He sighed and put his hands in perfect This-is-the-church-this-is-the-steeple architecture. "It's really quite simple. You introduced us again on the occasion she drove you home. Sometime in October, wasn't it? You remember?"

I nodded.

"Well, the woman called me shortly thereafter. Said she was worried about you. You and I weren't on the best of terms, if you recall, so naturally, I was concerned and accepted her invitation to meet for dinner. She chose a rather inappropriately ornate restaurant, Hyacinth something, and over the course of the seven-course meal proceeded to inform me it was a swell swell idea for you to start seeing a child psychiatrist to work out some issues you had with your deceased mother. Naturally, I was livid. The sheer idea for you to start seeing a child psychiatrist to work out some issues you had with your deceased mother. Naturally, I was livid. The sheer gall gall of the woman! But then, when I came home, of the woman! But then, when I came home, saw saw you-saw your hair, the natural color of feldspar-I began to worry if perhaps she was right. Yes, it was an idiotic, you-saw your hair, the natural color of feldspar-I began to worry if perhaps she was right. Yes, it was an idiotic, insulting insulting a.s.sumption on my part, but all the same, I've always been nervous, raising you without your mother. You could say it's been my Achilles' heel. And so I had dinner with her two more times, in order to discuss the possibility of your a.s.sumption on my part, but all the same, I've always been nervous, raising you without your mother. You could say it's been my Achilles' heel. And so I had dinner with her two more times, in order to discuss the possibility of your seeing seeing someone, at the end of which I realized, not only did you someone, at the end of which I realized, not only did you not not need help, need help, she she needed help. And rather urgently." Dad sighed. "I know you liked her, but she was not the most stable of people. She called my office a few times after that. I told her you and I had managed to work things out, that we were needed help. And rather urgently." Dad sighed. "I know you liked her, but she was not the most stable of people. She called my office a few times after that. I told her you and I had managed to work things out, that we were fine. fine. And she accepted it. Shortly thereafter, we flew to Paris. I hadn't talked to or heard anything about her since. Until she committed suicide. Tragic, certainly, but I can't say I was surprised." And she accepted it. Shortly thereafter, we flew to Paris. I hadn't talked to or heard anything about her since. Until she committed suicide. Tragic, certainly, but I can't say I was surprised."

"When did you send her the barbaresco orientals?"

"I-the what?" what?"

"Obviously you didn't buy them for Janet Finnsbroke who dates back to the Paleozoic Period. You bought them for Hannah Schneider."

He stared at me. "Yes. I-well, I didn't want you to - "

"Then you were madly in love with her," I interrupted. "Don't lie. Say Say it-" Dad laughed. "Hardly." "No one buys barbaresco orientals for someone they're not in love with." it-" Dad laughed. "Hardly." "No one buys barbaresco orientals for someone they're not in love with."

"Then call Guinness. I am the first, my dear." He shook his head. "I told told you. I thought she was rather sad. I sent her flowers after one of our dinners, after I told her, rather harshly, what I thought of her-that she was one of those despairing people who concoct madcap theories about others-and doubtlessly for herself-purely for entertainment as their own lives are so dull. Such people wish to be bigger than they actually are. And naturally, when one speaks one's mind-tells someone the truth, or one's personal version of it-it never goes over well. Someone always ends up crying. Remember what I've always said about truth, standing in a long black dress in the corner, feet together, head down?" you. I thought she was rather sad. I sent her flowers after one of our dinners, after I told her, rather harshly, what I thought of her-that she was one of those despairing people who concoct madcap theories about others-and doubtlessly for herself-purely for entertainment as their own lives are so dull. Such people wish to be bigger than they actually are. And naturally, when one speaks one's mind-tells someone the truth, or one's personal version of it-it never goes over well. Someone always ends up crying. Remember what I've always said about truth, standing in a long black dress in the corner, feet together, head down?"

"She's the loneliest girl in the room."

"Precisely. Contrary to popular belief, no one wants anything to do with her. She's too depressing to be around. Trust me, everyone prefers to dance with something a little s.e.xier, a little more comforting. And so I sent flowers. I didn't know what kind they were. I asked the florist to pick something-"

"They were barbaresco oriental lilies."

Dad smiled. "Well, now I know."

I didn't say anything. The position at which Dad was sitting, turned away from the lamplight, made his face old. The wrinkles on his face textured him. Lines cut toward his eyes and along his face, in his hands, tiny tears all over him.

"So it was you calling that night," I said.

He looked at me. "What?"

"The night I ran away to her house. You called her."

"Who?"

"Hannah Schneider. I was there when the phone rang. She said it was Jade, but it wasn't Jade. It was you." "Yes," he said softly, nodding. "Maybe that's right. I did call her." "See? You-you have an entire relationship relationship with her and you- " with her and you- " "Why do you think I calledher?" "Why do you think I calledher?" Dad shouted. "That nut job was my only lead! I didn't know the names or telephone numbers of any of those other pieces of fuzz you'd befriended. And when she told me you'd just materialized on her doorstep, immediately I wanted to come get you, but again, she proposed one of her squishy psychoa.n.a.lytic ideas and I, being something of a fool when it comes to my daughter as we've Dad shouted. "That nut job was my only lead! I didn't know the names or telephone numbers of any of those other pieces of fuzz you'd befriended. And when she told me you'd just materialized on her doorstep, immediately I wanted to come get you, but again, she proposed one of her squishy psychoa.n.a.lytic ideas and I, being something of a fool when it comes to my daughter as we've well well established this evening, I went along with it. 'Leave her alone. We need to talk. Just us girls.' Dear established this evening, I went along with it. 'Leave her alone. We need to talk. Just us girls.' Dear G.o.d. G.o.d. If there's one supremely puffed-up concept in all of Western Culture, it's the If there's one supremely puffed-up concept in all of Western Culture, it's the talk. talk. Doesn't anyone remember that cute little phrase, which I happen to find rather illuminating? Talk is cheap?" Doesn't anyone remember that cute little phrase, which I happen to find rather illuminating? Talk is cheap?"

"Why didn't you say something?"

"I suppose I was embarra.s.sed." Dad gazed at the floor, the landfill of books. "After all, you were completing your application to Harvard. I didn't wish to upset you."

"Maybe I wouldn't have been upset. Maybe I'm more upset now." now."

"Granted, it wasn't the wisest decision, but it was a decision I thought best at the time. Anyway, this business with Hannah Schneider is finished. May she rest in peace. The school year's nearly over." Dad sighed. "It's one for the books, is it not? I think Stockton is certainly the most theatrical town in which we've lived. It has all the elements of a good piece of fiction. More pa.s.sion than Peyton Place, more frustration than Yoknapatawpha County. And it's certainly up there with Macondo in terms of sheer elements of the bizarre. It has s.e.x, sin and that most painful quality of all, youthful disillusionment. You're ready, sweet. You no longer need your old pa."

My hands were cold. I walked over to the yellow couch in front of the windows and sat down. "It's not all finished with Hannah Schneider," I said. "You have blood here." I showed him.

"You got me, huh," he said sheepishly, touching his face. "Was it the Bible or An American Tragedy? American Tragedy? I'd like to know for symbolic purposes." I'd like to know for symbolic purposes."

"There's more about Hannah Schneider."

"I might need st.i.tches."

"Her real name was Catherine Baker. She was an old member of The Night.w.a.tchmen. She murdered a policeman."

My words were like a ghost pa.s.sing through Dad; not that I'd ever seen a ghost pa.s.sing through a person, but his face drained of color-fell out of him like water poured from a bucket. He stared at me, expressionless.

"I'm not kidding," I said. "And if you want to confess something about your own involvement, recruiting or-or murder or blowing up one of your capitalist Harvard colleagues, you'd better do it right now, because I'm going to know everything. I won't stop." The resolve in my voice surprised Dad, but especially me; it was as if my voice was stronger than I was. It threw itself onto the ground, leading the way like slabs of stone.

Dad was squinting. He looked as if, suddenly, he had no idea who I was. "But they never existed," he said slowly. "Not for thirty years. They're a fairy tale."

"Not necessarily. It's all over the Internet that-"

"Oh, the Internet," Dad interrupted. "As powerful a source as they come. If we open that gate, we must also usher in Elvis, still alive and kicking, popup ads -I don't understand why you're bringing up The Night.w.a.tchmen. You've been reading my old lectures, Federal Forum- ?" Federal Forum- ?"

"The founder, George Gracey, is still alive. He lives in Paxos. A man named Smoke Harvey drowned in Hannah's swimming pool last fall and he'd tracked him down and-"

"Of course," Dad nodded, "I remember her whining about it-obviously yet another reason why she went bananas." "No," I said. "She killed killed him. Because he was researching a book about Gracey. He was going to expose him. All of them. The entire organization." Dad raised his eyebrows. "Well, you've obviously done quite a bit of work figuring this out. Go on." him. Because he was researching a book about Gracey. He was going to expose him. All of them. The entire organization." Dad raised his eyebrows. "Well, you've obviously done quite a bit of work figuring this out. Go on."

I hesitated; Burt Towelson wrote in Guerrilla Girls Guerrilla Girls (1986) to preserve the purity of any investigation one had to be vigilant about whom one spoke to concerning the scary truths that had emerged; but then, if I couldn't trust Dad, I couldn't trust anyone. He was staring at me as he'd stared at me a thousand times before, whenever we moseyed through my thesis for an upcoming research paper (his expression interested but doubtful he'd be (1986) to preserve the purity of any investigation one had to be vigilant about whom one spoke to concerning the scary truths that had emerged; but then, if I couldn't trust Dad, I couldn't trust anyone. He was staring at me as he'd stared at me a thousand times before, whenever we moseyed through my thesis for an upcoming research paper (his expression interested but doubtful he'd be wowed) and so it seemed an inevitable thing to walk him through my theory, My Grand Scheme of Things. I began with Hannah plotting her own exit because of what Ada Harvey knew, how she left me L'Avventura, L'Avventura, "The Flying Demoiselle," the costume party, a version of Connault Helig's elimination technique employed to murder Smoke, Hannah's history of the Bluebloods paralleling Catherine Baker's history, her preoccupation with Missing Persons and, finally, my telephone conversation with Ada Harvey. In the beginning, Dad stared at me as if I was a lunatic, but as I went on, he began to hang on my every word. In fact, I hadn't seen Dad this engrossed since he obtained a newsstand copy of the June 1999 issue "The Flying Demoiselle," the costume party, a version of Connault Helig's elimination technique employed to murder Smoke, Hannah's history of the Bluebloods paralleling Catherine Baker's history, her preoccupation with Missing Persons and, finally, my telephone conversation with Ada Harvey. In the beginning, Dad stared at me as if I was a lunatic, but as I went on, he began to hang on my every word. In fact, I hadn't seen Dad this engrossed since he obtained a newsstand copy of the June 1999 issue oiThe New Republic, oiThe New Republic, in which his lengthy satiric response to an article ent.i.tled, "Little Shop of Horrors: A History of Afghanistan," had been printed in the Letters section. in which his lengthy satiric response to an article ent.i.tled, "Little Shop of Horrors: A History of Afghanistan," had been printed in the Letters section.

When I finished, I expected him to hurl questions at me, but he remained thoughtfully silent for a minute, maybe two.

He frowned. "So who killed poor Miss Schneider?"

Naturally, Dad would have to ask the one one question I had only a rickety-bridge answer to. Ada Harvey had said she thought Hannah had committed suicide, but since question I had only a rickety-bridge answer to. Ada Harvey had said she thought Hannah had committed suicide, but since I'd I'd heard that stranger bounding through the trees, I tended to think someone in heard that stranger bounding through the trees, I tended to think someone in Nachtlich Nachtlich had done it; Hannah had been a liability when she'd killed the State Trooper, and with Ada telephoning the FBI and the possibility of her capture, Gracey, the entire group's clandestine existence was at risk. But I didn't know any of this for certain, and as Dad said, one should never "dribble speculation like a leaky garbage bag." had done it; Hannah had been a liability when she'd killed the State Trooper, and with Ada telephoning the FBI and the possibility of her capture, Gracey, the entire group's clandestine existence was at risk. But I didn't know any of this for certain, and as Dad said, one should never "dribble speculation like a leaky garbage bag."

"Well, I'm not sure, exactly," I said.

He nodded and said nothing more.

"Have you written about Nachtlich Nachtlich recently?" I asked. recently?" I asked.

He shook his head. "No. Why?"

"Remember the way we met Hannah Schneider-she was in Fat Kat Foods and then she reappeared at the shoe store?" "Yes," he said, after a moment. "Ada Harvey described the same thing when she told me how Hannah met her father. She'd planned the whole encounter. So I was worried maybe you were her next victim, because you were writing something-"

"Sweet," Dad interjected, "as flattered as I'd be for Miss Baker to choose me as her target-never been anyone's target before-there is is no Night-watchmen, not any longer. They're considered by even the most laid-back of political theorists to be a mere fantasy. And what are fantasies? What we use to pillow ourselves against the world. Our world, it's a cruel parquet- no Night-watchmen, not any longer. They're considered by even the most laid-back of political theorists to be a mere fantasy. And what are fantasies? What we use to pillow ourselves against the world. Our world, it's a cruel parquet-murder to sleep on. Besides, this isn't the age of revolutionaries, but an age of isolationaries. Man's proclivity today is not to unite, but to cut himself off from others, step on them, grab as much to sleep on. Besides, this isn't the age of revolutionaries, but an age of isolationaries. Man's proclivity today is not to unite, but to cut himself off from others, step on them, grab as much dough dough as he can. As you know too, history is cyclical and we're not due for another uprising-even a silent one-for another two hundred years. More to the point, I remember reading an in-depth piece about Catherine Baker being a Parisian gypsy in origin, so however thrilling it may sound, it's still rather tenuous to a.s.sert Schneider and Baker were the same woman. Given the odd way she told all of this to you, how do you know she didn't simply read a book, a real as he can. As you know too, history is cyclical and we're not due for another uprising-even a silent one-for another two hundred years. More to the point, I remember reading an in-depth piece about Catherine Baker being a Parisian gypsy in origin, so however thrilling it may sound, it's still rather tenuous to a.s.sert Schneider and Baker were the same woman. Given the odd way she told all of this to you, how do you know she didn't simply read a book, a real page-turner page-turner about the mysterious Catherine Baker, then let her imagination run wild? Maybe she wanted you to believe, for about the mysterious Catherine Baker, then let her imagination run wild? Maybe she wanted you to believe, for everyone everyone to believe before she killed herself, that to believe before she killed herself, that that that had been her life, a life of upheaval and causes-she, Bonnie, some other dope, Clyde. That way she might live forever, had been her life, a life of upheaval and causes-she, Bonnie, some other dope, Clyde. That way she might live forever, nest-ce pas? nest-ce pas? She'd leave behind a thrilling Life Story, not the dreary editorial that was her truth. Such are the lies people tell. And they're a dime a dozen." She'd leave behind a thrilling Life Story, not the dreary editorial that was her truth. Such are the lies people tell. And they're a dime a dozen."

"But what about the way she met Smoke - ?" "All we know for certain is that she liked to pick up men in food settings," food settings," Dad said with authority. "She was looking for love amidst frozen peas." Dad said with authority. "She was looking for love amidst frozen peas."

I stared at him. He did did have a few infinitesimal points. On www.iron b.u.t.terfly.net the author claimed Catherine Baker had been a French gypsy. And given the heaving-bodice posters in Hannah's cla.s.sroom, I could conceive how it was somewhat plausible she might devise a more exciting life for herself. Just like that, Dad could poke serious holes in my rowboat theory, make it look embarra.s.singly overdesigned and ill considered (see "De Lorean DMC-12," have a few infinitesimal points. On www.iron b.u.t.terfly.net the author claimed Catherine Baker had been a French gypsy. And given the heaving-bodice posters in Hannah's cla.s.sroom, I could conceive how it was somewhat plausible she might devise a more exciting life for herself. Just like that, Dad could poke serious holes in my rowboat theory, make it look embarra.s.singly overdesigned and ill considered (see "De Lorean DMC-12," Capitalist Blunders, Capitalist Blunders, Glover, 1988). Glover, 1988).

"So I'm nuts," I said.

"I didn't say that," he said sharply. "Certainly, your little theory is elaborate. Far-fetched? Absolutely. But it is, in a word, remarkable. And rather exciting. Nothing like news of silent revolutionaries to get the blood rushing into one's head - "

"You believe me?" He paused and turned his face up to the ceiling to consider this, as only Dad could consider things. "Yes," he said simply. "I do."

"Really?"

"Of course. You know I've a soft spot for the far-fetched and fantastical. The wholly ludicrous. I suppose there are a few details to further shape - " "I'm not crazy."

He smiled. "To the ordinary, untrained ear you might sound slightly unhinged. But to a Van Meer? Meer? You sound rather ho-hum." You sound rather ho-hum."

I leapt from the couch and hugged him.

"Now you wish to hug me? So I take it you've forgiven me for not telling you about my imprudent encounters with that strange and wayward woman, whom we shall now call, given her subversive connections, Blackbeard?" you wish to hug me? So I take it you've forgiven me for not telling you about my imprudent encounters with that strange and wayward woman, whom we shall now call, given her subversive connections, Blackbeard?"

I nodded.

"Thank G.o.d," he said. "I don't think I could have survived another blitzkrieg of books. Especially with that twenty-pound edition of The World's Famous Orations The World's Famous Orations still on the shelf. Do you feel like eating something?" He brushed hair off my forehead. "You've grown too thin." still on the shelf. Do you feel like eating something?" He brushed hair off my forehead. "You've grown too thin."

"All of this must have been what Hannah wanted to tell me on the mountain. Remember?"

"Yes-but how are you planning to dispense your findings? Will we co-author a book, ent.i.tled, say, Mixed Nuts: Conspiracies and Anti-American Dissidents in Our Midst Mixed Nuts: Conspiracies and Anti-American Dissidents in Our Midst or or Special Topics in Calamity Physics, Special Topics in Calamity Physics, something with a bit of rumba to it. Or will you write a bestseller with all the names changed, the proverbial, 'Based on a true story,' written on the first page to sell more copies? You'll have the entire country terrified that unhinged activists are working as teachers in their schools, poisoning the minds of their dear dullard children." something with a bit of rumba to it. Or will you write a bestseller with all the names changed, the proverbial, 'Based on a true story,' written on the first page to sell more copies? You'll have the entire country terrified that unhinged activists are working as teachers in their schools, poisoning the minds of their dear dullard children."

"I don't know."

"Now here's here's an idea-you'll simply jot it down in your diary, an anecdote for your grandchildren to read upon your death when they go through your belongings neatly arranged in an antique steamer trunk. They'll sit around the dinner table, murmuring in incredulous voices, 'I can't believe Grandma did that, all at the tender age of sixteen.' And via this diary, which will be auctioned at Christie's for nothing less than $500,000, a story of small town terror will float away by word of mouth into one of magical realism. Blue van Meer will be said to have been born with a pig's tail, the troubled Miss Schneider driven to fanaticism due to a love that went unrequited for centuries, a an idea-you'll simply jot it down in your diary, an anecdote for your grandchildren to read upon your death when they go through your belongings neatly arranged in an antique steamer trunk. They'll sit around the dinner table, murmuring in incredulous voices, 'I can't believe Grandma did that, all at the tender age of sixteen.' And via this diary, which will be auctioned at Christie's for nothing less than $500,000, a story of small town terror will float away by word of mouth into one of magical realism. Blue van Meer will be said to have been born with a pig's tail, the troubled Miss Schneider driven to fanaticism due to a love that went unrequited for centuries, a Love in the Time of Cholera, Love in the Time of Cholera, and your friends, the Miltons and the Greens, they will be the revolutionaries staging thirty-two armed uprisings and losing every one. And we can't forget your dad. Wise and withered in the background, the and your friends, the Miltons and the Greens, they will be the revolutionaries staging thirty-two armed uprisings and losing every one. And we can't forget your dad. Wise and withered in the background, the General in His Labyrinth General in His Labyrinth on his seven-month river voyage from Bogota to the sea." on his seven-month river voyage from Bogota to the sea."

"I think we'll go to the police," I said.

He chuckled. "You're pulling my leg."

"No. We have have to go to the police. Immediately." to go to the police. Immediately."

"Why?"

"We just have to."

"You're not being realistic."

"Yes, I am."

He shook his head. "You're not thinking. Let's say there's truth to it. You'll need evidence. Testimonials of former group members, manifestos, recruitment processes-which will all be rather difficult to find, won't they, if your suspicions about undetectable murder tactics are correct. More important, there's an inherent risk when someone comes forward, pointing a finger. Have you thought about that? that? Coming up with a theory is all very thrilling, but if there's truth to it, it's no longer a round of Coming up with a theory is all very thrilling, but if there's truth to it, it's no longer a round of Wheel of Fortune. Wheel of Fortune. I won't allow you to draw attention to yourself, a.s.suming, of course, any of this is true, which we will probably never know with any certainty. Going to the police is gallant for simpletons, for nitwits-but what purpose would it serve? So the sheriff can have a story for his donut break?" I won't allow you to draw attention to yourself, a.s.suming, of course, any of this is true, which we will probably never know with any certainty. Going to the police is gallant for simpletons, for nitwits-but what purpose would it serve? So the sheriff can have a story for his donut break?"

"No," I said. "So lives can be saved."

"How touching. Just whose life are you saving?"

"You can't just go kill people because you don't like what they're doing. That makes us animals. Even-even if we can never find it we still have to try for..." I trailed off into silence, because I wasn't exactly sure what we had to try for. "Justice," I said weakly.

Dad only laughed. " 'Justice is a wh.o.r.e who won't let herself be stiffed and collects the wages of shame even from the poor.' Karl Kraus. Austrian essayist."

" 'All good things may be expressed in a single word,' " I said. " 'Freedom, justice, honor, duty, mercy. And hope/ Churchill." " 'As thou urgest justice, be a.s.sured /Thou shalt have justice more than thou desirest.' Merchant of Venice." Merchant of Venice." " 'Justice wields an erratic sword / grants mercy to fortunate few / Yet if man doesn't fight for her / 'Tis chaos he's left to.' " " 'Justice wields an erratic sword / grants mercy to fortunate few / Yet if man doesn't fight for her / 'Tis chaos he's left to.' "

Dad opened his mouth to speak, but stopped, frowning. "Mackay?"

"Gareth van Meer. 'The Revolution Betrayed.' Civic Journal of Foreign Affairs. Civic Journal of Foreign Affairs. Volume six, issue nineteen." Volume six, issue nineteen."

Dad smiled, tilted his head back and gave a very loud "Ha!" "Ha!"

I'd forgotten about his "Ha!" "Ha!" Usually he reserved it for faculty meetings with a Dean, when a fellow colleague said something humorous or stirring and Dad was slightly perturbed Usually he reserved it for faculty meetings with a Dean, when a fellow colleague said something humorous or stirring and Dad was slightly perturbed he he hadn't thought to say it, so he said a very loud hadn't thought to say it, so he said a very loud Ha!, Ha!, partly an expression of annoyance and partly to suck the room's attention back to him. Now, however, when he looked at me, unlike those faculty meetings with a Dean (Dad allowed me to sit in the corner whenever I was out sick with a mild head cold and, without stirring, swallowing all potential sneezes, I listened to the a.s.sembled Ph.D.s with chalky complexions and thinning hair, speaking in weighty voices of Knights at the Round Table) Dad had big, bare tears shivering there, ones that threatened to slide shyly from his eyes like modest girls in bathing suits removing their towels, making a slow, embarra.s.sed move toward the pool. partly an expression of annoyance and partly to suck the room's attention back to him. Now, however, when he looked at me, unlike those faculty meetings with a Dean (Dad allowed me to sit in the corner whenever I was out sick with a mild head cold and, without stirring, swallowing all potential sneezes, I listened to the a.s.sembled Ph.D.s with chalky complexions and thinning hair, speaking in weighty voices of Knights at the Round Table) Dad had big, bare tears shivering there, ones that threatened to slide shyly from his eyes like modest girls in bathing suits removing their towels, making a slow, embarra.s.sed move toward the pool.

He stood, put a hand on my shoulder and moved past me to the door.

"So be it, my Justice-seeker."

I sat in front of the empty chair for another moment or two, surrounded by the books. They all had a silent, haughty perseverance about them. They weren't going to be destroyed by any launch at a human, oh no. With the exception of The Heart of the Matter, of The Heart of the Matter, which had belched up a clump of pages, the others were intact, gleefully open and showing off their pages. Their tiny black words of wisdom remained in perfect order, sitting in pristine rows, unmoving, attentive like schoolchildren impervious to the influence of a naughty child. which had belched up a clump of pages, the others were intact, gleefully open and showing off their pages. Their tiny black words of wisdom remained in perfect order, sitting in pristine rows, unmoving, attentive like schoolchildren impervious to the influence of a naughty child. Common Sense Common Sense was open next to me, peac.o.c.king its pages. was open next to me, peac.o.c.king its pages.

"Stop moping and get in here," called Dad from the kitchen. "You must eat something if you're going to wage war on flabby-armed, potbellied radicals. I don't think they age all that well, so you'll probably be able to outrun them."

34.

Paradise Lost For the first time since Hannah died, I slept through the night. Dad called such sleeps "The Sleep of Trees," which was not to be confused with "The Sleep of Hibernation" or "The Sleep of Dead-Tired Dogs." The Sleep of Trees was the most absolute and rejuvenating of sleeps. It was only darkness, no dreams, a leap forward in time.

I didn't stir when the alarm went off, nor did I wake up to hear Dad shouting from downstairs the Van Meer Vocabulary Wake-up Call.

"Wake up, sweet! Your word of the day is pneumococcus!" pneumococcus!"

I opened my eyes. The phone was ringing. The clock by my bed read 10:36 A.M. The answering machine clicked on downstairs.

"Mr. Van Meer, I wanted to notify you that Blue is not in school today. Please call us and give a reason for her absence." Eva Brewster curtly recited the number to the main office and hung up. I waited for Dad's footsteps to come through the hall to find out who'd called, but I heard nothing but the clinking of silverware in the kitchen.

I climbed out of bed, stumbled into the bathroom, splashed water on my face. In the mirror, my eyes looked unusually large, my face thin. I was cold, so I pulled the comforter off my bed, wrapped it around me and walked with it down the stairs.

"Dad! Did you call the school?"

I entered the kitchen. It was empty. The clinking I'd heard was the breeze through the open window hitting the silverware wind chime over the sink. I switched on the downstairs light and called into the stairwell.

"Dad!" I used to dread a house without Dad in it. It could feel empty as a can, a sh.e.l.l, a blind desert skull of a Georgia O'Keefe painting. Growing up, I had a variety of techniques to avoid the truth of the house without Dad. There was "The Watch General Hospital General Hospital with Very Loud Volume" (surprisingly comforting, more than one would imagine) and the Put On with Very Loud Volume" (surprisingly comforting, more than one would imagine) and the Put On It Happened One Night It Happened One Night (Clark Gable without an undershirt could distract anyone). (Clark Gable without an undershirt could distract anyone).

Late morning light poured through the windows, bright and vicious. I opened the refrigerator and saw with some surprise, he'd made a fruit salad. I reached in, picked out a grape, ate it. Also in the refrigerator was lasagna, which he'd attempted to cover with too small a piece of tinfoil; it left two corners and a side exposed like a winter coat leaving entire shins bare, half the person's arms and neck. (Dad was always unable to correctly eyeball the required length for tinfoil.) I ate another grape and called his office.

The Political Science Department a.s.sistant answered the phone.

"Hey, is my dad there? It's Blue."

"Hmm?"

I glanced at the clock. He didn't have a cla.s.s until 11:30 A.M. "My dad. Dr. Van Meer. Can I talk to him please? It's an emergency." "He's not coming in today," she said. "There's that conference in Atlanta, right?"