An hour later, my voice had begun to tiptoe back. A new nurse, Stern Brow (illicitly kidnapped by White Lab Coat from another floor of the hospital, in order to placate Dad) took my blood pressure and pulse ("Doin' fine," she said before humphing off).

Although I felt bug-snug under the sunshine lights, the hospital beeps, clicks and toots soothing as fish noises one hears in the ocean while snorkeling, gradually, I noticed my memory of the night before had begun to show signs of life. As I sipped my coffee listening to the aggravated mutters of a croaky gentleman recovering from an asthma attack on the other side of the curtain ("Reely now. Got to get home and feed my dog." "Just another half hour Mr. Elphinstone."), suddenly I was aware Hannah had snuck into my head: not as I'd seen her-G.o.d no-but sitting at her dining room table listening to one of us, her head tilted, smoking a cigarette, then ruthlessly stabbing it out on her bread plate. She did that on two occasions. I also thought about the heels of her feet, a tiny detail not many others noticed: sometimes they were black and so dry, they resembled pavement.

"Sweet? What's the matter?" I told Dad I wanted to see the policeman. Reluctantly, he agreed and twenty minutes later I was telling Officer c.o.xley everything I could remember.

According to Dad, Officer Gerard c.o.xley had been waiting patiently in the Emergency waiting room for over three hours, shooting the s.h.i.t with the attendant nurse and other Low Priority patients, drinking Pepsi and "reading Cruising Rider Cruising Rider with such an immersed expression I could tell it's his secret instruction manual," Dad reported with distaste. Yet Still Life patience appeared to be one of Gerard c.o.xley's predominating characteristics (see with such an immersed expression I could tell it's his secret instruction manual," Dad reported with distaste. Yet Still Life patience appeared to be one of Gerard c.o.xley's predominating characteristics (see False Fruits, Drupes and Dry Fruits, False Fruits, Drupes and Dry Fruits, Swollum, 1982). Swollum, 1982).

He sat with his long skinny legs crossed like a lady's on the low blue plastic chair Stern Brow had carried in for the occasion. He balanced a withered green notepad on his left thigh and wrote on it, left-handedly, in ALL CAPS, with the speed of an apple seed burgeoning into a ten-foot tree.

Midforties, with messy auburn hair melting over his head and the drowsy squint of a late-August lifeguard, Officer c.o.xley was also a man of reductions, of distillations, of one-liners. I was propped up with pillows (Dad shadowing c.o.xley at the foot of the bed), trying my hardest to tell him everything, everything, but when I completed a sentence-a complex sentence, full of invaluable details painstakingly mined from all that darkness, because confusingly, none of it seemed real anymore; every recollection now seemed Mr. DeMille-lighted in my head, all klieg lights and special effects and lurid stage makeup, pyrotechnics, atmospherics-after all of this, Officer c.o.xley would write down only one, but when I completed a sentence-a complex sentence, full of invaluable details painstakingly mined from all that darkness, because confusingly, none of it seemed real anymore; every recollection now seemed Mr. DeMille-lighted in my head, all klieg lights and special effects and lurid stage makeup, pyrotechnics, atmospherics-after all of this, Officer c.o.xley would write down only one, maybe maybe two words. two words.

ST. GALLWAY 6 KIDS HANA SCHEDER TEACHER DEAD? SUGARTOP VIOLET MARTINEZ.

He could shrink any plot of d.i.c.kens into haiku.

"Only a few more questions," he said, squinting at his e.e. c.u.mmings poem.

"And when she came and found me in the woods," I said, "she was wearing a large satchel, which she hadn't had on before. Did you get that?"

"Sure I got it." SATCHEL "And that person who followed us, I want to say it was a man, but I don't know. He was wearing large gla.s.ses. Nigel, one of the kids with us, he wears gla.s.ses, but it wasn't him. He's very slight and he wears tiny spectacles. This person was large and the gla.s.ses were large. Like c.o.ke bottles."

"Sure." BOTTLES "To reiterate," I said, "Hannah wanted to tell me something." c.o.xley nodded. "That was the reason she took me away from the campsite. But she never got to tell me what it was. That was when we heard this person near us and she went after him." By now my voice was nothing more than wind, at its most emphatic, a jet stream, but I wheezed on and on, in spite of Dad's concerned frown.

"Okay, okay. I got it." CAMPSITE Officer c.o.xley looked at me, raising rambutan-eyebrows and smiling as if he'd never had an Eyewitness quite like me before. In all probability, he hadn't. I had a disturbing feeling Officer c.o.xley's experience with Eyewitnesses was geared not toward murder or even burglary, but motor vehicle accidents. The fifth of his series of questions (posed in such a bland voice, one could almost see the paper labeled EYEWITNESS QUESTIONNAIRE thumbtacked to the station bulletin board next to a sign-up sheet for the 52nd Annual Auto Theft Weekend Roundtable and the Police Intra-Personals Corner, where department singles posted their Seekings in twenty-eight words or less) had been the supremely disheartening: "Did you notice any problems at the scene of the mishap?" I think he was hoping I'd say, "Out-of-order traffic signal," or "Heavy foliage obscuring a stop sign."

"Have any of them been found yet?" I asked. "We're working on it," said c.o.xley. "What about Hannah?" "Like I said. Everyone's doing their job." He ran a thick podlike finger down the green notepad. "Now can you tell me more about your relationship to-?" "She was a teacher at our school," I said. "St. Gallway. But she was more than that. She was a friend." I took a deep breath. "You're talking about-" "Hannah Schneider. And there's an T in her last name." "Oh, right."1 "Just to be clear, she's the person I think I saw . . ." "Okay," he said, nodding as he wrote, FRIEND At this point, Dad must have decided I'd had enough, because he stared at c.o.xley very intensely for a moment and then, as if deciding something, stood up from the end of the bed (see "Pica.s.so enjoying high times at Le Lapin Agile, Paris," Respecting the Devil, Respecting the Devil, Hearst, 1984, p. 148). Hearst, 1984, p. 148).

"I think you must have everything then, Poirot," Dad said. "Very methodical. I'm impressed."

"What's that?" asked Officer c.o.xley, frowning.

"You've given me a new respect for law enforcement. How many years on the job now, Holmes? Ten, twelve?" "Oh. Uh, going on eighteen now." Dad nodded, smiling. "Impressive. I've always loved the lingo-DOA, DT, OC, white shirts, skels-isn't that right? You'll have to forgive me. I've watched more than my share of Columbo. of Columbo. I can't help but regret never going into the profession. May I ask how you got into it?" I can't help but regret never going into the profession. May I ask how you got into it?"

"My father."

"How wonderful."

"His father too. Go back generations."

"If you ask me, there aren't nearly enough young people going into the force. Bright kids all go for the high-flying jobs and does it make them happy? I doubt it. We need sound people, smart smart people. People who know their head from their elbows." people. People who know their head from their elbows."

"I say the same thing."

"Really?"

"Good friend of mine's son went to Bryson City. Worked as a banker. Hated it. Came back here, I hired him. Said he'd never been happier. But it takes a special kind of man. Not everyone- "

"Certainly not" not" said Dad, shaking his head. said Dad, shaking his head.

"Cousin of mine. Couldn't do it. Didn't have the nerves."

"I can imagine."

"I can tell straight off if they're going to make it."

"No kidding."

"Sure. Hired one guy from Sluder County. Whole department thought he was great. But me. I could tell from the look in his eyes. It wasn't there. Two months later he ran off with the wife of a fine man in our Detective Division." Hired one guy from Sluder County. Whole department thought he was great. But me. I could tell from the look in his eyes. It wasn't there. Two months later he ran off with the wife of a fine man in our Detective Division."

"You never know," said Dad, sighing as he glanced at his watch. "As much as I'd love to keep talking-" "Oh-"

"The doc out here, I think he's pretty good, he suggested Blue get home to rest and get her voice back. I guess we'll wait to hear about the others." Dad extended his hand. "I know we're in good hands."

"Thank you," said c.o.xley, rising to his feet, shaking Dad's hand. "Thank you. you. I trust you'll contact us at home in the event of additional I trust you'll contact us at home in the event of additional questions? You have our telephone number?" "Uh, yes, I do." "Terrific," said Dad. "Let us know any way we can be of service." "Sure. And best of luck to you." "Same to you, Marlowe." And then, before Officer c.o.xley knew quite what had happened to him, before I knew what had happened to him, Officer c.o.xley was gone.

24.

One Hundred Years of Solitude.

I n severe circ.u.mstances, when you inadvertently witness a person dead, something inside of you gets permanently misplaced. Somewhere (within ilthe brain and nervous system, I'd imagine) there's a snag, a delay, a stumbling block, a slight technical problem.

For those who've never had such bad luck, picture the world's fastest bird, the Peregrine Falcon, Falco peregrinus, Falco peregrinus, splendidly diving toward its quarry (unwitting dove) at over 250 mph, when abruptly, seconds before its talons are to strike a lethal blow, it feels light-headed, loses its focus, goes into a tailspin, splendidly diving toward its quarry (unwitting dove) at over 250 mph, when abruptly, seconds before its talons are to strike a lethal blow, it feels light-headed, loses its focus, goes into a tailspin, two bogies, three o'clock high, break, break, Zorro got your wing-man, two bogies, three o'clock high, break, break, Zorro got your wing-man, barely managing to pull up, up, righting itself and floating, quite shaken, to the nearest tree on which it could once again get its bearings. The bird is fine-and yet, afterward, really for the rest of its life span of twelve to fifteen years, it is never able to nosedive with quite the same speed or intensity of any of the other falcons. It is always a little off-center somehow, always a little barely managing to pull up, up, righting itself and floating, quite shaken, to the nearest tree on which it could once again get its bearings. The bird is fine-and yet, afterward, really for the rest of its life span of twelve to fifteen years, it is never able to nosedive with quite the same speed or intensity of any of the other falcons. It is always a little off-center somehow, always a little wrong. wrong.

Biologically speaking, this irreparable change, however minute, has no right to occur. Consider the Carpenter Ant, who allows a fellow ant recently found dead on the job to remain where he is a total of fifteen to thirty seconds before his lifeless body is picked up, hauled out of the nest, and tossed into a pile of debris composed of bits of sand and dust (see All My Children: Fervent Confessions of an Ant Queen, All My Children: Fervent Confessions of an Ant Queen, Strong, 1989, p. 21). Mammals, too, take an equally humdrum view of both death and bereavement. A lone tigress will defend her cubs against a roving male, but after they are slaughtered she will "roll over and mate with him without hesitation" (see Strong, 1989, p. 21). Mammals, too, take an equally humdrum view of both death and bereavement. A lone tigress will defend her cubs against a roving male, but after they are slaughtered she will "roll over and mate with him without hesitation" (see Pride, Pride, Stevens-Hart, 1992, p. 112). Primates do mourn-"there is no form of grief as profound as a chimpanzee's," declares Jim Harry in Stevens-Hart, 1992, p. 112). Primates do mourn-"there is no form of grief as profound as a chimpanzee's," declares Jim Harry in The Tool-Makers The Tool-Makers (1980)-but their anguish tends to be reserved only for immediate family members. Male chimpanzees are known to execute not only compet.i.tors but also the young and disabled both inside and outside their clan, occasionally even eating them, for no apparent reason (p. 108). (1980)-but their anguish tends to be reserved only for immediate family members. Male chimpanzees are known to execute not only compet.i.tors but also the young and disabled both inside and outside their clan, occasionally even eating them, for no apparent reason (p. 108).

Try as I might, I could summon none of the c'est la vie c'est la vie sangfroid of the Animal Kingdom. I began to experience, over the course of the next three months, full-blown insomnia. I'm not talking about the romantic kind, not the sweet sleeplessness one has when one is in love, anxiously awaiting the morn so one can rendezvous with a lover in an illicit gazebo. No, this was the torturous, clammy kind, when one's pillow slowly takes on the properties of a block of wood and one's sheets, the air of the Everglades. sangfroid of the Animal Kingdom. I began to experience, over the course of the next three months, full-blown insomnia. I'm not talking about the romantic kind, not the sweet sleeplessness one has when one is in love, anxiously awaiting the morn so one can rendezvous with a lover in an illicit gazebo. No, this was the torturous, clammy kind, when one's pillow slowly takes on the properties of a block of wood and one's sheets, the air of the Everglades.

My first night home from the hospital, none of them, not Hannah, Jade or the others, had been found. With the rain blathering endlessly against the windows, I stared at my bedroom ceiling and was aware of a new sensation in my chest, the feeling that it was caving in like an old piece of sidewalk. My head was seized by dead-end thoughts, the most rampant of which was the Moving Picture Producer's Yen: the tremendous and supremely unproductive desire to sc.r.a.p the last forty-eight hours of Life, rid myself of the original director (who obviously didn't know what He was doing) and reshoot the entire affair, including substantial script rewrites and recasting the leads. I sort of couldn't stand stand myself, how safe and snug I was in my wool socks and navy flannel pajamas purchased from the Adolescent Department at Stickley's. I even resented the mug of Orange Blossom tea Dad had placed on the southwest corner of my bedside table. (It read, "A St.i.tch in Time Saves Nine" and sat there like an unpopped blister.) I felt as if my fortunate rescue by the Richardses was akin to a first cousin with no teeth and a tendency of spitting when he talked-downright embarra.s.sing. I had no desire to be the Otto Frank, the Anastasia, the Curly, the Trevor Rees-Jones. I wanted to be with the rest of them, suffering what they were suffering. myself, how safe and snug I was in my wool socks and navy flannel pajamas purchased from the Adolescent Department at Stickley's. I even resented the mug of Orange Blossom tea Dad had placed on the southwest corner of my bedside table. (It read, "A St.i.tch in Time Saves Nine" and sat there like an unpopped blister.) I felt as if my fortunate rescue by the Richardses was akin to a first cousin with no teeth and a tendency of spitting when he talked-downright embarra.s.sing. I had no desire to be the Otto Frank, the Anastasia, the Curly, the Trevor Rees-Jones. I wanted to be with the rest of them, suffering what they were suffering.

Given my state of turmoil, it will come as no surprise that in the ten days following the camping trip, St. Gallway's Spring Break, I found myself embarking on a sour, irksome and altogether unsatisfying love affair.

She was an insipid, fickle mistress, that two-headed she-male, otherwise known as the local news, WQOX News 13. I started seeing her three times a day (First News at (First News at 5, 5, News News 13 13 at $:^o, Late Night News at 11:00), at $:^o, Late Night News at 11:00), but within twenty-four hours, with her straight talk, shoulder pads, ad-libs and commercial breaks (not to mention that backdrop of faux sun permanently setting behind her) she managed to strong-arm her way into my unhinged head. I couldn't eat, couldn't but within twenty-four hours, with her straight talk, shoulder pads, ad-libs and commercial breaks (not to mention that backdrop of faux sun permanently setting behind her) she managed to strong-arm her way into my unhinged head. I couldn't eat, couldn't try try to sleep without supplementing my day with her half-hour programming at 6:30 A.M., 9:00 A.M., noon and 12:30 P.M. to sleep without supplementing my day with her half-hour programming at 6:30 A.M., 9:00 A.M., noon and 12:30 P.M.

Like all romances, ours began with great expectation.

"We have your local news next," said Cherry Jeffries. She was dressed in Pepto-dismal pink, had hazel eyes, a tight smile reminiscent of a tiny rubber band stretched across her face. Thick, chin-length blond hair capped her, as if she were a ballpoint pen. "It's called the Sunrise Nursery School, but the D.S.S. wants the sun to go down on the center after multiple allegations of abuse."

"Restaurant owners protest a new tax increase by city hall," chirped Norvel Owen. Norvel's sole distinguishing characteristic was his male pattern baldness, which mimicked the st.i.tching of a baseball. Also of note was his necktie, which appeared to be patterned with mussels, clams and other invertebrates. "We'll talk about what it means for you and your Sat.u.r.day night on the town. These stories coming up."

A green square popped up and hovered at Cherry's shoulder like a good idea: SEARCH.

"But first, our top story," said Cherry. "Tonight an intensive search continues for five local high school students and their teacher reported missing in the Smoky Mountain National Park. Park authorities were alerted early this morning after a Yancey County resident found a sixth student near Route 441. The student was admitted to a local hospital for exposure and was released in stable condition earlier this evening. The Sluder County Sheriff says the group entered the park Friday afternoon, expecting to camp for the weekend, but later became lost. Rain, wind and heavy cloud cover have decreased visibility for the rescue squads. But with temperatures staying well above freezing, Park rangers and Sluder County Police stay optimistic the others will be rescued without injury. Our hearts go out to all the families and everyone involved in the search."

Cherry glanced down at the blank piece of paper on the plastic blue desk. She looked up again.

"People are horsing around at the Western North Carolina Farm Center with the arrival of a brand new pony."

"But this is no ordinary horse, of course, of course," piped Norvel. "Mackenzie is a Falabella Miniature Horse standing a little over two feet tall. Curators say the pony originates from Argentina and is one of the rarest breeds in the world. You can go see Little Mac for yourself at the petting corral."

"It happens every year' said Cherry, "and its success depends on you." you."

"Later," said Norvel, "details on Operation Blood Drive."

By the following morning, Sunday, my fly-by-night infatuation had congealed into obsession. And it wasn't just the news I was antic.i.p.ating, yet still had not heard-that rescue teams had at last found them, that Hannah was alive and safe, that Fear (renowned for its hallucinogenic qualities) had conjured everything I'd heard and seen. There was something undeniably gripping about Cherry and Norvel (Chern.o.byl, I called them) a quality that forced me to withstand six hours of talk shows (one theme of significance, "From Frog to Prince: Extreme Male Makeovers") and cleaning commercials featuring housewives with too many stains, kids and not enough time, to catch their second segment together, Your Stockton Power Lunch Your Stockton Power Lunch at 12:30. A wide and triumphant smile elbowed through Cherry's face when she announced at 12:30. A wide and triumphant smile elbowed through Cherry's face when she announced she she was the sole anchor this afternoon. was the sole anchor this afternoon.

"We're power lunching today with breaking news," she said, frowning as she arranged the blank papers in front of her, though visibly thrilled to preside over the entire entire blue desk, rather than merely the right-hand side. The white piping of her navy suit, edging around her shoulders, patch pockets and cuffs, delineated her pet.i.te frame like white lines marking sudden swerves of an unlit road. She blinked at the screen and looked grave. "A Carlton County woman was found blue desk, rather than merely the right-hand side. The white piping of her navy suit, edging around her shoulders, patch pockets and cuffs, delineated her pet.i.te frame like white lines marking sudden swerves of an unlit road. She blinked at the screen and looked grave. "A Carlton County woman was found dead dead this afternoon by rescue workers searching the Smoky Mountain National Park. This is the latest development in the search for five local high school students and a teacher that began yesterday. News 13's Stan St.i.twell is live at the rescue center. Stan, what are the police saying?" this afternoon by rescue workers searching the Smoky Mountain National Park. This is the latest development in the search for five local high school students and a teacher that began yesterday. News 13's Stan St.i.twell is live at the rescue center. Stan, what are the police saying?"

Stan St.i.twell appeared, standing in a parking lot, an ambulance parked behind him. If Stan St.i.twell had been wine, he wouldn't be robust or full bodied. Stan would be fruity, acidic, with a hint of cherry. Limp brown hair hung into his forehead like wet shoelaces.

"Cherry, Sluder County Police have not yet made a statement, but we hear they've positively identified the body to be that of Hannah Louise Schneider, a forty-four-year-old teacher at the St. Gallway School, the well-known private school in West Stockton. Park personnel had been searching for her and the five other students for over twenty-four hours now. Authorities haven't yet told us what condition the body was in, but minutes ago, detectives arrived on the scene to determine if there was foul play."

"And the five students, Stan. What's the latest on them?"

"Well, despite the bad conditions out here, rain, wind, heavy fog, the search continues. An hour ago rescue teams managed to get a National Guard helicopter into the air, but they had to bring it back due to bad visibility. But, still, in the past two hours or so, at least twenty-five more civilians have joined the volunteer search effort. And as you can see here behind me, the Red Cross and a medical team from the University of Tennessee have set up operations for food and aiding injuries. Everyone's doing what they can to make sure the kids get home safe."

"Thank you, Stan," said Cherry. "And News 13 will continue to keep you updated as the story unfolds." She glanced down at a blank piece of paper on her desk. She looked up again.

"Up next, it's the little things in life you take for granted. Today, as part of our 'Wellness' series, we'll show you a lot of time and money goes into designing that little thing your dentist wants you to use twice a day. News 13's Mary Grubb has the story of the toothbrush."

I watched the rest of the news, but there was no further mention of the camping trip. I found myself noticing all the Little Things about Cherry: her eyes scurrying across the teleprompter, the way her facial expressions morphed between the Look of Restrained Dismay (salon heist), the Look of Deep-seated Sorrow (infant dead in apartment fire), the Look of Quiet Community Consciousness (battle revs up between motocross riders and trailer-owners in Marengo) with the ease of trying on slips in a dressing room. (Staring at the blank papers in front of her seemed to be the switch that prompted this mechanical expression-wipe, similar to shaking an Etch A Sketch.) And the next morning, Monday, when I dragged myself out of bed at 6:30 to catch "Waking You Up in the Morning!" I observed the maniacal way Cherry unilaterally leeched all attention from Norvel, rendering him an appendix, a hubcap, an extra packet of salt one misses at the bottom of a bag of fast food. Norvel, if one visualized him with a full head of sandy hair, had probably once been competent, perhaps even commanding commanding in his news delivery, but like a Dresden church with Byzantine architecture on the eve of February 13, 1945, he'd been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Paired with Cherry, prey to her Ways to Upstage by Way of Large Plastic Earrings, her Modes of Stealing Thunder Via the Application of More Eye Makeup than a Drag Queen, not to mention the Art of the Indirect Castration (i.e., "Speaking of toddlers, Norvel has the story of a new Montessori day care center opening up in Yancey County.") -it had left him in ruins. He spoke his allotted portion of the broadcast (forgettable stories about mayoral appearances and farm animals) in the uncertain, rickety voice of a woman on a diet of pineapples and cottage cheese, her spine emerging from her back like a banister when she bent over. in his news delivery, but like a Dresden church with Byzantine architecture on the eve of February 13, 1945, he'd been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Paired with Cherry, prey to her Ways to Upstage by Way of Large Plastic Earrings, her Modes of Stealing Thunder Via the Application of More Eye Makeup than a Drag Queen, not to mention the Art of the Indirect Castration (i.e., "Speaking of toddlers, Norvel has the story of a new Montessori day care center opening up in Yancey County.") -it had left him in ruins. He spoke his allotted portion of the broadcast (forgettable stories about mayoral appearances and farm animals) in the uncertain, rickety voice of a woman on a diet of pineapples and cottage cheese, her spine emerging from her back like a banister when she bent over.

I knew she was bad news, that it wasn't the most wholesome of affairs.

I just couldn't help myself.

"Five local high school students were found alive alive this morning by rescue personnel in the Great Smoky Mountains following an intensive two-day search," said Cherry. "This is the latest development in the story after the body of their teacher, Hannah Louise Schneider, was recovered yesterday. We're live outside the Sluder County Hospital with News 13's Stan St.i.twell. Stan, what can you tell us?" this morning by rescue personnel in the Great Smoky Mountains following an intensive two-day search," said Cherry. "This is the latest development in the story after the body of their teacher, Hannah Louise Schneider, was recovered yesterday. We're live outside the Sluder County Hospital with News 13's Stan St.i.twell. Stan, what can you tell us?"

"Cherry, there were cheers and tears here as Park rescue squads brought to safety the five high school seniors missing since Sat.u.r.day. The heavy fog and showers tapered off early this morning and K-9 rescue dogs were able to track the students from a popular Park campsite known as Sugartop Summit to another section more than twelve miles away. Police say the kids had become separated from Hannah Schneider and the sixth student found on Sat.u.r.day. They tried to locate a path out of the park but became lost. One of the male students is allegedly suffering from a broken leg. Otherwise, they're all confirmed in stable condition. A half hour ago they were admitted to the Emergency Room, which you can see just behind me. They're being treated for cuts and sc.r.a.pes and other minor injuries."

"That's great news, Stan. Any word from the police about the teacher's cause of death?"

"Cherry, Sluder County Police have issued no statements about the body of the woman found, except to say that for the progress of the investigation, all evidence will be held at this time. We'll have to wait for the Sluder County coroner's ruling, which is expected next week. For now, everyone's relieved the kids are safe. They're expected to be released from the hospital later today."

"Great, Stan. And News 13 will keep you tuned as news breaks in this camping tragedy." Cherry looked down at the piece of paper and looked up again.

"It's small. It's black. It's something you shouldn't leave home without." "Find out what it is," said Norvel, blinking at the camera, "in our 'Get Technical' series. Coming up next."

I watched the program until the very end, when Cherry smiled and twittered, "Have a great morning!" and the camera zoomed away from her and Norvel like a fly zipping around the studio. From her triumphant grin, it appeared she was hoping the camping tragedy would be her claim to fame, her Fifteen Minutes (That Could Potentially Lead to a Full Half Hour), her First-Cla.s.s Ticket to Somewhere (with Fully Reclining Seats and Champagne before Takeoff). Cherry seemed to see it all twisting into the distance like a four-lane highway: "The Cherry Jeffries Talk Show: Spill Your Heart Out," CHAY-JEY, a conservative clothing line for the serious blond working woman ("No longer an oxymoron"), "Cherry Bird," the Cherry Jeffries Fragrance for Women in Motion, the newspaper article in USA Today, Today, "Move over Oprah, Here Comes Cherry." A car commercial roared onto the screen. I noticed Dad standing behind me. His tattered leather bag, stuffed with legal pads and periodicals, hung heavily around his shoulder. He was on his way to the university. His first seminar, Conflict Resolution in the Third World, started at 9:00 A.M. "Move over Oprah, Here Comes Cherry." A car commercial roared onto the screen. I noticed Dad standing behind me. His tattered leather bag, stuffed with legal pads and periodicals, hung heavily around his shoulder. He was on his way to the university. His first seminar, Conflict Resolution in the Third World, started at 9:00 A.M.

"Perhaps it's not a wise idea to watch anymore," he said.

"And do what instead," I asked blandly.

"Rest. Read. I have a new annotated copy of De Profundis-" Profundis-"

"I don't want to read De Profundis." De Profundis."

"Fair enough." He was silent for a moment. Then: "You know, I could phone Dean Randall. We could go somewhere for the day. Drive to a- " "Where?" "Perhaps we could take a picnic to one of those lakes people are always praising to the high heavens. One of these local lakes with ducks."

"Ducks."

"You know. Paddleboats. And geese."

Dad walked around to the front of the couch, ostensibly so I'd peel my eyes off the TV and look at him.

"To get on the highway," he said. "It might remind us that no matter the tragedy, there's always a world beyond it. 'Whither goest thou, America, in thy shiny car in the night?' "

I continued to stare at the TV, my eyes sore, my thin bathrobe, the color of tongues, limp around my legs.

"Did you have an affair with Hannah Schneider?" I asked. Dad was so shocked he didn't immediately speak."I-what?" I repeated the question. "How can you ask such a thing?" "You had an affair with Eva Brewster, so maybe you also had an affair with Hannah Schneider. Maybe you had an affair with the entire I repeated the question. "How can you ask such a thing?" "You had an affair with Eva Brewster, so maybe you also had an affair with Hannah Schneider. Maybe you had an affair with the entire school school and kept me in the dark-" and kept me in the dark-"

"Of course not' Dad said irritably, then he took a deep breath and added very quietly, "I did not not have an affair with Hannah Schneider. Sweet, you should stop this. . . have an affair with Hannah Schneider. Sweet, you should stop this. . . brooding- brooding-it isn't good. What can I do? Tell me. We can move somewhere. California. You always wanted to go to California, didn't you? Any state you like . . ."

Dad was grabbing at words the way drowning people grab at floating bits of plywood. I didn't say anything. "Well," he said, after a minute. "You have my office number. I'll be home around two to check on you." "Don't "Don't check on me." "Sweet." "What?" "There's that macaroni - " "In the fridge, which I can reheat for lunch-yes, I check on me." "Sweet." "What?" "There's that macaroni - " "In the fridge, which I can reheat for lunch-yes, I know." know." He sighed and covertly I glanced over at him. He looked as if I'd punched He sighed and covertly I glanced over at him. He looked as if I'd punched him in the face, as if I'd spray-painted PIG on his forehead, as if I'd told him I wished he was dead. "You'll call if you need anything?" he asked. I nodded. "If you'd like, on my way home I can pick up a few videos from-what is that-?" "Videomecca." "Right. Any requests?" "Gone with the f.u.c.king Wind" "Gone with the f.u.c.king Wind" I said. Dad kissed me on the cheek and walked through the hall to the front door. It was one of those instances one feels as if one's skin has abruptly become thin as one layer of phyllo dough on a triangle of baklava, when one I said. Dad kissed me on the cheek and walked through the hall to the front door. It was one of those instances one feels as if one's skin has abruptly become thin as one layer of phyllo dough on a triangle of baklava, when one desperately desperately doesn't want the other person to go, but one doesn't say anything in order to feel isolation in its purest form, as a periodic table of element, one of the n.o.ble gases, Iso1. doesn't want the other person to go, but one doesn't say anything in order to feel isolation in its purest form, as a periodic table of element, one of the n.o.ble gases, Iso1.

The front door closed, locked. To the far-off tune of the blue Volvo driving away, it slipped over me, sadness, deadness, like a sheet over summer furniture.

I guess it was shock, the body's spin on distress, what Jemma Sloane drearily refers to on p. 95 of her book on "confrontational children," Raising Goliath Raising Goliath (1999): "child coping mechanisms." Whatever the psychological grounds, for the next four days following their rescue (as my beloved Chern.o.byl reported during (1999): "child coping mechanisms." Whatever the psychological grounds, for the next four days following their rescue (as my beloved Chern.o.byl reported during First News at Five, First News at Five, returned to their homes like damaged parcels) I adopted the character and deportment of a nasty ninety-year-old widow. returned to their homes like damaged parcels) I adopted the character and deportment of a nasty ninety-year-old widow.

Dad had to work, so I spent the rest of Spring Break alone. I said little. What I did say tended to be to myself or to my colored companion, the TV (Chern.o.byl proved more enjoyable than any show-offy grandchild). Dad was the grossly underpaid yet loyal caretaker who showed up at regular intervals to make sure I hadn't burned down the house, that I ate my prepared meals and didn't fall asleep in strange positions that could lead to injury or death. He was the nurse who held his tongue when I was irritable, in the off chance I keeled over.

When I felt up to it, I ventured outside. The rueful weekend of rain had given way to conceited sunshine. It was too much-the glare, the gra.s.s like straw. The sun hara.s.sed the yard with a shamelessness I'd never noticed before, inundating the leaves, scalding the pavement. Also offensive were the earthworms, those vagrants, visibly hungover from the downpour, so wasted they were unable to mobilize and fried themselves into orange french fries all over the driveway.

I scowled, kept my bedroom shades pulled, hated everyone, felt grouchy. As soon as Dad drove away in the morning, I rummaged through the kitchen trash to retrieve the latest Stockton Observer, Stockton Observer, which he'd thrown out early in the morning, so I wouldn't see the headlines and fester over what had happened. (He didn't know my well-being was a lost cause; I had little appet.i.te and sleep remained likely as phoenix eggs.) which he'd thrown out early in the morning, so I wouldn't see the headlines and fester over what had happened. (He didn't know my well-being was a lost cause; I had little appet.i.te and sleep remained likely as phoenix eggs.) Around five o'clock, before he came home, I returned the newspaper to the trash can, carefully repositioning it below last night's rigatoni with tomato sauce (the UNCS Political Science Department a.s.sistant, Barbara, had given Dad a few "comfort food" recipes; supposedly they'd been the rock that helped some wayward stepson, Mitch, through rehab). It was a stealthy exercise, much like hiding one's medication in the elastic of a fitted sheet, crushing it up with a soupspoon, using it to fertilize geraniums.

"Teacher Death Shocks School," "Dead Woman Beloved Teacher, Community Activist," "Investigators Hold Details of Local Death"-these were the keyed-up articles about it, us, her. her. They rehashed the specifics of the rescue, the Stockton community's "shock," "disbelief" and "sense of loss." Jade, Charles, Milton, Nigel and Lu all got their names and grinning yearbook pictures in the paper. (I did not-another blow for being the first found.) They quoted Eva Brewster: "We can't believe it." They also quoted Alice Kline, who'd worked with Hannah at the Burns County Animal Shelter: "It's so sad. She was the happiest, kindest person in the world. All the dogs and cats are waiting for her to come back." (When someone died prematurely they routinely become the Happiest, Kindest Person.) They rehashed the specifics of the rescue, the Stockton community's "shock," "disbelief" and "sense of loss." Jade, Charles, Milton, Nigel and Lu all got their names and grinning yearbook pictures in the paper. (I did not-another blow for being the first found.) They quoted Eva Brewster: "We can't believe it." They also quoted Alice Kline, who'd worked with Hannah at the Burns County Animal Shelter: "It's so sad. She was the happiest, kindest person in the world. All the dogs and cats are waiting for her to come back." (When someone died prematurely they routinely become the Happiest, Kindest Person.) Apart from "Investigation Continues into Park Death," which explained that her body had been discovered two miles from Sugartop Summit, that she had been hanging by an electrical cord, none of the other articles said anything new. After a while, I found it all stomach-turning, especially the editorial, "WNC Murder, Evidence of Voodoo," by R. Levenstein, some "local critic, conservationist and Web blogger" speculating that her death was occult related. "The police's continuing reluctance to disclose the details of Hannah Schneider's death steers the astute observer to a conclusion local authorities have been trying to cover up for years: there is a growing populace of witches in Sluder and Burns Counties." there is a growing populace of witches in Sluder and Burns Counties."

No, it wasn't like it was in the Olden Days.

Due to my new fondness for trawling through the trash, I was able to locate something else of note Dad had discarded for the sake of my mental health, The St. Gallway Bereavement Pack. Judging from the date on the large manila envelope in which it'd come, apparently The Pack had been launched with the velocity of a Tomahawk cruise missile as soon as news of the catastrophic event hit school radars.

The Pack included a letter from Headmaster Havermeyer ("Dear Parents: We are saddened this week by the death of one of our dearest teachers, Hannah Schneider . . ."), an overexcited article from a 1991 issue of Parenting of Parenting magazine, "How Children Grieve," a schedule of counseling times and room numbers, Crisis Team const.i.tuents, a pair of 24-hour 800-numbers to call for psychological a.s.sistance (1-800-FEEL-SAD, and another I find difficult to remember, 1-800-U-BEWAIL, I believe) and a tepid postscript about a funeral ("A date for Ms. Schneider's memorial service has yet to be arranged."). magazine, "How Children Grieve," a schedule of counseling times and room numbers, Crisis Team const.i.tuents, a pair of 24-hour 800-numbers to call for psychological a.s.sistance (1-800-FEEL-SAD, and another I find difficult to remember, 1-800-U-BEWAIL, I believe) and a tepid postscript about a funeral ("A date for Ms. Schneider's memorial service has yet to be arranged.").

One can imagine how strange it was for me to read these carefully prepared materials, to realize they were talking about Hannah, our our Hannah, the Ava Gardnered person across from whom I'd once eaten pork chops -how scary and sudden the shift from Living to Dead. Chiefly unsettling was the fact that The Pack mentioned nothing of how she'd died. True, The Pack had been prepared and mailed well before the Sluder County Coroner's Office would release its autopsy report. Yet the omission was bizarre, as if she hadn't been murdered (a sensational word; if I had my way there'd be something a little more serious at the intersection of Death, Murder and Slaughter- Mauleth, perhaps). Instead, according to The Pack, Hannah had simply "pa.s.sed"; she'd been playing poker and decided not to take another card. Or, reading Havermeyer's spongy wording, one had the sense she'd been seized ("taken from us"), King-Kong-style ("without warning") by the gigantic, smooth hand of G.o.d ("she's in good hands"), and though such an event was gruesome ("one of life's toughest lessons") everyone should nail a grin to their face and continue robotically with daily life ("we must continue on, loving each day, as Hannah would've wanted"). Hannah, the Ava Gardnered person across from whom I'd once eaten pork chops -how scary and sudden the shift from Living to Dead. Chiefly unsettling was the fact that The Pack mentioned nothing of how she'd died. True, The Pack had been prepared and mailed well before the Sluder County Coroner's Office would release its autopsy report. Yet the omission was bizarre, as if she hadn't been murdered (a sensational word; if I had my way there'd be something a little more serious at the intersection of Death, Murder and Slaughter- Mauleth, perhaps). Instead, according to The Pack, Hannah had simply "pa.s.sed"; she'd been playing poker and decided not to take another card. Or, reading Havermeyer's spongy wording, one had the sense she'd been seized ("taken from us"), King-Kong-style ("without warning") by the gigantic, smooth hand of G.o.d ("she's in good hands"), and though such an event was gruesome ("one of life's toughest lessons") everyone should nail a grin to their face and continue robotically with daily life ("we must continue on, loving each day, as Hannah would've wanted").

St. Gallway's Grief Management began, but certainly did not end, with The Bereavement Pack. The day after I found the thing, Sat.u.r.day the 2, Dad received a phone call from Mark b.u.t.ters, Head of the Crisis Team.

I eavesdropped on the conversation from my bedroom phone with Dad's silent complicity. Prior to b.u.t.ters' appointment to the Crisis Team, he'd never been a confident man. He had the complexion of baba ghanoush and his flabby body, even on bright, sunny days, reminded one of nothing more robust than a much-used carry-on suitcase. His most obvious personality trait was his suspicious nature, the unflagging conviction that he, Mr. Mark b.u.t.ters, was the secret subject of all student jokes, quips, puns and personal asides. Over his table at lunch, his eyes searched student faces like drug dogs in an airport for the chalky residue of ridicule. But, as evidenced by his sonorous, newly confident voice, Mr. b.u.t.ters had simply been a person of untapped potential, a man who needed only a Tiny Calamity in order to shine. He'd given up Hesitation and Doubt with the surprising ease of anonymously returning erotica in the middle of the night to the RETURNS slot at the video store, had effortlessly replaced them with Authority and Daring.

"Your schedule permitting," said Mr. b.u.t.ters, "we'd like to arrange a half-hour session with both you and Blue in order to discuss what's happened.

You'll be sitting down with myself and Havermeyer, as well as one of our child counselors."