding behind Dad's filing cabinet. I tried to read more of which had emerged from the slaughter miraculously unscathed after hiding behind Dad's filing cabinet. I tried to read more of Henry Henry V as I waited for Dad to return home, but the words snagged my eyes. I found myself staring at a single point on the page. V as I waited for Dad to return home, but the words snagged my eyes. I found myself staring at a single point on the page.

Despite the throb in my right cheek, I had no illusions Dad was anything other than the pitiless villain in this evening's freaky drama. Sure, I hated her, but I hated him, too. Dad had finally gotten what was coming to him, except he'd been otherwise engaged, so I, his guiltless direct descendant, had gotten what was coming to him. I knew it was melodramatic, but I found myself wishing Kitty had killed killed me (at the very least, knocked me provisionally unconscious) so when Dad returned home, he'd see me lying on his study floor, my body saggy and gray as a hundred-year-old sofa, my neck twisted at the disturbing angle indicating Life caught a bus out of town. After Dad fell to his knees, uttered King Learean cries ("No! Noooo! Don't take her G.o.d! I'll do anything!") my eyes would open, I'd gasp, then deliver my mesmerizing speech, touching upon Humanity, Compa.s.sion, the fine line between Kindness and Pity, the necessity of Love (a theme rescued from the trite and the maudlin by st.u.r.dy support from the Russians: ["Everything that I understand, I understand only because I love."] and a little Irving Berlin to keep things snappy ["They say that falling in love is wonderful, it's wonderful, so they say."]). I'd end with the p.r.o.nouncement that the Jack Nicholson, Dad's customary modus operandi, would henceforth be replaced by the Paul New-man, and Dad would nod with his eyes lowered, his face pained. His hair would turn gray, too, a uniform steel-gray, like Hecuba's, the emblem of Purest Sorrow. me (at the very least, knocked me provisionally unconscious) so when Dad returned home, he'd see me lying on his study floor, my body saggy and gray as a hundred-year-old sofa, my neck twisted at the disturbing angle indicating Life caught a bus out of town. After Dad fell to his knees, uttered King Learean cries ("No! Noooo! Don't take her G.o.d! I'll do anything!") my eyes would open, I'd gasp, then deliver my mesmerizing speech, touching upon Humanity, Compa.s.sion, the fine line between Kindness and Pity, the necessity of Love (a theme rescued from the trite and the maudlin by st.u.r.dy support from the Russians: ["Everything that I understand, I understand only because I love."] and a little Irving Berlin to keep things snappy ["They say that falling in love is wonderful, it's wonderful, so they say."]). I'd end with the p.r.o.nouncement that the Jack Nicholson, Dad's customary modus operandi, would henceforth be replaced by the Paul New-man, and Dad would nod with his eyes lowered, his face pained. His hair would turn gray, too, a uniform steel-gray, like Hecuba's, the emblem of Purest Sorrow.

What about the others? Had he hurt the others as much as he'd hurt Eva Brewster? What about Shelby Hollows with her bleached moustache? Or Janice Elmeros with cactus-p.r.i.c.kly legs under her sundresses? And the others, like Rachel Groom and Isabelle Franks who never came to see Dad without bearing gifts like contemporary Wise Men (Dad, mistaken for a Christ Child), cornbread, m.u.f.fins and straw dolls with wincing faces (as if they'd all just eaten a Sour Patch Kid), their gold, frankincense and myrrh? How many hours had Natalie Simms slaved constructing the birdhouse out of popsicle sticks?

The blue Volvo cruised down the driveway at a quarter to twelve. I heard him unlock the front door.

"Sweet, come down at once! You'll laugh your eyes out!"

(Laughing one's eyes out was a particularly irritating Dadism, as was crying until the bulls come home and being the pear of one's eye.) "Turns out little Arnie Sanderson couldn't hold his liquor! He fell down, I swear to you, fell down down in the restaurant on his way to the men's room. I had to drive the thug home, to his Calcutta-inspired university housing. A terrifying place-tatty carpeting, a stench of curdled milk, graduate fellows wandering the halls with feet that appeared to support more exotic life forms than the Galapagos Islands. I had to carry him up the stairs. Three in the restaurant on his way to the men's room. I had to drive the thug home, to his Calcutta-inspired university housing. A terrifying place-tatty carpeting, a stench of curdled milk, graduate fellows wandering the halls with feet that appeared to support more exotic life forms than the Galapagos Islands. I had to carry him up the stairs. Three flights! flights! Do you remember Do you remember Teacher's Pet, Teacher's Pet, that rather delightful film starring Gable and Doris we watched-where was it? Missouri? Well, I lived it this evening, only without the perky blonde. I believe I deserve a drink." that rather delightful film starring Gable and Doris we watched-where was it? Missouri? Well, I lived it this evening, only without the perky blonde. I believe I deserve a drink."

He was silent.

"Have you gone to bed?"

Dad dashed up the stairs, knocked lightly, pushed open the door. He was still wearing his coat. I was sitting on the edge of my bed, staring at the wall with my arms crossed.

"What's happened?" he asked.

When I told him (doing my best to keep my manner like that of the Loosened Steel Girder, dangerous and unforgiving) Dad turned into one of those things twirling outside of vintage barber shops: he went red when he saw the red splotch on my face, white when I escorted him downstairs and expertly re-enacted the scene (including snippets of actual dialogue, the exact position in which I was ruthlessly chucked to the ground and Eva's revelation that Dad was "a small"), "a small"), and upstairs again, when I showed him the box full of b.u.t.terfly and moth remains, red again. and upstairs again, when I showed him the box full of b.u.t.terfly and moth remains, red again.

"If I'd known such a thing was possible," Dad said, "that she could became a Scylla-worse than a Charybdis in my book-I'd have than a Charybdis in my book-I'd have murdered murdered that nut." He pressed the washcloth full of ice to my cheek. "I must think what measures to take." that nut." He pressed the washcloth full of ice to my cheek. "I must think what measures to take."

"How'd you meet her?" I asked gloomily, without looking at him.

"Of course, I've heard stories of this nature from colleagues, seen the movies, Fatal Attraction Fatal Attraction being the gold stand-" being the gold stand-"

"How, Dad?" I screamed. I screamed.

He was taken aback by my voice, but rather than getting angry, he only lifted the ice, and frowning in grave concern (his impression of the nurse in For Whom the Bell Tolls), For Whom the Bell Tolls), touched my cheek with the back of his fingers. touched my cheek with the back of his fingers.

"How did I-let's see if, what was it-late September," he said, clearing his throat. "I made that second trip to your school to discuss your cla.s.s ranking. Remember? I found myself lost. That officer in charge, that off-the-wall Ronin-Smith-she told me to meet her in a different room because her office was being repainted. But she gave me the wrong location, and thus I made an imbecile of myself knocking on Hanover 316 and encountered an unpleasantly bearded History professor attempting to clarify-rather unsuccessfully, I gathered from the benumbed expressions of his cla.s.s-the Hows and Whys of the Industrial Age. I stopped by the main office to inquire after the correct location and encountered the manic Miss Brewster."

"And it was love at first sight." Dad gazed at the box of remains on the floor. "To think all this might have been avoided if that goat had simply told me Barrow Barrow 316." "It isn't funny." He shook his head. "It was wrong not to tell you. I apologize. But I was uncomfortable with it, my" -he held his breath in discomfort- 316." "It isn't funny." He shook his head. "It was wrong not to tell you. I apologize. But I was uncomfortable with it, my" -he held his breath in discomfort-"connection with someone from your school. I certainly didn't mean for it to escalate as it did. In the beginning, it all seemed rather harmless." with someone from your school. I certainly didn't mean for it to escalate as it did. In the beginning, it all seemed rather harmless."

"That's what the Germans said when they lost World War II." "I take full responsibility. I was an a.s.s." "A liar. A cheat. She cheat. She called you a liar. And she was right-" "Yes." "-you lie about anything and everything. Even, 'Nice to see you.' " He didn't respond to this, only sighed. I crossed my arms, still glowering at the wall, but I didn't move my head called you a liar. And she was right-" "Yes." "-you lie about anything and everything. Even, 'Nice to see you.' " He didn't respond to this, only sighed. I crossed my arms, still glowering at the wall, but I didn't move my head away when he pressed the cold washcloth to my cheek again. "As I see it," he said, "I'll have to call the police. That, or the more appealing option. Going to her house with an illegally obtained firearm." "You can't call the police. You can't do anything." He looked at me. "But I thought you'd want that beast behind bars." "She's just a normal woman, Dad. And you didn't treat her with respect.

Why didn't you return her phone calls?" "I suppose I didn't feel much like talking." "Not returning phone calls is the severest form of torture in the civilized world. Haven't you read Hit and Run: Crisis in Singlehood America?" Hit and Run: Crisis in Singlehood America?" "I don't believe I have- " "The least you can do now is leave her alone." He was about to add something, but stopped himself. "Who'd you send the flowers to anyway?" I asked. "Hmm?" "Those flowers she was talking about-" "Janet Finnsbroke. One of the administrators in the department who dates back to the Paleozoic Period. Her fiftieth wedding anniversary. I thought it'd be nice - " Dad caught my eye "- no, I most certainly am "I don't believe I have- " "The least you can do now is leave her alone." He was about to add something, but stopped himself. "Who'd you send the flowers to anyway?" I asked. "Hmm?" "Those flowers she was talking about-" "Janet Finnsbroke. One of the administrators in the department who dates back to the Paleozoic Period. Her fiftieth wedding anniversary. I thought it'd be nice - " Dad caught my eye "- no, I most certainly am not not in love with her. For Pete's sake." in love with her. For Pete's sake."

I pretended not to notice, but Dad looked sort of deflated there on the edge of my bed. A lost, even humbled look was wandering around his face (quite surprised to be there). Seeing him like this, so un-Dad, made me feel sorry for him-though I didn't let on. His befuddled expression reminded me of those unflattering photographs of presidents The New York Times The New York Times and other newspapers adored sticking on their front page in order to show the world how the Great Leader looked between the staged waves, the scripted sound-bites, the rehea.r.s.ed handshakes-not staunch and stately, not even steady, but frail and foolish. And though these candid photographs were amusing, when you actually and other newspapers adored sticking on their front page in order to show the world how the Great Leader looked between the staged waves, the scripted sound-bites, the rehea.r.s.ed handshakes-not staunch and stately, not even steady, but frail and foolish. And though these candid photographs were amusing, when you actually thought thought about it, the underlying implication of such a photograph was scary, for they hinted how delicate the balance of our lives, how tenuous our calm little existences, if this was the man in charge. about it, the underlying implication of such a photograph was scary, for they hinted how delicate the balance of our lives, how tenuous our calm little existences, if this was the man in charge.

21.

Deliverance.

And so, I come to the perilous part of my story.

If this narrative were a quotidian account of the history of Russia, this chapter would be a proletarian's account of the Great October Soviet Socialist Revolution of 1917, if a history of France, the beheading of Marie Antoinette, if a chronicle of America, the a.s.sa.s.sination of Abraham Lincoln by John Wilkes Booth.

"All worthwhile tales possess some element of violence," Dad said. "If you don't believe me, simply reflect for a moment on the utter horror of having something threatening lurking outside your front door, hearing it huff and puff and then, cruelly, callously, blowing your house down. blowing your house down. It's as horrifying as any story on CNN. And yet where would the Three Little Pigs' be without such brutality? No one would have heard of them, for happiness and placidity are not worth recounting by the fire, nor, for that matter, reporting by a news anchor wearing pancake makeup and more shimmer on her eyelids than a peac.o.c.k feather." It's as horrifying as any story on CNN. And yet where would the Three Little Pigs' be without such brutality? No one would have heard of them, for happiness and placidity are not worth recounting by the fire, nor, for that matter, reporting by a news anchor wearing pancake makeup and more shimmer on her eyelids than a peac.o.c.k feather."

Not that I am trying to imply my story can hold a candle to complex world histories (each one worth over one thousand pages of fine print) or three-hundred-year-old fables. Yet one can't help but notice that violence, although officially abhorred in modern Western and Eastern cultures (only officially, for no culture, modern or otherwise, hesitates using it for the pursuit of their own interests) is unavoidable if there is to be change.

Without the disturbing incident of this chapter, I'd never have taken on the task of writing this story. I'd have nothing to write. Life in Stockton would have continued exactly as it was, as placid and primly self-contained as Switzerland, and any strange incidents-Cottonwood, Smoke Harvey's death, that strange conversation with Hannah prior to Christmas Break-might be regarded as unusual, certainly, but in the end, nothing that couldn't be dully reviewed and accounted for by Hindsight, forever unsurprised and shortsighted.

I cannot help but antic.i.p.ate a little, run on ahead (much in the manner of Violet Martinez in the Great Smoky Mountains), and so, given this lapse in patience, I will only hopscotch through the two months between Eva's destruction of my mother's b.u.t.terflies and moths and the camping trip, which Hannah, in spite of our patent lack of enthusiasm ("Won't do it, couldn't pay me," pledged Jade), maintained was scheduled for the weekend of March 26, the beginning of Spring Break.

"Make sure you bring hiking shoes," she said.

St. Gallway doggedly marched on (see Chapter 9, "The Battle of Stalingrad," The Great Patriotic War, The Great Patriotic War, Stepnovich, 1989). With the exception of Hannah, most teachers had returned from Christmas vacation cheerfully unchanged, apart from small, pleasant enhancements to their appearance: a new red Navajo sweater (Mr. Archer), shiny new shoes (Mr. Moats), a new boysenberry rinse that turned hair into something that had to be consciously matched, like paisley (Ms. Gershon). These distracting details caused one to daydream in cla.s.s about Stepnovich, 1989). With the exception of Hannah, most teachers had returned from Christmas vacation cheerfully unchanged, apart from small, pleasant enhancements to their appearance: a new red Navajo sweater (Mr. Archer), shiny new shoes (Mr. Moats), a new boysenberry rinse that turned hair into something that had to be consciously matched, like paisley (Ms. Gershon). These distracting details caused one to daydream in cla.s.s about who who had given Mr. Archer that sweater, or how Mr. Moats must be insecure about his height because all of his shoes possessed soles thick as sticks of b.u.t.ter, or the exact look on Ms. Gershon's face when her hairdresser removed the towel from her head and said, "Don't worry. The plum tones just look extreme now because it's wet." had given Mr. Archer that sweater, or how Mr. Moats must be insecure about his height because all of his shoes possessed soles thick as sticks of b.u.t.ter, or the exact look on Ms. Gershon's face when her hairdresser removed the towel from her head and said, "Don't worry. The plum tones just look extreme now because it's wet."

St. Gallway students were also the same, rodent-like in their ability to carry on foraging, storing, burrowing and eating a huge amount of plant food in spite of humiliating national scandals and harrowing world events. ("This is a critical time in our nation's history," Ms. St.u.r.ds was always informing us during Morning Announcements. "Let's make sure we look back in twenty years and feel proud. Read the newspaper. Take sides. Have an opinion.") Student Council President Maxwell Stuart unveiled elaborate plans for a Spring Term Barbecue Hoedown, replete with square dancing, bluegra.s.s band and Faculty Scarecrow Contest; Mr. Carlos Sandborn of AP World History stopped using gel in his hair (it no longer looked wet, as if it'd been swimming laps, but windblown, as if it'd been doing figure-eights in a propeller plane) and Mr. Frank Fletcher, crossword maharishi and monitor of second period Study Hall, was in the throes of a divorce; his wife, Evelyn, had apparently made him move out (though whether the deep circles under his eyes were due to the divorce or crosswords, no one knew), citing Irreconcilable Differences.

"I guess when they were doing the nasty on Christmas Eve, Mr. Fletcher shouted out, 'Oh, Eleven Down!' not 'Evelyn, Down!' That was the last straw," said Dee.

I saw Zach all the time in Physics, but apart from a handful of h.e.l.los, we didn't speak. He never materialized at my locker anymore. Once, during the Dynamics Lab we found ourselves at the back of the room together and just as I looked up from my notebook to smile at him, he b.u.mped into the corner of one of the lab tables and spontaneously dropped what he was carrying, a ring stand and a set of known ma.s.ses. But even as he picked up the equipment, he didn't say anything, only returned swiftly to the front of the room (and his lab partner, Krista Jibsen) with an official spokesperson look on his face. I couldn't tell what he was thinking.

Clumsy, too, were the occasions I pa.s.sed Eva Brewster in the hallway. We both pretended to be suffering from the effects of Walking and Thinking an Elaborate Thought at the Same Time (Einstein suffered from it, Darwin, de Sade too), and hence the person suffered from an obliviousness toward his/her immediate surroundings that approached that of a temporary blackout or complete loss of consciousness (this, though as we slipped past each other, our eyes fell like curtains when a hooker strolls through a prairie town searching for accommodation). I felt as if I was now privy to a dark, grisly secret about Eva (in certain rare instances, she transformed into a werewolf) and she begrudged me for knowing it. At the same time, as she marched down the hall with an absorbed expression, a hint of lemony perfume, as if she'd spritzed herself with a cleaner for kitchen countertops, I swore I detected in the hunch of her beige sweater, in the angle of her meaty neck, that she was sorry and she'd take it all back if she could. Even if she didn't have the guts to say it to me outright (so few people had the guts to really say things), it made me feel less anxious, as if I understood her a little.

Ms. Brewster's rampage did did have some constructive effects, as all disasters and tragedies do (see have some constructive effects, as all disasters and tragedies do (see The Dresden Upshot, The Dresden Upshot, Trask, 2002). Dad, still guilty about Kitty, had adopted a permanently contrite manner, which I found refreshing. The day we returned from Paris, I'd learned I'd been admitted to Harvard, and we finally celebrated this milestone on a bl.u.s.tery Friday evening in early March. Dad donned his Brooks Brothers, French-cuffed dress shirt, his gold GUM cufflinks; I, a gum-green dress from Au Printemps. Dad chose the four-star restaurant purely on the basis of its name: Quixote. Trask, 2002). Dad, still guilty about Kitty, had adopted a permanently contrite manner, which I found refreshing. The day we returned from Paris, I'd learned I'd been admitted to Harvard, and we finally celebrated this milestone on a bl.u.s.tery Friday evening in early March. Dad donned his Brooks Brothers, French-cuffed dress shirt, his gold GUM cufflinks; I, a gum-green dress from Au Printemps. Dad chose the four-star restaurant purely on the basis of its name: Quixote.

The dinner was unforgettable for many reasons, one of them being that Dad, in an uncharacteristic display of self-command, paid no attention at all to our gorgeous waitress with the voluptuous body of a swan-necked flask and an astoundingly cleft chin. Her coffee-colored eyes trespa.s.sed all over Dad when she took our order and again when she asked Dad if he wanted fresh pepper ("Had enough ("Had enough [pepper]?" she inquired breathily). Yet Dad willfully remained indifferent to this intrusion, and so, somewhat dejectedly, her eyes went back the way they came ("Dessert menu," she announced grimly by the end of the meal). [pepper]?" she inquired breathily). Yet Dad willfully remained indifferent to this intrusion, and so, somewhat dejectedly, her eyes went back the way they came ("Dessert menu," she announced grimly by the end of the meal).

"To my daughter," Dad said grandly, clinking his winegla.s.s on the rim of my c.o.ke. A middle-aged woman at the table next to us with heavy hardware jewelry and a thickset husband (whom she seemed anxious to unload like armfuls of shopping bags) beamed at us for the thirtieth time (Dad, a stirring example of Paternity: handsome, devoted, wearing tweed). "May your studies continue to the end of your days," he said. "May you walk a lighted path. May you fight for truth-your truth, not someone else's-and may you understand, above all things, that you are the most important concept, theory and philosophy I have ever known."

The woman was practically blown off her seat by Dad's eloquence. I thought he was paraphrasing an Irish drinking toast, but later I did check Killing's Beyond Words Beyond Words (1999) and couldn't find it. It was Dad. (1999) and couldn't find it. It was Dad.

On Friday, March 26, with the same innocence of the Trojans as they gathered around the strange wooden horse standing at the gate to their city in order to marvel at its craftsmanship, Hannah drove our yellow Rent-Me truck into the dirt lot of Sunset Views Encampment and parked in s.p.a.ce 52. The lot was empty, with the exception of a swayback blue Pontiac parked in front of the cabin (a wooden sign slapped crookedly over the door like a Band-Aid: MAIN) and a rusty towable trailer ("Lonesome Dreams") chucked under an evangelist oak tree. (It was in the midst of some violent enlightenment, branches stretched heavenward as if to grab hold of His feet.) A white sky ironed, starched, folded itself primly behind the rolling mountains. Garbage floated across the lot, cryptic messages in bottles: Santa Fe Ranch Lay's potato chips, Thomas' English m.u.f.fins, a frayed purple ribbon. Sometime in the last week or so, it had sleeted cigarette b.u.t.ts.

None of us knew how we'd gotten there. We'd been unenthused with the idea of a camping trip from the beginning (including Leulah, who was always the first to go along with something) and now, here we were, in old jeans and uncomfortable hiking shoes, our distended camping backpacks rented from Into the Blue Mountaineering slumped against the van's backseat windows like fat men who'd dozed off. An empty, nervous canteen, a tired bandana, Special K and ramen noodles rattling, the sudden evaporation of an entire can of contact solution, fitful whines of "Wait, who took my wind-resistant parka?" -it was a testament to Hannah's influence, her startling yet subtle way of getting you to do something when you'd sworn to everyone, including yourself, you never would.

For reasons we never discussed, Nigel and I hadn't said anything to the others about the articles he'd found or Violet May Martinez, though when we were alone, he hashed them over incessantly. True tales of unsolved vanishings tended to hang around the darkest confines of one's mind long after one read about them-doubtlessly the reason why Conrad Hiller's poorly written and sc.r.a.ppily researched 2002 account of two teenage kidnappings in Ma.s.sachusetts, The Beautiful Ones, The Beautiful Ones, hung around the hung around the New York Times New York Times Best-seller List for sixty-two weeks. Such stories were as pervasive as bats, flying around at the slightest provocation, circling over your head, and though you knew they had nothing to do with you, that your fate would probably not be like theirs, you still felt a mixture of fear and fascination. Best-seller List for sixty-two weeks. Such stories were as pervasive as bats, flying around at the slightest provocation, circling over your head, and though you knew they had nothing to do with you, that your fate would probably not be like theirs, you still felt a mixture of fear and fascination.

"Everyone have what they need?" sang Hannah as she retied the bright red laces on her leather boots. "We can't come back to the truck, so make sure you have your backpacks and maps-do not forget the maps I gave you. It's very important you know where we are as we hike. We're following Bald Creek Trail, past Abram's Peak to Sugartop Summit. It moves northeast and the campground's four miles away from Newfound Gap Road, U.S. 441, that thick red line. See it on the map?" forget the maps I gave you. It's very important you know where we are as we hike. We're following Bald Creek Trail, past Abram's Peak to Sugartop Summit. It moves northeast and the campground's four miles away from Newfound Gap Road, U.S. 441, that thick red line. See it on the map?"

"Yep," said Lu.

"The first aid kit. Who has it?"

"Me," said Jade.

"Fantastic." Hannah smiled, her hands on her hips. She was dressed for the occasion: khaki pants, a long-sleeved black T-shirt, a puffy green vest, mirrored sungla.s.ses. There was an enthusiasm in her voice I hadn't heard since Fall Term. During Sunday dinners of late, we were all aware she wasn't herself. Something very slight had shifted within her, a change difficult to pinpoint; it was as if a painting in one's house had secretly been moved an inch to the right of where it'd hung for years. She listened to us as she always did, took the same interest in our lives, talked about her volunteer work at the animal shelter, a parrot she was hoping to adopt-but she didn't seem to laugh anymore, that girlish giggle like a kick through pebbles. (As Nigel said, that haircut was an "eternal rain on her parade.") She was p.r.o.ne to silent nods and abstracted stares, and I couldn't tell if she simply couldn't help this new reticence, if it was born of some unaccountable grief, which had rooted and spread inside of her like leafy liverwort, or if it was deliberate, so we'd all worry about what was troubling her. Certain June Bugs, I knew, willed themselves into abnormal moods that ranged from dour to delicate, simply so Dad would ask them, in tormented tones, if there was anything in the world he could do. (Dad's actual response to such calculated behavior was to comment she looked tired and suggest making it an early night.) After dinner, Hannah no longer put on Billie Holiday's "No Regrets," singing along in her low, bashful, tone-deaf voice, but sat meditatively on the couch, stroking Lana and Turner, not saying a word while the rest of us hashed over college, or Headmaster Havermeyer's wife, Gloria, who was expecting twins and hauled her great stomach around campus with the same pleasure of Sisyphus with his boulder, or the outrageous story that broke in early March, that Ms. St.u.r.ds had been secretly engaged to Mr. b.u.t.ters since Christmas (a pairing as dubious as an American Bison with a Gra.s.s Snake).

Efforts, both stealthy and obvious, to have Hannah join our conversations was like playing volleyball with a shot put. And she hardly ate the dinner she'd so painstakingly prepared, just pushed the food around her plate like an uninspired painter with a palette of dreary oils.

Now, for the first time in months, she was in a grand mood. She moved with the bright quickness of a sparrow.

"Are we ready?" she asked.

"For what?" asked Charles.

"Forty-eight hours of h.e.l.l," said Jade.

"For being at one with nature. Everyone have their maps?"

"For the twentieth time, we have the G.o.dd.a.m.n maps" maps" said Charles, slamming the doors at the back of the van. said Charles, slamming the doors at the back of the van.

"Perfect," Hannah said cheerfully and, making sure the doors were locked, she hoisted her enormous blue backpack onto her shoulders and began to walk away, briskly heading toward the woods at the opposite end of the parking lot. "And they're off!" she shouted over her shoulder. "Old Schneider's first out of the gate and holds the lead. Milton Black moves up on the outside. Leulah Maloney is coming up from fifth place. On the final turn it will be Jade and Blue battling it to the finish line." She laughed.

"What's she talking about?" asked Nigel staring after her.

"Who the h.e.l.l knows," said Jade.

"Get going, thoroughbreds! We have to get there in the next four hours, otherwise we'll be hiking in the dark!"

"Great," said Jade, rolling her eyes. "She's finally lost it. And she couldn't lose it when we were buoyed by civilization. No, she had to lose it now, when we're in the middle of nowhere, when it's all snakes and trees and no one to come to our rescue but a fleet of friggin' rabbits."

Nigel and I looked at each other. He shrugged. "What the h.e.l.l?" he said. Flashing his tiny smile, a pocket mirror catching light, he started after her.

I held back, watching the others. For some reason, I didn't want to go. I felt, not dread or apprehension, only an awareness that something grueling was looming in front of me, something so vast I couldn't see all of it, and I didn't know if I had the strength to take it on (see Nothing but a Compa.s.s and an Electrometer: The Story of Captain Scott and the Great Race to Claim Antarctica, Nothing but a Compa.s.s and an Electrometer: The Story of Captain Scott and the Great Race to Claim Antarctica, Walsh, 1972). Walsh, 1972).

Tightening the straps of my backpack, I headed after them. A few yards in front of me, at the opening of the trail, Jade tripped on a root. "Oh, stunning. Simply stunning," she said.

The northwest pa.s.sage of Bald Creek Trail (a dotted black line on Hannah's map) started out amiably enough, broad-shouldered as Mrs. Rowley, my second-grade teacher at Wadsworth Elementary, puffy with mulch and late afternoon sunshine, and fine, wispy, flyaway pines like the hair loosened from her ponytail at the end of the day. (Mrs. Rowley possessed the enviable knack for turning all "frowns upside down," and all "snuffles into smiles.") "Maybe this isn't so bad," said Jade, turning around and grinning as she trudged along in front of me. "I mean it is is kind of fun." kind of fun."

An hour later, however, after Hannah's yell for us to "keep right at the fork," the road revealed its true character; it resembled not Mrs. Rowley, but the p.r.i.c.kly Ms. Dewelhearst of Howard Country Day who dressed in dirt browns, with a posture taking cues from an umbrella handle and a face so withered she looked more walnut than human. The trail shriveled, forcing us to proceed single file and in relative silence as we skirted past painful brambles and weeds. ("Not a twitter during the examination or I'll hold you back a grade and your life will be in ruins forevermore," said Ms. Dewelhearst.) "This freaking hurts," hurts," said Jade. "I need a local anesthetic for my legs." said Jade. "I need a local anesthetic for my legs."