Sergeant Detective Fayonette Harper narrowed her eyes. With her salt-white skin and bristly lava hair, she was a harsh person to take in at close range; it was a swipe, whack, a kick in the teeth no matter how many times you looked at her. She had broad, door-k.n.o.bbish shoulders and a way of always moving her torso at the same time as her head, as if she had a stiff neck.

If the Sluder County Sheriff's Department was the Primates section of any midlevel zoo, Sergeant Harper was obviously the lone monkey who chose to suspend disbelief and work as if her life depended on it. I'd already noticed she narrowed her eyes at everyone and everything, not only at me and A. Boone when he escorted me over to her desk at the back of the room ("All right," she said with no smile as I sat down, her version of "h.e.l.lo!"), but she also narrowed her eyes at her TO BE FILED paper tray, the exhausted rubber-and-metal Hand Stress Reliever next to her keyboard, the sign taped above her computer monitor that read, "If you can see, look, and if you can look, observe," even at the two framed photographs on her desk, one of an elderly woman with cotton-hair and an eyepatch, the other of herself and what I a.s.sumed was her husband and daughter; in the photo they bookended her with identical long faces, chestnut hair and obedient teeth.

"And why do you say that," Sergeant Harper asked. Her voice was dull and low, a combination of rocks and oboe. (And that was how she asked questions, not bothering to hoist up her voice on the end.) I repeated, for the most part, all that I'd told Officer c.o.xley in the Sluder County Hospital Emergency Room.

"I don't mean to be rude," I said, "or disrespectful to your-your systematized process of upholding the law, which you've been doing for years, probably quite effectively, but I don't think Officer c.o.xley wrote down the specifics of what I told him. And I'm a very pragmatic person. If I thought thought there was even the slightest chance of the suicide ruling being true, I'd accept it. But it's not feasible. First, as I said earlier, someone followed us from the camping ground. I don't know who it was, but I heard him. We both did. And second, Hannah wasn't in that kind there was even the slightest chance of the suicide ruling being true, I'd accept it. But it's not feasible. First, as I said earlier, someone followed us from the camping ground. I don't know who it was, but I heard him. We both did. And second, Hannah wasn't in that kind of mood. of mood. She wasn't depressed-at least, not at She wasn't depressed-at least, not at that that moment. I'll admit she had her moments of being down. But we all do. And when she left me, she was acting very sane." moment. I'll admit she had her moments of being down. But we all do. And when she left me, she was acting very sane."

Sergeant Harper hadn't moved a muscle. I became acutely aware (particularly from the way her eyes gradually drifted away from me before being jerked, by a certain emphatic word of mine, back to my face) she'd seen my type before. Housewives, pharmacists, dental hygienists, banking clerks, undoubtedly they'd all come to plead their cases, too, with their hands clenched, their perfumes rancid, their eyeliner skid-marking their eyes. They sat on the edge of the same uncomfortable red chair I was sitting on (which made woolly nonfigurative prints on the back of one's bare legs) and they wept, swore on a range of Bibles (Today's English, King James, Illuminated Family Edition) and graves (Grandma's, Pa-paw's, Archie who died young) that, whatever the charges against dear Rodolpho, Lamont, Kanita Kay and Miguel, it was lies, all lies.

"Obviously, I know how I sound," I tried, attempting to iron the twinges of desperation out of my voice. (I was slowly gathering Sergeant Harper didn't do twinges of desperation, nor did she do pangs of longing, worries to distraction or hearts broken beyond all possible repair.) "But I'm positive positive someone killed her. I know it. And I think she deserves for us to find out what really happened." someone killed her. I know it. And I think she deserves for us to find out what really happened."

Harper thoughtfully scratched the back of her neck (as people do when they vehemently disagree with you), leaned to the left of her desk, pulled open a file cabinet and, narrowing her eyes, removed a green folder an inch thick. The labeled tab, I noted, read #55O9~SCHN.

"Well' she said with a sigh, slapping the file on her lap. "We did did account for the person you think you heard." She flipped through the papers- photocopied, typewritten forms, too small a font for me to make out-until she stopped on one, glancing through it. "Matthew and Mazula Church," she read slowly, frowning, "George and Julia Varghese, two Yancey County couples, were camping in the area at the same time as you and your peers. They stopped at Sugartop Summit around six, rested for an hour, decided to continue on to Beaver Creek two and a half miles away, arriving around eight-thirty. Matthew Church confirmed he was wandering the area looking for firewood when his flashlight went dead. He managed to make his way back to the site around eleven and they all went to bed." She looked at me. "Beaver Creek is less than a quarter of a mile from where we found her body." account for the person you think you heard." She flipped through the papers- photocopied, typewritten forms, too small a font for me to make out-until she stopped on one, glancing through it. "Matthew and Mazula Church," she read slowly, frowning, "George and Julia Varghese, two Yancey County couples, were camping in the area at the same time as you and your peers. They stopped at Sugartop Summit around six, rested for an hour, decided to continue on to Beaver Creek two and a half miles away, arriving around eight-thirty. Matthew Church confirmed he was wandering the area looking for firewood when his flashlight went dead. He managed to make his way back to the site around eleven and they all went to bed." She looked at me. "Beaver Creek is less than a quarter of a mile from where we found her body."

"He said he saw Hannah and me?"

She shook her head. "Not exactly. He said he heard deer. But he'd had three beers and I'm not sure he knows what he saw or heard. It's a wonder he didn't find himself lost, too. But you probably heard him wandering around, crashing through the brush."

"Does he wear gla.s.ses?" She thought about this for a moment. "I think he does." She frowned, scanning the paper. "Yes, here it is. Gold frames. He's nearsighted."

Something about the way she'd said that particular detail, nearsighted, nearsighted, made me think she was lying, but when I sat up imperceptibly and tried to glimpse where she was reading, she closed the file quickly and smiled, her thin, chapped lips pulling away from her teeth like tinfoil off a chocolate bar. made me think she was lying, but when I sat up imperceptibly and tried to glimpse where she was reading, she closed the file quickly and smiled, her thin, chapped lips pulling away from her teeth like tinfoil off a chocolate bar.

"I've been camping," she said. "And the truth is, when you're up there, you don't know what what you're seeing. You came across her hanging there, am I right?" you're seeing. You came across her hanging there, am I right?"

I nodded.

"The brain dreams up things to protect itself. Four out of every five witnesses are completely unreliable. They forget things. Or later on, they think they saw things that weren't there. It's witness traumatization. Sure, I'll consider witness testimony, but in the end I can only consider what I can see in front of me. The facts."

I didn't hate her for not believing me. I understood. Because of all the Rodolphos, Lamonts, Kanita Kays and Miguels and other delinquents she caught red-handed wearing dirty underwear, watching cartoons, eating Cocoa Puffs, she a.s.sumed she knew everything there was to know about The World. She had seen the bowels, the guts, the innards of Sluder County and thus no one could tell her anything she didn't already know. I imagined her husband and daughter found this frustrating, but they probably tolerated her, listened to her over a dinner of sliced ham and peas, all silent nods and supportive smiles. She looked at them and loved them, but noticed a chasm between them, too. They lived in Dream Worlds, worlds of homework, appropriate office conduct, unspoiled milk mustaches, but she, Fayonette Harper, lived in Reality. She knew the ins and outs, the tops and bottoms, the darkest, most mildewed corners.

I didn't know what else to say, how to convince her. I thought about standing up, knocking over the red chair and shouting, "This is a veritable outrage!" as Dad did when he was at a bank filling out a deposit slip and none of the ten pens at the Personal Banking Counter had ink. A middle-aged man always arrived out of the blue, zipping, b.u.t.toning, tucking in shirttails, palming wisps of antenna-hair off his forehead.

Sensing my frustration, Detective Harper reached out, touched the top of my hand, then abruptly sat back again. It was a gesture intended to be comforting but one that came off like putting a nickel in a casino slot machine. You could tell Sergeant Harper didn't know what to do with Tenderness or Femininity. She treated them like frilly sweaters someone had given her for a birthday that she didn't want to wear, yet couldn't throw away.

"I appreciate your efforts," she said, her whiskey-colored eyes seeing, looking, observing my face. "You know. Coming out here. Trying to talk to me. That's why I decided to see you. I didn't have have to see you. The case is closed. I'm not authorized to discuss it with anyone but immediate family. But you came here out of worry, which was nice. The world to see you. The case is closed. I'm not authorized to discuss it with anyone but immediate family. But you came here out of worry, which was nice. The world needs needs nice. But I'll be straight with you. We have no doubts about what happened to your friend, Hannah Schneider. The sooner you accept it, the better." nice. But I'll be straight with you. We have no doubts about what happened to your friend, Hannah Schneider. The sooner you accept it, the better."

Without saying anything more, she leaned across her desk, picked up a blank sheet of white paper and a ballpoint pen. In five minutes, she drew four tiny detailed drawings.

(I've often thought back to this moment, perpetually awed by the simple brilliance of Sergeant Harper. If only everyone, to prove a point, didn't resort to pushy words or aggressive action, but quietly took out a pen, blank paper and drew drew their reasons. It was shockingly persuasive. Unfortunately, I didn't notice this treasure for what it was, and didn't think to take her drawing with me when I left the station. Hence, I've had to draw my own approximations of what she sketched, so meticulously that, intentionally or not, what she'd drawn actually looked a little like Hannah their reasons. It was shockingly persuasive. Unfortunately, I didn't notice this treasure for what it was, and didn't think to take her drawing with me when I left the station. Hence, I've had to draw my own approximations of what she sketched, so meticulously that, intentionally or not, what she'd drawn actually looked a little like Hannah "These here are the kinds of marks left on a body when you got a murder," Sergeant Harper said, pointing to the two sketches on the right side of the paper and glancing at me. "And you can't fake it. Say you decide to strangle someone. You'll leave a mark on the neck that's straight across like this one here. Think of it. The hands. Or say you use a rope to kill 'em. Same thing. Most of the time, it comes with bruising too, or fractured cartilage 'cause the perp'll use more force than necessary due to adrenalin."

She pointed to the other two drawings on the left.

"And this over here is how it looks when someone does it suicide. See? Rope's an upside-down V from the hanging position, the rope being pulled up. Usually there's no evidence of a struggle on the hands, fingernails or neck unless he had second thoughts. Sometimes they try to get out of it because it hurts so bad. See, most people don't do it right. Real hangings, like in the old days, you had to fall straight down, six to ten feet, and you cut straight through the spinal cord. But your average suicide, he'll do it off a chair with the rope tied to a ceiling beam or a hook, and he'll only fall two or three feet. It's not enough to sever the spine so he chokes to death. Takes a couple minutes. And that's how your friend Hannah did it."

"Is it possible to murder someone and have an upside-down V?"

Detective Harper leaned back in her chair. "It's possible. But unlikely. You'd have to have the person unconscious maybe. String them up that way.

Else take them by surprise. Be a trained a.s.sa.s.sin like in the movies." She chuckled, then shot me a suspicious look. "That didn't didn't happen." happen."

I nodded. "She used an electrical cord?"

"It's fairly common."

"But she didn't have an electrical cord when I was with her."

"She probably had it in the pouch around her waist. There was nothing in it but a compa.s.s." "What about a suicide note?" "Didn't leave one. Not everyone does. People with no family usually don't. She was an orphan, after all. Grew up at the Horizon House, a group home for orphans in New Jersey. She had no one. Never did."

I was so surprised I couldn't immediately speak. Like an unexpected result in a Physics lab, this ruthlessly canceled out all I'd believed about Hannah. Of course, she'd had never told us anything about her past (apart from a few anecdotes, dangled like sausages in front of hungry dogs before s.n.a.t.c.hing them away), and yet I'd a.s.sumed her childhood had been teeming with sailboats, lake houses and horses, a father with a pocket watch, a mother with bony hands who never left the house without her Face (a childhood that, funnily enough, overlapped my own mother's in my head).

I hadn't pulled such a past out of thin air-had I? No, the way Hannah lit cigarettes, put her profile on display like an expensive vahze, vahze, chaise-longued over everything, the way she idly picked out words for sentences as if choosing shoes-these details hinted, however loosely, she'd come from a privileged background. There was, too, all that rhetoric she'd droned on about at Hyacinth Terrace -"ft chaise-longued over everything, the way she idly picked out words for sentences as if choosing shoes-these details hinted, however loosely, she'd come from a privileged background. There was, too, all that rhetoric she'd droned on about at Hyacinth Terrace -"ft takes years to overturn this conditioning. I tried my whole life."- takes years to overturn this conditioning. I tried my whole life."-words symptomatic of "Waiting Room Righteousness," but also another one of Dad's phrases, "Bloated Plutocrat Guilt," perpetually "slipshod and short-lived." And even in Cottonwood, when Hannah had slipped into the Country Styles Motel, Room 22, after Doc, one could just have easily a.s.sumed she was entering a La Scala opera box for Mozart's Cost Fan Tutte Cost Fan Tutte (1790), so straight her spine, so heiressesque the angle of her chin. (1790), so straight her spine, so heiressesque the angle of her chin.

Sergeant Harper took my silence for grudging acknowledgment. "She tried it once before, too," she went on. "The exact same way. Electrical extension cord. Right in the woods."

I stared at her."When?"

"Just before she left the home. When she was eighteen. Almost died."

Harper leaned forward so her big face hovered six inches from mine.

"Now"-she leaned in another inch, her voice raspy-"I've told you more than enough. And you got to listen. Time and again, I've seen innocent people get ruined by these things. And it's no good. Because it's not them that did it. It's between that person and G.o.d. So you got to go home, get on with life, not think about it. She was your friend and you want to help her. But I'll tell you, plain as day, she planned it all along. And she wanted the six of you there for it. You understand me?"

"Yes."

"Someone who would do that to innocent children isn't worth getting worked up over, understand?" I nodded. "Good." She cleared her throat, picked up Hannah's file and slid it into the filing cabinet.

A minute later, Dad and I were walking to the car. Heavy sun drooped over Main Street, made it a compost heap of mushy shadows falling off the hot cars hunched along the curb, and the spindly parking signs, and the bicycle dead on its side, chained to a bench.

"Everything's fine now, I trust?" he asked merrily. "Case closed?"

"I don't know."

"How did Big Red treat you?"

"She was nice."

"You two seemed to have a rather tantalizing conversation."

I shrugged.

"You know, I don't think I've ever seen a woman so obscenely orange in all my life. You suppose her hair naturally sprouts from her head that precise shade of carrots, or do you think it's a special kind of peroxide rinse one buys in the hope that it will temporarily blind people? A deliberate police weapon for her to use against the dissolute and depraved."

He was trying to make me laugh, but I only shaded my eyes and waited for him to unlock the car.

27.

Justine.

Hannah's Memorial Service, held the following Friday, April 16, was a sham. It was a Gallwanian ceremony, so naturally there was no coffin.

On Tuesday, when Havermeyer announced the date of the service (also that we were free from cla.s.s afterward, a Hannah Holiday) he further clarified in a voice with the unmistakable tone of an Epilogue or Afterword, that Hannah had been buried in New Jersey. (It was a dismal prospect. I'd never even heard Hannah say New Jersey. New Jersey. ) ) And so it was only us that day, the students, the faculty dressed in earth tones, the St. Gallway Choral Society (seventeen humdrum kids who'd recently tacked the word Society Society onto the end of their name in order to taste exclusivity) and St. Gallway's part-time chaplain, who wasn't Reverend Alfred Johnson, Preacher Johnson or Evangelist Johnson, but the spayed and sanitized Mr. Johnson. Supposedly he'd gone to divinity school, but "as what" n.o.body knew. He was a minister of indeterminate denomination, a truth Headmaster Havermeyer forbade him to disclose or even indirectly allude to during his Friday morning service, in order to avoid offending the one kid whose parents were Latter-Day Saints (Cadence Bosco). In the St. Gallway Admissions Catalogue, onto the end of their name in order to taste exclusivity) and St. Gallway's part-time chaplain, who wasn't Reverend Alfred Johnson, Preacher Johnson or Evangelist Johnson, but the spayed and sanitized Mr. Johnson. Supposedly he'd gone to divinity school, but "as what" n.o.body knew. He was a minister of indeterminate denomination, a truth Headmaster Havermeyer forbade him to disclose or even indirectly allude to during his Friday morning service, in order to avoid offending the one kid whose parents were Latter-Day Saints (Cadence Bosco). In the St. Gallway Admissions Catalogue, Higher Learning, Higher Grounds, Higher Learning, Higher Grounds, the two-story stone chapel was described as a "sanctuary," technically unaffiliated with a particular religion (though during the holiday season, there were "secular tidings"). It was simply a "house of faith." Exactly which faith was anybody's guess. I doubt even the two-story stone chapel was described as a "sanctuary," technically unaffiliated with a particular religion (though during the holiday season, there were "secular tidings"). It was simply a "house of faith." Exactly which faith was anybody's guess. I doubt even Mr. Mr. Johnson knew. Mr. Johnson didn't wear a vicar's collar but khakis and short-sleeve polo shirts in forest green and royal blue, giving him the air of a golf caddy. And when he talked about a Higher Power, he used words like Johnson knew. Mr. Johnson didn't wear a vicar's collar but khakis and short-sleeve polo shirts in forest green and royal blue, giving him the air of a golf caddy. And when he talked about a Higher Power, he used words like gratifying, restorative gratifying, restorative and and life-changing. life-changing. It was something that "got you through the tough times," which "any young person could manage with a little hard work, trust and tenacity." G.o.d was a trip to Cancun. It was something that "got you through the tough times," which "any young person could manage with a little hard work, trust and tenacity." G.o.d was a trip to Cancun.

I sat with the seniors, second pew from the front, staring down at the play I'd brought with me, A Moon for the Misbegotten for the Misbegotten (O'Neill, 1943) in order to avoid any eye contact with the Bluebloods. Apart from Jade and Nigel (whose mother had dropped him off one morning directly in front of the Volvo- which I stalled leaving by unzipping and zipping my backpack until he disappeared inside Hanover), I hadn't seen the others a single time. (O'Neill, 1943) in order to avoid any eye contact with the Bluebloods. Apart from Jade and Nigel (whose mother had dropped him off one morning directly in front of the Volvo- which I stalled leaving by unzipping and zipping my backpack until he disappeared inside Hanover), I hadn't seen the others a single time.

I'd heard tidbits of rumor: "I can't remember what I ever saw in Milton," said Macon Campins in AP English. "I was next to him in Biology and he totally doesn't look hot anymore." "Joalie broke up with him for that very reason," said Engella Grand. During Morning Announcements and lunch (occasions when I hoped to sneak a speedy look at one of them the way Dad and I had peeked inside the trailer of the world's smallest she-male at the Screamfest Fantasy Circus) they were nowhere to be found. I could only a.s.sume their parents had made some sort of arrangement with Mr. b.u.t.ters and all five of them were attending rigorous morning and afternoon counseling sessions with Deb Cromwell. Deb, a short, yellow-complexioned woman, slow in movement and fatty in word (a walking wedge of Camembert) had made herself right at home in Hanover Room 109, erecting a variety of posters and cardboard displays. On my way to AP Calculus, as I darted past her room, I noticed, unless Mirtha Grazeley had wandered in (probably by accident, they said she often confused other rooms in Hanover with her office, including the Men's Room), Deb was always sitting in there alone, keeping herself occupied by paging through her own Depression pamphlets.

Now, behind us on the balcony, the Choral Society started to sing, "All Glory, laud, and honor," and the Bluebloods were still missing. I was just starting to presume, yet again, they were marooned in Deb Cromwell's office, Deb turning them on to the pleasures of Self-Acceptance and Letting Go, when Deb herself, a smile gooped onto her face, hastened into the chapel with Ms. Jarvis, the school nurse, lumping herself onto the end of a pew where Havermeyer was sitting with his wife, Gloria, so ma.s.sively pregnant she looked like she'd been pinned to the ground by a boulder.

Then, I heard someone gasp -it was Donnamara Chase sitting behind me; she needed smelling salts-and most of the school, including a few teachers, swiveled around to watch the five of them saunter in, single file and self-loving (see Abbey Road, Abbey Road, The Beatles, 1969). They were head to toe in black. Milton and Nigel looked like ninjas (one XS, the other XL), Leulah, in a long-skirted, high-necked chiffon number, looked vaguely vampiric. Jade was blatantly ripping off Jackie at Arlington (saucer-sized sungla.s.ses on her head and a vintage black alligator handbag were stand-ins for the veil and John-John). Charles was the charred elephant bringing up the rear. He was in black, too, but the giant plaster cast on his left leg (ankle to upper thigh) jutted out like a giant ivory tusk. As he limped along with his crutches, glowering at the floor, disturbingly pasty and thin, his face wet with sweat (gold hair stuck in Os along his forehead like soggy Cheerios in a bowl) I felt sick-not because I wasn't with them or dressed in black (I hadn't thought about my outfit; I'd put on a stupid short floral thing), but because he looked so unlike that first time I'd seen him, when he tapped my shoulder during Morning Announcements back in the fall. He was a different person. If once he'd been a The Beatles, 1969). They were head to toe in black. Milton and Nigel looked like ninjas (one XS, the other XL), Leulah, in a long-skirted, high-necked chiffon number, looked vaguely vampiric. Jade was blatantly ripping off Jackie at Arlington (saucer-sized sungla.s.ses on her head and a vintage black alligator handbag were stand-ins for the veil and John-John). Charles was the charred elephant bringing up the rear. He was in black, too, but the giant plaster cast on his left leg (ankle to upper thigh) jutted out like a giant ivory tusk. As he limped along with his crutches, glowering at the floor, disturbingly pasty and thin, his face wet with sweat (gold hair stuck in Os along his forehead like soggy Cheerios in a bowl) I felt sick-not because I wasn't with them or dressed in black (I hadn't thought about my outfit; I'd put on a stupid short floral thing), but because he looked so unlike that first time I'd seen him, when he tapped my shoulder during Morning Announcements back in the fall. He was a different person. If once he'd been a Goodnight Moon Goodnight Moon (Brown, 1947), now he was a (Brown, 1947), now he was a Where the Wild Things Are Where the Wild Things Are (Sendak, 1963). (Sendak, 1963).

The Bluebloods wedged themselves into the row in front of me.

"We gather here today in this sacred haven both to grieve and to give thanks," began Mr. Johnson in the pulpit. He licked his lips as he paused to glance down at his papers. (He was always licking his lips; they were like potato chips, salty and addictive.) "Since our beloved Hannah Schneider left us over three weeks ago, throughout our community there have been resounding accolades, words of warmth and kindness, stories of how she affected our lives in ways both great and small. Today, we join together to give thankfulness for being blessed with such an extraordinary teacher and friend. We give thanks for her kindness, her humanity and caring, her courage in adversity and the overwhelming joy she brought to so many. Life is eternal and love is everlasting and death is nothing but a horizon and a horizon is nothing but the boundary of our sight."

Johnson went on and on, giving an equal amount of eye contact to every third of the congregation with the mechanized surety of a sprinkler system, most likely having learned this from a course, How to Give a Mesmerizing Sermon, with its concepts of Bringing Everyone In and Evoking a Feeling of Togetherness and Universal Humanity. The speech wasn't terrible, but it wasn't at all specific to Hannah. It was teeming with She Was a Lights and She Would Have Wanteds, mentioning nothing of her real real life, a life, which Havermayer and the rest of the administration were now all deeply afraid of, as if they'd secretly discovered asbestos in Elton House or found out Christian Gordon, St. Gallway's Head Chef, had Hepat.i.tis A. I could almost see the paper on the podium filled with life, a life, which Havermayer and the rest of the administration were now all deeply afraid of, as if they'd secretly discovered asbestos in Elton House or found out Christian Gordon, St. Gallway's Head Chef, had Hepat.i.tis A. I could almost see the paper on the podium filled with (Insert Deceased's Name Here) (Insert Deceased's Name Here) (see www.123eulogy.com, #8). (see www.123eulogy.com, #8).

When it was over, the Choral Society erupted, marginally off-key, into "Come Down O Love, Divine," and students began to spill out of the pews, smiling, laughing, loosening their ties, tightening their ponytails. I took my last contraband look at the Bluebloods, shocked at how still they sat, how stony their faces. They hadn't whispered or grimaced a single time during Johnson's speech, although Leulah, as if feeling my eyes on her, had abruptly turned her doilied face in my direction during Eva Brewster's Psalms Reading and, teeth clenched so her cheek dented, looked straight straight at me. (But then, almost immediately, she'd turned into one of those Highway Window Gazers; Dad and I would speed past them in the Volvo all the time, and they always stared past us, at something infinitely more interesting than our faces: the gra.s.s, the billboards, the sky.) at me. (But then, almost immediately, she'd turned into one of those Highway Window Gazers; Dad and I would speed past them in the Volvo all the time, and they always stared past us, at something infinitely more interesting than our faces: the gra.s.s, the billboards, the sky.) As Havermeyer made his way down the aisle, smiling a lead pipe smile with no joy behind it, rolling Gloria along next to him, and Mr. Johnson after her, jolly as Fred Astaire fox-trotting with one h.e.l.luva girl ("Have a great day everybody!" he sang), without a word to anyone, chins held at the exact angle Hannah held hers while salsaing with her winegla.s.s to Peggy Lee's "Fever" (or at dinner, pretending to be interested in one of their meandering stories), one by one, the Bluebloods rose and paraded down the aisle, disappearing into the bright bland day waiting for them.

I'd forgotten to tell Dad it was a half day, so I hurried down the deserted first floor of Hanover to use the pay phone.

"Olives," I heard someone shout behind me. "Wait up."

It was Milton. I wasn't exactly overjoyed at the prospect of chatting with him-who knew what sort of abuse I'd have to endure, unleashed by that tepid memorial service-but I forced myself to stand ground. "Never retreat unless death is certain," wrote n.o.bunaga Kobay^shi in How to Be a Shogun a.s.sa.s.sin How to Be a Shogun a.s.sa.s.sin (1989). (1989).

"Hey," he said with one of his sloth smiles.

I only nodded.

"How ya doin'?"

"Great."

He raised his eyebrows at this and shoved his big hands into his pockets.

Yet again, he took his Grand Ole Time with conversation. One Ming Dynasty rose and fell between the end of one sentence and the beginning of the next.

"I wanted to talk to you," he said.

I didn't say a word. word. Let the big ninja do the talking. Let Let the big ninja do the talking. Let him him scrounge around for a few sentences. "Well." He sighed. "I don't see how she coulda killed herself." "Not bad, Quiet Man. Now why don't you tie that notion into a noose and see if it's strong enough to hang yourself?" scrounge around for a few sentences. "Well." He sighed. "I don't see how she coulda killed herself." "Not bad, Quiet Man. Now why don't you tie that notion into a noose and see if it's strong enough to hang yourself?"

He looked stunned, maybe even flabbergasted. Dad said it was nearly impossible to flabbergast a person in this tawdry day and age, when "kinky s.e.x was mundane," "a flasher in a trench coat in a public park, routine as cornfields in Kansas," but I think I'd done it to this kid-I really did. Obviously, he wasn't used to my tough ranchero tone of voice. Obviously, he wasn't used to the new new Blue, Blue the Conqueror, the Hondo, King of the Pecos, Blue Steel, the feral Born to the West Blue, that Lucky Texan, that Lady from Louisiana, who shot from the hip, sat tall in the saddle and rode the lonely trail. (Obviously, he'd never read Blue, Blue the Conqueror, the Hondo, King of the Pecos, Blue Steel, the feral Born to the West Blue, that Lucky Texan, that Lady from Louisiana, who shot from the hip, sat tall in the saddle and rode the lonely trail. (Obviously, he'd never read Grit Grit [Reynolds, 1974]. It was what Buckeye Birdie said to Shortcut Smith.) [Reynolds, 1974]. It was what Buckeye Birdie said to Shortcut Smith.) "Want to get the h.e.l.l out of here?" Milton asked.

I nodded.

I suppose everyone has his/her Open Sesame, his/her Abracadabra or Presto Chango, the arbitrary word, event or unforeseen signal that knocks a person down, causes him/her to behave, either permanently or for the short term, out of the blue, contrary to expectation, from nowhere. A shade is pulled, a door creaks open, some kid goes from Geek to Glamour Boy. And Milton's Hocus-Pocus, his Master Key, happened to be a flowy sentence in Mr. Johnson's generic speech, a speech Dad would call "stirring as a wall of cinder blocks," indicative of the "Hallmark fever infecting our politicians and official spokesmen of late. When they speak, actual words don't emerge, but summer afternoons of draining sun and tepid breeze and chirping Tufted t.i.tmice one would feel gleeful shooting with a handgun."

"When he said that thing about Hannah bein' like a flower," Milton said, "like a rose and all, I felt kinda moved." His big right arm lumber-rolled on top of the steering wheel as he edged the Nissan between the cars and out of the Student Parking Lot. "I couldn't stay angry 'bout what happened, 'specially not at my girl, Olives. I tried telling Jade and Charles it wasn't your fault, but they're not seein' straight."

He smiled. It was like one of those Viking ships in amus.e.m.e.nt parks, swerving up onto his face, dangling there for a few seconds nearly vertical to the ground, before swinging off again. Love, or more accurately, infatuation infatuation ("Take as much care with words expressing your sentiments as you will crafting your doctoral dissertation," Dad said.) was one of those no-good drifter emotions. After everything that happened, I didn't think I felt a ("Take as much care with words expressing your sentiments as you will crafting your doctoral dissertation," Dad said.) was one of those no-good drifter emotions. After everything that happened, I didn't think I felt a thing thing for Milton, not anymore; I a.s.sumed my feelings had skipped town. But now he smiled, and there they were, those old sweaty sentiments slinking down the road again, waiting for me to acknowledge them by the bus station in a greasy wife-beater, cowboy hat, muscles frighteningly potholed and slick. for Milton, not anymore; I a.s.sumed my feelings had skipped town. But now he smiled, and there they were, those old sweaty sentiments slinking down the road again, waiting for me to acknowledge them by the bus station in a greasy wife-beater, cowboy hat, muscles frighteningly potholed and slick.

"Hannah told me I had to take you to her house when we got back from the camping trip. I figured we'd head over there, if you can handle it."

I glanced over at him, confused. "What?"

He let my words sit on the dock of the bay for at least thirty seconds before answering. "Remember Hannah had those private conversations with each us hikin' up the mountain?"

I nodded.

"That's when she said it. I forgot about it 'til a couple of days ago. And now-" "What did she say?"

" 'Take Blue to my house when you get back. Just the two of you.' She repeated it three times. Remember how crazy she was that day? Orderin' everyone around, screamin' off mountaintops? And when she said it, I didn't even recognize her. She was mean. mean. Still, I laughed it off and said, 'I don't get it. You can have Blue over anytime.' Instead of answering directly, she only repeated the sentence. 'Take Blue to my house when you get back. You'll understand.' She made me swear I'd do it and that I wouldn't say anything to the others." Still, I laughed it off and said, 'I don't get it. You can have Blue over anytime.' Instead of answering directly, she only repeated the sentence. 'Take Blue to my house when you get back. You'll understand.' She made me swear I'd do it and that I wouldn't say anything to the others."

He switched on the radio. His shirtsleeves were rolled up to his elbows, so when he shifted gears, the cute burnt toes of the tattoo angel became visible like the edge of a seash.e.l.l peeking out of sand.

"What was strange," he continued in his buffalo voice, "was that she said you. you. 'When 'When you you get back.' Not when get back.' Not when we we get back. Well, I've been thinking about the get back. Well, I've been thinking about the you. you. It can only mean one thing. She never planned to return with us." It can only mean one thing. She never planned to return with us."

"I thought you didn't think she committed suicide."

He seemed to tobacco-chew this for a minute, squinting in the sun, shoving down the sun visor. We were speeding along the highway now, barreling through the thickened sunshine and the limp-rag shadows of the trees standing stiffly on the shoulder of the road. They held their branches high in the air-as if they knew the answer to an important question, as if they hoped to be called on. The Nissan was old and as Milton shifted the gears it rattled like one of those famished motel beds one feeds quarters to, a bed I'd never seen first-hand, though Dad claimed he'd counted seven within a one-mile radius in Northern Chad. ("They don't have running water or bathrooms, but never fear, they have beds that buzz.") "She was sayin' good-bye to us during those talks," he said, clearing his throat. "She told Leulah, 'Never be scared to cut your hair.' And Jade. She said, 'A lady should be a lady even when she removes her little black dress'- whatever the h.e.l.l that that means. She told Nigel to be himself, then somethin' about wallpaper. 'Change the wallpaper as much as you like and screw how much it costs. You're the one who has to live there.' And she said to me, before the thing about you, she said, 'You just might be an astronaut. You just might walk on the moon.' And Charles -no one knows what she said to him. He refuses to say. But Jade thinks she confessed she loved him. What'd she say to you?" means. She told Nigel to be himself, then somethin' about wallpaper. 'Change the wallpaper as much as you like and screw how much it costs. You're the one who has to live there.' And she said to me, before the thing about you, she said, 'You just might be an astronaut. You just might walk on the moon.' And Charles -no one knows what she said to him. He refuses to say. But Jade thinks she confessed she loved him. What'd she say to you?"

I didn't answer, because obviously Hannah hadn't said anything to me, not a single sentence of encouragement, however inscrutable and bizarre it sounded (no offense to Milton, but frankly, he didn't strike me as the astronaut type; it was dangerous for a kid that size to float through the shuttle at zero gravity).

"See, I don't want to believe suicide," he went on thoughtfully, "because it makes me feel stupid. In hindsight, though, it adds up. She was always alone. That haircut haircut Then, there's what happened to the Smoke guy. And her thing for truckers who eat at Stuckey's. s.h.i.t. It was all just sittin' there. Obvious. And we didn't see it. How's it possible?" Then, there's what happened to the Smoke guy. And her thing for truckers who eat at Stuckey's. s.h.i.t. It was all just sittin' there. Obvious. And we didn't see it. How's it possible?"

He looked to me for help, but obviously I didn't have a decent answer. I watched his eyes ski down the front of my dress, stopping somewhere around my bare knees.

"Any idea why she'd want me to take you to her house? Alone?" Alone?"

I shrugged, but the way he asked made me wonder if Hannah, after my flat-falling attempt to fix her up with Dad (mind you, that'd been B.c., or, before I knew about Cottonwood; A.C, or after Cottonwood, I'd sort of decided, for health reasons, she really wasn't Dad's dish), wanted to return the favor and had decided to tuck this s.e.xy question mark of a sentence into Milton's breast pocket, thereby ensuring at some point, in the Big-Bang aftermath of the camping trip (it was a simple scientific principle: after explosions, new beginnings) we'd conveniently find ourselves together, alone, in her empty house. Maybe she'd caught wind of my fixation from Jade or Lu or had figured it out on her own, given my graceless behavior at dinner. (I wouldn't be surprised if all Fall and Winter Semester I'd had bird-nervous eyes: at Mil-ton's slightest movement, instantly airborne.) "Hopefully, she left you a suitcase full of cash," Milton said, smiling lazily. "And maybe if I'm nice, you'll split it with me."

As we approached Hannah's house, slipping past the pastures, the quiet barns, the horses waiting like men in bus stations (the sun had cemented their hooves to the gra.s.s), the corkscrew tree, that little patch of hill where Jade always floored the Mercedes so the car flew over the top and our stomachs flipped like pancakes, I told Milton my account of what happened on the mountain. (As with Jade, I omitted the section where I found Hannah dead.) When he asked me what I thought Hannah was going to tell me, why she'd led me away from the campground, I lied and said I didn't have a clue.

Well, it wasn't exactly a lie. I didn't didn't know. But it wasn't as if I hadn't outlined, in the middle of the night, in meticulous detail, in the library silence of my room, on my Citizen-Kane desk (switching out my light if I heard Dad skulking around the stairs to make sure I was asleep), the Infinite Possibilities. know. But it wasn't as if I hadn't outlined, in the middle of the night, in meticulous detail, in the library silence of my room, on my Citizen-Kane desk (switching out my light if I heard Dad skulking around the stairs to make sure I was asleep), the Infinite Possibilities.

After laying some groundwork, I'd concluded there were two generalized schools of thought arising from this mystery. (This wasn't including the possibility Milton had just disclosed, that Hannah might have wanted to hand me a few lukewarm good-byes-that one day I'd be strolling Mars, or that I shouldn't hesitate to repaint my house in a flamboyant color since I was the one who lived there-stale, crumbly, oyster-cracker phrases she could have easily said to me as we hiked the trail. No, I'd have to a.s.sume what Hannah wanted to tell me was entirely different, more vital than anything she'd whispered to the Bluebloods.) The first school of thought then, was that Hannah wished to confess something to me. It was an attractive idea, considering her hoa.r.s.e voice, moth-moving eyes, the fitful starts and stops of her sentences as if she were operated by sporadic electricity. And what what she wanted to confess could be any number of things, ranging from the cra.s.s to the crazy-her Cottonwood habit, for example, or an accidental affair with Charles, or that somehow she'd managed to kill Smoke Harvey; or perhaps she'd cultivated (another one of Jade's shot put accusations, flung out with all her might, then forgotten as she strolled back to the locker room for stretches) a secret a.s.sociation with the Manson Family. (Incidentally, I still had Hannah's copy she wanted to confess could be any number of things, ranging from the cra.s.s to the crazy-her Cottonwood habit, for example, or an accidental affair with Charles, or that somehow she'd managed to kill Smoke Harvey; or perhaps she'd cultivated (another one of Jade's shot put accusations, flung out with all her might, then forgotten as she strolled back to the locker room for stretches) a secret a.s.sociation with the Manson Family. (Incidentally, I still had Hannah's copy of Blackbird Singing in the Dead of Night of Blackbird Singing in the Dead of Night stored in a bottom desk drawer. My heart had stopped when I'd overheard Dee mention in second period Study Hall that Hannah had asked her Intro to Film cla.s.s if anyone had removed a book from her desk. "Some bird book," Dee said with a shrug.) stored in a bottom desk drawer. My heart had stopped when I'd overheard Dee mention in second period Study Hall that Hannah had asked her Intro to Film cla.s.s if anyone had removed a book from her desk. "Some bird book," Dee said with a shrug.) If this this thesis was true-that Hannah had hoped to disclose a secret-I could only surmise she chose me to confess to, over say, Jade or Leulah, because I looked unthreatening. Maybe she sensed, too, I'd read all of Scobel Bedlows Jr., his essays on judgments; basically, you weren't allowed to have any so long as "devastation was directed inwards, at yourself, never other people or animals" (see thesis was true-that Hannah had hoped to disclose a secret-I could only surmise she chose me to confess to, over say, Jade or Leulah, because I looked unthreatening. Maybe she sensed, too, I'd read all of Scobel Bedlows Jr., his essays on judgments; basically, you weren't allowed to have any so long as "devastation was directed inwards, at yourself, never other people or animals" (see When to Stone, When to Stone, Bedlows, 1968). Hannah also seemed to have had an innate understanding of Dad and perhaps she figured I was already a highly forgiving person, that I did my best to treat shortcomings like hobos I'd found dozing on my porch: take them in and maybe they'll work for you. Bedlows, 1968). Hannah also seemed to have had an innate understanding of Dad and perhaps she figured I was already a highly forgiving person, that I did my best to treat shortcomings like hobos I'd found dozing on my porch: take them in and maybe they'll work for you.

The second school of thought, and obviously the more disturbing one, was that Hannah wanted to disclose a secret All About Me.

I was the only one, out of all of them, who hadn't washed ash.o.r.e and been collected by Hannah after some tempest of a home life. I'd never run off with an old Turk, tried to throw my arms around the torso of a trucker (and strained to touch my hands together on the other side), suffered a street-life blackout, had a parent who was a junkie or in maximum-security prison. I wondered if Hannah knew a secret that revealed me to be like them.

What If Dad really wasn't my dad, for example? What If he'd found me like some penny on a public promenade? What If Hannah was my real mother who'd given me up for adoption because no one wanted to get married in the late eighties; everyone wanted to go roller-skating and wear shoulder pads? Or What If I had a fraternal twin named Sapphire who was everything I wasn't-gorgeous, athletic, funny and tan with a carefree laugh, blessed not with an Osmium Dad (the heaviest metal known to man) but a Lithium Mom (the lightest) who slaved not as a vagabond professor and essayist, but was simply a waitress in Reno?