"Excuse me?"

"I thought he went to Atlanta, replacing the man who was in the car accident-?"

"What?"

"He requested permission for a subst.i.tute this morning. He won't be in for the- "

I hung up.

"Dad!"

I left the comforter in the kitchen, raced down the stairs to his study, switching on the overhead light. I stood in front of his desk, staring at it. It was bare. I yanked open a drawer. It was empty. I yanked open another. It was empty. There was no laptop, no legal pads, no desk calendar. The ceramic mug was empty too, where he usually kept his five blue ink pens and five black ink pens next to the green desk lamp from the agreeable Dean at the University of Arkansas at Wilsonville, which also was gone. The tiny bookshelf next to the desk was completely empty too, apart from five copies of Marx's Das Kapital Das Kapital (1867). (1867).

I sprinted up the stairs, through the kitchen, down the hall, yanking open the front door. The blue Volvo station wagon was parked where it always was, in front of the garage door. I stared at it, at the egg-blue surface, the rust around the wheels.

I turned back inside and ran to his bedroom. The curtains were open. The bed was made. Yet his old sheepskin loafers purchased at Bet-R-Shoes in Enola, New Hampshire, were not capsized beneath the television, nor were they beneath the upholstered chair in the corner. I moved toward the closet and slid open the door.

There were no clothes. There was nothing-nothing but hangers jittering along the pole like birds, frightened when people stepped too close to the bars to stare at them.

I ran into his bathroom, swung open the medicine cabinet. It was bare. So was the shower. I touched the side of the tub, feeling its stickiness, the few remaining drops of water. I looked at the sink, a trace of Colgate toothpaste, a tiny drop of shaving cream dried on the mirror.

He must have decided we're moving again, I told myself. I told myself. He went to fill out a Change-of-Address card at the Post Office. He went to the supermarket for moving boxes. But the station wagon wouldn't start, so he called a taxi. He went to fill out a Change-of-Address card at the Post Office. He went to the supermarket for moving boxes. But the station wagon wouldn't start, so he called a taxi.

I went into the kitchen and played the answering machine, but there was only the message from Eva Brewster. I looked on the counter for a note, but there wasn't one. Again, I called the Political Science Department a.s.sistant, Barbara, pretending I knew all about the conference in Atlanta; Dad said there was "a motor-mouth on Barbara, coupled with the foul stench of the ridiculous." (He cheerfully referred to her as "the Haze woman.") I called the conference by a specific name, quickly decided beforehand. I think I called it SPOUFAR, "Safe Political Organization for the Upholding of First Amendment Rights," or something to that effect.

I asked her if Dad had left a number where she could contact him.

"No," she said.

"When did he notify you?"

"Left a message at six this morning. But, wait, why don't you-?"

I hung up.

I wrapped the comforter around me, turned on the television, watched Cherry Jeffries in a yellow suit the color of a road sign with shoulder pads so sharp they could cut down trees. I checked the clock in the kitchen, the clock in my bedroom. I walked outside and stared at the blue station wagon. I sat in the driver's seat and turned the key in the ignition. It started. I ran my hands along the steering wheel, over the dashboard, stared at the backseat, as if there might be a clue somewhere, a revolver, candlestick, rope or wrench carelessly left behind by Mrs. Peac.o.c.k, Colonel Mustard or Professor Plum after killing Dad in the library, conservatory or billiard room. I examined the Persian carpets in the hall, searching for singular imprints of shoes. I checked the sink, the dishwasher, but every spoon, fork and knife had been put away.

They'd come for him.

Members of Nachlicht Nachlicht had come for him in the night, placed a linen handkerchief (embroidered with a red N in the corner) dabbed with a bit of sleeping potion over his unsuspecting snoring mouth. He hadn't been able to struggle because Dad, although tall and hardly skinny, wasn't a fighter. Dad preferred intellectual debate to physical a.s.sault, eschewed contact sports, considered wrestling and boxing "faintly preposterous." And although Dad respected the art of karate, judo, tae kwan do, he himself had never learned a single move. had come for him in the night, placed a linen handkerchief (embroidered with a red N in the corner) dabbed with a bit of sleeping potion over his unsuspecting snoring mouth. He hadn't been able to struggle because Dad, although tall and hardly skinny, wasn't a fighter. Dad preferred intellectual debate to physical a.s.sault, eschewed contact sports, considered wrestling and boxing "faintly preposterous." And although Dad respected the art of karate, judo, tae kwan do, he himself had never learned a single move.

They'd meant to take me, of course, but Dad had refused. "No! Take me instead Take me!" "No! Take me instead Take me!" And so the Nasty One-there was always a Nasty One, the one who had scant regard for human life and bullied the others-pressed a gun to his temple and ordered him to call the university. "And you'd better sound normal or I'll blow your daughter's brains out while you watch." And so the Nasty One-there was always a Nasty One, the one who had scant regard for human life and bullied the others-pressed a gun to his temple and ordered him to call the university. "And you'd better sound normal or I'll blow your daughter's brains out while you watch."

And then they made Dad pack his own bags in the two large Louis Vuitton duffle bags June Bug Eleanor Miles, age 38, had given to Dad so he'd remember her (and her spiky teeth) every time he packed his bags. Because even though, sure, they were "revolutionaries" in the cla.s.sical sense of the word, they were not barbarians, not South American guerrillas or Muslim extremists who relished the odd beheading every now and then. No, they held fast to the belief that all human beings, even those held against their will, waiting for certain political demands to be met, required his/her personal belongings, including corduroy pants, tweed jackets, wool sweaters, Oxford shirts, shaving kits, toothbrushes, razors, soaps, dental floss, peppermint exfoliating foot scrubs, Timex watches, GUM cufflinks, credit cards, lecture notes and old syllabi, notes for The Iron Grip. The Iron Grip.

"We want you to be comfortable," said the Nasty One.

That night, he still hadn't called.

No one had, with the exception of Arnold Lowe Schmidt of The New Seattle Journal of Foreign Policy, The New Seattle Journal of Foreign Policy, telling the machine how thawry he was that Dad had declined hith invitathon of writhing a cover pieth on Cuba, but to pleath keep the periodical in mind if he wanthed "a preeminent repothitory for the publicathon of hith death." telling the machine how thawry he was that Dad had declined hith invitathon of writhing a cover pieth on Cuba, but to pleath keep the periodical in mind if he wanthed "a preeminent repothitory for the publicathon of hith death."

Outside, I walked around the house some twenty times in the dark. I stared into the fishpond, devoid of fish. I returned inside, sat on the couch watching Cherry Jeffries, picking at the half-eaten bowl of fruit, which the radicals had allowed Dad to prepare before they carried him away.

"My daughter has to eat!" daughter has to eat!" Dad commanded. Dad commanded.

"Fine," said the Nasty One. "But be quick about it."

"Would you like some help cutting the cantaloupe?" asked another.

I couldn't stop picking up the phone, staring at the receiver, asking, "Should I report him missing to the police?" I waited for it to tell me, "Yes, Definitely," "My Reply Is No" or "Concentrate and Ask Again." I could call the Sluder County Sheriffs Department, tell A. Boone I had to speak to Detective Harper. "Remember me? The one who talked to you about Hannah Schneider? Well, now my father's missing. Yes. I keep losing people." Within an hour, she'd be at the door with her pumpkin hair and complexion of refined sugar, narrowing her eyes at Dad's vacant reading chair. "Tell me the last thing he said. Does your family have a history of mental illness? Do you have anyone? An uncle? A grandmother?" Within four hours, I'd have my own green folder in the filing cabinet next to her desk, #55io-VANM. An article would appear in The Stockton Observer, The Stockton Observer, "Local Student Angel of Death, Witness to Teacher's Demise, Now Missing Father." I hung up the phone. "Local Student Angel of Death, Witness to Teacher's Demise, Now Missing Father." I hung up the phone.

I searched the house again, this time not allowing myself to whimper, not allowing myself to miss a thing, not the shower curtain, or the cabinet under the bathroom sink full of Q-tips and cotton b.a.l.l.s, or even the roll of toilet paper inside of which he might have taken a moment to scrawl, They've taken me do not worry They've taken me do not worry with a toothpick. I examined every book we'd returned to the shelves the night before in the library, for he might have swiftly slipped a page of legal paper into its pages on which he'd written, with a toothpick. I examined every book we'd returned to the shelves the night before in the library, for he might have swiftly slipped a page of legal paper into its pages on which he'd written, I'll get out of this I swear. I'll get out of this I swear. I turned over every one, shook them, but found nothing at all, apart from I turned over every one, shook them, but found nothing at all, apart from The Heart of the Matter The Heart of the Matter losing another clump of pages. This searching continued until Dad's bedside clock read that it was after losing another clump of pages. This searching continued until Dad's bedside clock read that it was after 2:OO A.M.

Denial is like Versailles; it isn't the easiest thing to maintain. To do so took an astounding amount of resolve, oomph, chutzpah, none of which I had, starfished as I was across the black-and-white tiles of Dad's bathroom floor.

Clearly, I had to accept the notion of Dad's kidnapping being up there with the Tooth Fairy, the Holy Grail or any other dream concocted by people bored to tears with reality, wanting to believe in something bigger than themselves. No matter how charitable these radicals were, they wouldn't have permitted Dad to pack each and every one every one of his personal items, including checkbooks, credit cards and statements, even his favorite needlepoint by June Bug Dorthea Driser, the tiny, framed "To Thine Own Self Be True," which had been hanging to the right of the kitchen telephone, now gone. They also would have put their foot down when Dad took a half hour to cherry-pick the selection of texts he wished to take with him, Maurice Girodias' Olympia Press 1955 two-volume edition of of his personal items, including checkbooks, credit cards and statements, even his favorite needlepoint by June Bug Dorthea Driser, the tiny, framed "To Thine Own Self Be True," which had been hanging to the right of the kitchen telephone, now gone. They also would have put their foot down when Dad took a half hour to cherry-pick the selection of texts he wished to take with him, Maurice Girodias' Olympia Press 1955 two-volume edition of Lolita, Ada orArdor, Lolita, Ada orArdor, the the Paradise Lost Paradise Lost he hadn't wanted me to throw, the hulking he hadn't wanted me to throw, the hulking Delovian:A Retrospective Delovian:A Retrospective (Finn, 1998), which featured Dad's favorite work, the appropriately t.i.tled (Finn, 1998), which featured Dad's favorite work, the appropriately t.i.tled Secret Secret (see p. 391, #61,1992, Oil on linen). Also missing was (see p. 391, #61,1992, Oil on linen). Also missing was La Grimace, Napoleons Progress, Beyond Good and Evil La Grimace, Napoleons Progress, Beyond Good and Evil and a photocopy of "In the Penal Colony" (Kafka, 1919). and a photocopy of "In the Penal Colony" (Kafka, 1919).

My head throbbed. My face felt tight and hot. I pulled myself out of the bathroom into the middle of Dad's spongy bedroom carpet, the one thing he loathed about the house -"one feels as if one is walking on marshmallows"- and began to cry, but after a while, my tears, either bored or frustrated, sort of quit, threw in the towel, stormed off the set.

I didn't do anything but stare at the bedroom ceiling, so pale and quiet, dutifully holding His tongue. Somehow, out of pure exhaustion, I fell asleep.

For the next three days-frittered away on the couch in front of Cherry Jeffries-I found myself imagining Dad's final moments in our house, our beloved 24 Armor Street, setting of our last year, our last chapter, before I "conquered the world."

He was all plan and calculation, all bird-quick glances to his wrist.w.a.tch, five minutes fast, silent steps through our dim-drenched rooms. There was nervousness too, a nervousness only I'd I'd be able to detect; I'd seen him before a new university, giving anew lecture (the barely discernible trembling of index fingers and thumbs). be able to detect; I'd seen him before a new university, giving anew lecture (the barely discernible trembling of index fingers and thumbs).

The change in his pocket rattled like his withered soul as he moved through the kitchen, downstairs to his study. He turned on only a few lamps, his desk lamp and the red one on his bedroom nightstand that drowned the room in the jelly-red of stomachs and hearts. He spent a great deal of time organizing his things. The Oxford shirts on the bed, red on top, followed by blue, blue patterned, blue-and-white stripe, white, each folded like sleeping birds with wings tucked under them, and the six sets of cufflinks in silver and gold (including, of course, his favorite, those 24-karat ones engraved with GUM, given to Dad for his forty-seventh birthday by Bitsy Plaster, age 42, a misprint by the jeweler due to Bitsy's bubbly handwriting) all tucked into the Tiffany felt pocket like a bag of prized seeds. And then there were his socks herded together, black, white, long, short, cotton, wool. He wore his brown loafers (he could walk fast in them), the gold and brown tweed (faithfully hanging around him like an old dog) and the old khaki slacks so comfortable he claimed "they made the most unbearable tasks bearable." (He wore them trudging through the "squishy Thesis Statements, fetid quagmires of Supporting Evidence" inevitably found within student research papers. They even allowed him to feel no guilt as he wrote C- next to the kid's name before continuing on, relentlessly.) When he was ready to load the boxes and duffle bags into the car-I didn't know what waited for him; I imagined a simple yellow cab driven by some sea urchin driver with goose-b.u.mped hands, tapping the steering wheel to Public Radio's Early Bluegra.s.s Hour, Early Bluegra.s.s Hour, waiting for John Ray Jr., Ph.D., to emerge from the house, thinking about the woman he left at home, Alva or Dottie, warm as a dinner roll. waiting for John Ray Jr., Ph.D., to emerge from the house, thinking about the woman he left at home, Alva or Dottie, warm as a dinner roll.

When Dad knew he'd forgotten nothing, when it was all gone, he walked back inside and up to my room. He didn't turn on a light, or even look at me as he unbuckled my backpack and perused the legal pad on which I'd scrawled my research and theory. After he reviewed what I'd written, he returned it to the bag and hung it on the back of my desk chair.

He was incorrect putting it there. That wasn't where I'd put it; I'd placed it where I always did, at the end of my bed on the floor. Yet, he was pressed for time and no longer needed to worry about such details. Such details mattered very little now. He probably laughed at the Irony. At the most unlikely of moments, Dad took time to laugh about the Irony; or, perhaps it was one instance he didn't have time to, because if he moved toward Laughter, he might have to continue down that shoulderless, exitless road of Feeling, which could lead one, rather swiftly, into Whimpering, Full-on Howling and he didn't have time for that kind of detour. He had to get out of the house.

He looked at me as I slept, memorizing my face as if it was a pa.s.sage of an extraordinary book he'd come across, the crux of which he wished to commit to memory in the off chance he found use for it during an exchange with a Dean.

Or else, staring at me-and I like to think this was the case -Dad came undone. No book tells one how to look at one's child one is leaving forever and will never see again (unless it's clandestinely, after thirty-five, forty years, and only then from a great distance, through binoculars, a telephoto lens or an $89.99 satellite photo). One probably gets close and tries to determine the exact degree of the nose from the face. One counts freckles, the ones never noticed before. And one also counts the faint creases in the eyelids, in the forehead, too. One watches the breathing, the peaceful smile -or, in the absence of such a smile, one willfully ignores the gaping, wheezing mouth, in order to make the memory polite. One probably gets a little carried away, too, introducing a little moonlight to silver the face, covering up those dark circles under the eyes, sound-looping adorable insects-better still, a gorgeous night bird-to lessen the cold, cell silence of the room.

Dad closed his eyes to make sure he knew it by heart (forty-degrees, sixteen, three, one, a sea way of breathing, peaceful smile, silvery eyes, enthusiastic nightingale). He pushed the comforter close to my check, kissed me on the forehead.

"You'll be fine, sweet. You really will."

He slipped from my room, downstairs, and outside to the taxi.

"Mr. Ray?" asked the driver.

"Dr. Ray," Dad said. Ray," Dad said.

And just like that-he was gone.

35.

The Secret Garden The days shuffled by like bland schoolgirls. I didn't notice their individual faces, only their basic uniform: day and night, day and night. I had no patience for showers or balanced meals. I did a lot of lying on floors-childish certainly, but when one can lie on floors without anyone seeing one, trust me, one will lie on a floor. I discovered, too, the fleeting yet discernable joy of biting into a Whitman's chocolate and throwing the remaining half behind the sofa in the library. I could read, read, read until my eyes burned and the words floated like noodles in soup.

I ditched school like a boy with rusty breath and glue-stick palms. Instead, I took up with Don Quixote Don Quixote (Cervantes, 1605) -one would think I'd have driven to Videomecca and rented p.o.r.n, at the very least (Cervantes, 1605) -one would think I'd have driven to Videomecca and rented p.o.r.n, at the very least Wild Orchid Wild Orchid with Mickey Rourke, but alas, no-then some steamy paperback I'd kept hidden from Dad for years called with Mickey Rourke, but alas, no-then some steamy paperback I'd kept hidden from Dad for years called Speak Not, Speak Not, My My Love Love (Esther, 1992). (Esther, 1992).

I thought about Death -not suicide, nothing that histrionic-more a begrudged acknowledgment, as if I'd snubbed Death for years, and now, having no one else, I had no choice but to exchange pleasantries with him. I thought about Evita, Havermeyer, Moats, Dee and Dum forming a nighttime Search Party, wielding torches, lanterns, pitchforks, clubs (as bigoted townspeople did when hunting a monster), discovering my wasted body slung over the kitchen table, arms limp at my sides, my head facedown in the crotch of Chekhov's The Cherry Orchard The Cherry Orchard (1903). (1903).

Even when I tried to collect myself, pull myself together as Molly Brown had done in that t.i.tanic t.i.tanic lifeboat, or even find a productive hobby like the Birdman of Alcatraz, I failed. I thought lifeboat, or even find a productive hobby like the Birdman of Alcatraz, I failed. I thought Future. Future. I saw I saw Black Hole. Black Hole. I was spaghettified. I didn't have a friend, driver's license or survival instinct to my name. I didn't even have one of those Savings Accounts set up by a conscientious parent so their kid could learn Money. I was a minor, too, would remain so for another year. (My birthday was June 18.) I had no desire to end up in a Foster Home, the Castle in the Sky of which was to be supervised by a pair of retirees named Bill and Bertha, who wielded their Bibles like handguns, asked me call them "Mamaw" and "Papaw," and got tickled pink every time they stuffed me, their brand new turkey, with all the fixins (biscuits, poke salad and possum pie). I was spaghettified. I didn't have a friend, driver's license or survival instinct to my name. I didn't even have one of those Savings Accounts set up by a conscientious parent so their kid could learn Money. I was a minor, too, would remain so for another year. (My birthday was June 18.) I had no desire to end up in a Foster Home, the Castle in the Sky of which was to be supervised by a pair of retirees named Bill and Bertha, who wielded their Bibles like handguns, asked me call them "Mamaw" and "Papaw," and got tickled pink every time they stuffed me, their brand new turkey, with all the fixins (biscuits, poke salad and possum pie).

Seven days after Dad left, the phone began to ring. I didn't answer it, though I remained poised by the answering machine, my heart banging in my chest, in case it was he. "Gareth, you're causing quite a stir around here," said Professor Mike Devlin. "I'm wondering where you are."

"What on earth have you done done with yourself? Now they say you're not coming back," said Dr. Elijah Masters, Chairman of the English Department and Harvard Alumni Interviewer. "I'll be sorely disappointed if that is the case. As you know, we have an unfinished chess game and I'm beating you to a pulp. I'd hate to think you've disappeared simply so I have to forgo the pleasure of telling you, 'Checkmate.' " with yourself? Now they say you're not coming back," said Dr. Elijah Masters, Chairman of the English Department and Harvard Alumni Interviewer. "I'll be sorely disappointed if that is the case. As you know, we have an unfinished chess game and I'm beating you to a pulp. I'd hate to think you've disappeared simply so I have to forgo the pleasure of telling you, 'Checkmate.' "

"Dr. Van Meer, you must call the office as soon as possible. Again, your daughter Blue has not appeared in cla.s.s all week now. I hope you're aware that if she does not begin to make up some of the work, the idea of her graduating on time will be more and more- "

"Dr. Van Meer, this is Jenny Murdoch who sits on the front row of your Patterns of Democracy and Social Structure seminar? I was wondering if Solomon is now going to be in charge of our research papers, because he's like, totally giving us new parameters. He says it only has to be seven to ten pages. But you you wrote on the syllabus twenty to twenty-five, so everyone's totally baffled. Some clarification would be much appreciated. I also wrote you an e-mail." wrote on the syllabus twenty to twenty-five, so everyone's totally baffled. Some clarification would be much appreciated. I also wrote you an e-mail."

"Please call me as soon as possible at my home or office, Gareth," said Dean Kushner.

I'd told Dad's a.s.sistant, Barbara, that I'd written down the incorrect contact number for Dad at the conference and asked her to let me know as soon as she heard from him. She hadn't called however, so I called her.

"We still haven't heard," she said. "Dean Kushner's having a heart attack. Solomon Freeman is going to have to take over his cla.s.ses for finals. Where is is he?" he?"

"He had to go to Europe," I said. "His mother had a heart attack."

"Ohhh," said Barbara. "I'm sorry. Is she going to be all right?"

"No."

"Gosh. That's so sad. But then why hasn't he - ?"

I hung up.

I wondered if my steady stupor, my inertia, marked the onset of madness. Only a week ago I'd believed madness to be a far-fetched idea, but now I recalled a handful of occasions when Dad and I encountered a woman muttering expletives as if she was sneezing. I wondered how she'd become that way, if it was a debutante's dreamy descent down a grand flight of stairs or else a sudden misfire in the brain, its effects immediate, like a snakebite. Her complexion was red like raw dishwasher hands and the soles of her feet were black, as if she'd meticulously dipped them in tar. As Dad and I pa.s.sed her, I held my breath, squeezed his hand. He'd squeeze back-our tacit agreement he'd never never allow me to wander the streets with my hair like a bird's nest, my overalls marred with urine and dirt. allow me to wander the streets with my hair like a bird's nest, my overalls marred with urine and dirt.

Now I could, with no trouble at all, wander the streets with hair like a bird's nest in overalls of urine and dirt. The That's-Ridiculous, the Don't-Be-Absurd had happened. I'd be selling my body for a frozen Lender's bagel. Obviously, I'd been wrong all along about madness. It could happen to anyone.

For those who are Marat/Sade Marat/Sade aficionados, I must deliver bad news. The shelf life of a depressed torpor for any otherwise healthy individual is ten, eleven, at the most, twelve days. After that, the mind can't help but notice such a disposition is as much use as a one-legged man in an a.r.s.e-kicking contest, and that, if one didn't stop bouncing around like a big girl's blouse, Pimms and strawberries, Bob's your uncle and G.o.d save the b.l.o.o.d.y Queen, one just might not make it (see aficionados, I must deliver bad news. The shelf life of a depressed torpor for any otherwise healthy individual is ten, eleven, at the most, twelve days. After that, the mind can't help but notice such a disposition is as much use as a one-legged man in an a.r.s.e-kicking contest, and that, if one didn't stop bouncing around like a big girl's blouse, Pimms and strawberries, Bob's your uncle and G.o.d save the b.l.o.o.d.y Queen, one just might not make it (see Go See a Man About a Dog: Beloved Englishisms, Go See a Man About a Dog: Beloved Englishisms, Lewis, 2001). Lewis, 2001).

I didn't go mad. I got mad (see "Peter Finch," Network). Network). Rage, not Abe Lincoln, is the Great Emanc.i.p.ator. It wasn't long before I was tearing through 24 Armor Street, not limp and lost, but throwing shirts and June Bug needlepoints and library books and cardboard moving boxes marked THIS END UP like Jay Gatsby on a rampage, searching for something-even if it was something minor-to give me proof of where he'd gone and why. Not that I let myself hope I'd discover a Rosetta Stone, a twenty-page confession thoughtfully tucked into my pillowcase, between mattresses, in the icebox: Rage, not Abe Lincoln, is the Great Emanc.i.p.ator. It wasn't long before I was tearing through 24 Armor Street, not limp and lost, but throwing shirts and June Bug needlepoints and library books and cardboard moving boxes marked THIS END UP like Jay Gatsby on a rampage, searching for something-even if it was something minor-to give me proof of where he'd gone and why. Not that I let myself hope I'd discover a Rosetta Stone, a twenty-page confession thoughtfully tucked into my pillowcase, between mattresses, in the icebox: "Sweet. So now you know .I am sorry, my little cloud. But allow me to explain. Why don't we start with Mississippi "Sweet. So now you know .I am sorry, my little cloud. But allow me to explain. Why don't we start with Mississippi..." It wasn't likely. As Mrs. McGillicrest, that penguin-bodied shrew from Alexandria Day informed our cla.s.s, so triumphantly: "A deus ex machina will never appear in real life so you best make other arrangements."

The shock of Dad gone (shock (shock didn't do it justice; it was astonishment, stunned, a bombsh.e.l.l-astunsh.e.l.led), the fact he had blithely hoodwinked, bamboozled, conned (again, too tepid for my purposes -hoodzonked) me, me, didn't do it justice; it was astonishment, stunned, a bombsh.e.l.l-astunsh.e.l.led), the fact he had blithely hoodwinked, bamboozled, conned (again, too tepid for my purposes -hoodzonked) me, me, me, me, his daughter, a person who, to quote Dr. Luke Ordinote, had "startling power and ac.u.men," an individual who, to quote Hannah Schneider, did not "miss a thing," was so improbable, painful, impossible (impainible), I understood now Dad was nothing short of a madman, a genius and imposter, a cheat, a smoothie, the Most Sophisticated Sweet Talker Who Ever Lived. his daughter, a person who, to quote Dr. Luke Ordinote, had "startling power and ac.u.men," an individual who, to quote Hannah Schneider, did not "miss a thing," was so improbable, painful, impossible (impainible), I understood now Dad was nothing short of a madman, a genius and imposter, a cheat, a smoothie, the Most Sophisticated Sweet Talker Who Ever Lived.

Dad must be to secrets as Beethoven is to symphonies, I chanted to myself. (It was the first of a series of stark statements I'd concoct in the ensuing week. When one has been hoodzonked, one's mind crashes, and when rebooted, reverts to unexpected, rudimentary formats, one of which was reminiscent of the mind-bending "Author a.n.a.logies" Dad devised as we toured the country.) I chanted to myself. (It was the first of a series of stark statements I'd concoct in the ensuing week. When one has been hoodzonked, one's mind crashes, and when rebooted, reverts to unexpected, rudimentary formats, one of which was reminiscent of the mind-bending "Author a.n.a.logies" Dad devised as we toured the country.) But Dad wasn't Beethoven. He wasn't even Brahms.

And Dad not being an unsurpa.s.sed maestro of mystery was regrettable, because infinitely more harrowing than being left with a series of obscure, incomprehensible Questions-which one can fill in at one's whim without fear of being graded-was having a few disquieting Answers.

My rampage through the house uncovered no evidence of note, only articles about civil unrest in West Africa and Peter Cower's Inside Angola Inside Angola (1980), which had fallen in the crevice between Dad's bed and bedside table (as nutritionless pieces of evidence as they come) and $3,000 in cash, crisply rolled up inside June Bug Penelope Slate's SPECIAL THOUGHTS ceramic mug kept on top of the refrigerator (Dad had purposefully left it for me, as the mug was usually reserved for loose change). Eleven days after he left, I wandered down to the road to collect the day's mail: a book of coupons, two clothing catalogues, a credit card application for Mr. Meery von Gare with 0% APR financing and a thick manila envelope addressed to Miss Blue van Meer, scrawled in majestic handwriting, the handwriting equivalent of trumpets and a stagecoach pulled by n.o.ble steeds. (1980), which had fallen in the crevice between Dad's bed and bedside table (as nutritionless pieces of evidence as they come) and $3,000 in cash, crisply rolled up inside June Bug Penelope Slate's SPECIAL THOUGHTS ceramic mug kept on top of the refrigerator (Dad had purposefully left it for me, as the mug was usually reserved for loose change). Eleven days after he left, I wandered down to the road to collect the day's mail: a book of coupons, two clothing catalogues, a credit card application for Mr. Meery von Gare with 0% APR financing and a thick manila envelope addressed to Miss Blue van Meer, scrawled in majestic handwriting, the handwriting equivalent of trumpets and a stagecoach pulled by n.o.ble steeds.

Immediately, I ripped it open, pulling out the inch-thick stack of papers. Instead of a map of the South American White Slavery network with rescue instructions, or Dad's unilateral Declaration of Independence ("When in the Course of human events, it becomes necessary for a father to dissolve the paternal bands which have connected him to his daughter . . ."), I found a brief note on monogrammed stationery paper clipped to the front.

"You asked for these. I hope they help you/' Ada Harvey had written, then scrawled her loopy name beneath the knot of her initials.

Even though I'd hung up on her, hacked off her voice without a word of apology like a sushi chef chopping off eel heads, exactly as I'd asked, she'd sent me her father's research. As I raced back up the driveway and into the house with the papers, I found myself crying, weird condensation tears that spontaneously appeared on my face. I sat down at the kitchen table and carefully began to page through the stack.

Smoke Harvey had handwriting that was a distant cousin of Dad's, minuscule script bl.u.s.tered by a cruel northeasterly, THE NOCTURNAL CONSPIRACY, the man had written in caps in the top right corner of every page. The first few papers detailed the history The Night.w.a.tchmen, the many names and apparent methodology (I wondered where he'd gotten his information, because he referenced neither Dad's article nor the Littleton book), followed by thirty pages or so on Gracey, most of it barely readable (Ada had used a photocopier that printed tire treads across the page): "Greek in origin, not not Turkish," "Born February 12, 1944, in Athens, mother Greek, father American," "Reasons for radicalism unknown." I continued on. There were photocopies of old West Virginia and Texas newspaper articles detailing the two known bombings, "Senator Killed, Peace Freaks Suspected," "Oxico Bombing, 4 Killed, Night.w.a.tchmen Sought," an article from Turkish," "Born February 12, 1944, in Athens, mother Greek, father American," "Reasons for radicalism unknown." I continued on. There were photocopies of old West Virginia and Texas newspaper articles detailing the two known bombings, "Senator Killed, Peace Freaks Suspected," "Oxico Bombing, 4 Killed, Night.w.a.tchmen Sought," an article from Life Life magazine dated December 1978, "The End of Activism," about the dissolution of the Weather Underground, Students for a Democratic Society and other dissident political organizations, a few papers about COINTELPRO and other FBI maneuverings, a tiny California article, "Radical Sighted at Drugstore," and then, a newsletter. It was dated November 15,1987, magazine dated December 1978, "The End of Activism," about the dissolution of the Weather Underground, Students for a Democratic Society and other dissident political organizations, a few papers about COINTELPRO and other FBI maneuverings, a tiny California article, "Radical Sighted at Drugstore," and then, a newsletter. It was dated November 15,1987, Daily Bulletin, Daily Bulletin, Houston Police Department, Confidential, For Police Use Only, WANTED BY LOCAL AND FEDERAL AUTHORITIES, Warrants on file at Harris County Sheriff Warrant Section, Bell 432-6329 - Houston Police Department, Confidential, For Police Use Only, WANTED BY LOCAL AND FEDERAL AUTHORITIES, Warrants on file at Harris County Sheriff Warrant Section, Bell 432-6329 - My heart stopped.

Staring back at me, "Baker, Catherine.-I R.637911. , Female, White, Bl Blue eyes "Gracey, George. I.R. 329573. Male, White, Heavy build. Fed. Warrant #78-3298. Tattoos on right chest. Walks with limp. Subjects should be considered armed and dangerous"

Was Baba au Rhum [image]

Granted, in the police photo, Servo sported a dense steel-wool beard and mustache, both doing their best to scrub out his oval face, and the photograph (a still taken from a security camera) was in sloppy black and white. Yet Servo's burning eyes, his lipless mouth reminiscent of the plastic gap in a Kleenex box with no Kleenex, the way his small head stood up against his bullying shoulders -it was unmistakable. "He always hobbled," Dad had said to me in Paris. "Even when we were at Harvard."

I grabbed the paper, which also featured the sketch of Catherine Baker, the one I'd seen on the Internet. ("Federal Authorities and the Harris County Sheriffs Department are asking for public a.s.sistance in obtaining information leading to the Grand Jury indictment of these persons. . ." it read on the second page.) I ran upstairs to my room, yanked open my desk drawers, and dug through my old homework papers and notebooks and Unit Tests, until I found the Air France boarding pa.s.ses, some Ritz stationery, and then, the small piece of graph paper on which Dad had scribbled Servo's home and mobile telephone numbers the day they'd left me and gone to La Sorbonne.

After some confusion -country codes, reversing ones and zeros -I managed to correctly dial the mobile number. Instantly, I was met with the hisses and heckling of a number no longer in service. When I called the home number, after a great deal of "Como?" "Como?" and and "Que?" "Que?" a patient Spanish woman informed me that the apartment wasn't a private residence, a patient Spanish woman informed me that the apartment wasn't a private residence, no, no, it was available for weeklong lettings via Go Chateaux, Inc. She pointed me toward the vacation Web site and an 8oo-number (see "ILE-297," www.gochateaux.com). I called the Reservations line and was curtly told by a man that the apartment hadn't been a private residence since the company's inception in 1981. I then tried to wrench free whatever info he had on the individual who'd leased the unit the week of December 26, but was informed Go Chateaux wasn't authorized to disclose their client's personal records. it was available for weeklong lettings via Go Chateaux, Inc. She pointed me toward the vacation Web site and an 8oo-number (see "ILE-297," www.gochateaux.com). I called the Reservations line and was curtly told by a man that the apartment hadn't been a private residence since the company's inception in 1981. I then tried to wrench free whatever info he had on the individual who'd leased the unit the week of December 26, but was informed Go Chateaux wasn't authorized to disclose their client's personal records.

"Have I done what I could to a.s.sist you on this call?"

"This is a matter of life and death. People are being killed." killed."

"Have I satisfied all of your questions?"

"No."

"Thank you for calling Go Chateaux."

I hung up and did nothing but sit on the edge of my bed, stunned by the blase response of the afternoon. Surely, the sky should have split open like plumber's pants; at the very least, smoke should be unraveling from the trees, their topmost branches singed -but no, the afternoon was a dead-eyed teenager, a weathered broad hanging around a dive bar, old tinsel. My revelation was my my problem; it had nothing whatsoever to do with the bedroom, with the light like drunk wallflowers in shapeless gold dresses slouching along the radiator and bookshelf, the windowpane shadows like idiot sunbathers sprawled all over the floor. I remembered picking up Servo's cane after it had toppled off the edge of a problem; it had nothing whatsoever to do with the bedroom, with the light like drunk wallflowers in shapeless gold dresses slouching along the radiator and bookshelf, the windowpane shadows like idiot sunbathers sprawled all over the floor. I remembered picking up Servo's cane after it had toppled off the edge of a boulangerie boulangerie counter, rapping a woman standing behind him directly on her black shoe making her gasp and light up red like she was a twenty-five-cent theme park game of sledgehammer and bell, and the top of the walking stick, a bald eagle head, had been hot and sticky from Servo's steak-fat palm. As I returned the cane to the spot by his elbow, he'd tossed words over his left shoulder, hastily, like he'd spilled salt: "Mmmm, merci beaucoup. Need a leash for that thing, don't I?" I supposed it was no use berating myself for not quilting together, in a more timely fashion, these obviously well-matched sc.r.a.ps of life (How many men had I ever known with hip trouble? counter, rapping a woman standing behind him directly on her black shoe making her gasp and light up red like she was a twenty-five-cent theme park game of sledgehammer and bell, and the top of the walking stick, a bald eagle head, had been hot and sticky from Servo's steak-fat palm. As I returned the cane to the spot by his elbow, he'd tossed words over his left shoulder, hastily, like he'd spilled salt: "Mmmm, merci beaucoup. Need a leash for that thing, don't I?" I supposed it was no use berating myself for not quilting together, in a more timely fashion, these obviously well-matched sc.r.a.ps of life (How many men had I ever known with hip trouble? None but Servo None but Servo was the pitiful answer) and naturally (though I resisted) I thought of something Dad had said: "A surprise is rarely a stranger, but a faceless patient who's been reading across from you in the waiting room the entire time, his head hidden by a magazine but his orange socks in plain view, as well as his gold pocket watch and frayed trousers." was the pitiful answer) and naturally (though I resisted) I thought of something Dad had said: "A surprise is rarely a stranger, but a faceless patient who's been reading across from you in the waiting room the entire time, his head hidden by a magazine but his orange socks in plain view, as well as his gold pocket watch and frayed trousers."

But if Servo was George Gracey, what did that make Dad?

Servo is to Gracey as Dad is to-suddenly, the answer came lurching out of hiding, hands up, throwing itself to the ground, begging for forgiveness, praying I wouldn't flay it alive. to-suddenly, the answer came lurching out of hiding, hands up, throwing itself to the ground, begging for forgiveness, praying I wouldn't flay it alive.

I raced to my desk, seized my CASE NOTES, scoured the pages for those odd little nicknames I'd taken such haphazard note of, eventually finding them cowering at the bottom of Page 4: Nero, Bull's-Eye, Mohave, Socrates and Franklin. It was farcically obvious now. Dad was Socrates, otherwise known as The Thinker according to www.looseyourrevolutioncherry.net-of course, course, he'd be Socrates-who else would Dad be? Marx, Hume, Descartes, Sartre, none of those nicknames were good enough for Dad ("out-of-date, blubbering scribblers"), and he wouldn't be caught dead going by Plato ("hugely overhyped as a logician"). I wondered if one of The Night.w.a.tchmen had dreamt up the nickname; no, it was more likely Dad himself had casually suggested it in private to Servo before a meeting. Dad didn't do well with subtlety, with off the cuff; when it came to All Things Gareth, Dad wore indifference like a socialite thin as a cheese cracker forced to lunch in a football jersey. My eyes were staggering down the page now, through my own neatly written words: "January 1974 marked a change in tactics for the group from evident to invisible." In January 1974, Dad had been enrolled in Harvard's Kennedy School of Government; in March 1974, "police had come close to raiding one of The Night.w.a.tchmen's gatherings in an abandoned Braintree, Ma.s.sachusetts, warehouse"; Braintree was less than thirty minutes from Cambridge, and thus The Night.w.a.tchmen had been less than thirty minutes from Dad-a highly likely intersection of two moving bodies across s.p.a.ce and Time. he'd be Socrates-who else would Dad be? Marx, Hume, Descartes, Sartre, none of those nicknames were good enough for Dad ("out-of-date, blubbering scribblers"), and he wouldn't be caught dead going by Plato ("hugely overhyped as a logician"). I wondered if one of The Night.w.a.tchmen had dreamt up the nickname; no, it was more likely Dad himself had casually suggested it in private to Servo before a meeting. Dad didn't do well with subtlety, with off the cuff; when it came to All Things Gareth, Dad wore indifference like a socialite thin as a cheese cracker forced to lunch in a football jersey. My eyes were staggering down the page now, through my own neatly written words: "January 1974 marked a change in tactics for the group from evident to invisible." In January 1974, Dad had been enrolled in Harvard's Kennedy School of Government; in March 1974, "police had come close to raiding one of The Night.w.a.tchmen's gatherings in an abandoned Braintree, Ma.s.sachusetts, warehouse"; Braintree was less than thirty minutes from Cambridge, and thus The Night.w.a.tchmen had been less than thirty minutes from Dad-a highly likely intersection of two moving bodies across s.p.a.ce and Time.

It must have been Dad's admittance into The Night.w.a.tchmen that led to their shift in strategy. "Blind Dates: Advantages of a Silent Civil War" and "Rebellion in the Information Age" were two of Dad's most popular Federal Forum Federal Forum essays (every now and then he still received fan mail), and it was a Primary Theme that had served as the basis for his highly regarded Harvard dissertation of 1978, "The Curse of the Freedom Fighter: The Fallacies of Guerrilla Warfare and Third-World Revolution." (It was also the reason he called Lou Swann a "hack.") And then there was Dad's palpable Moment of Turning, a moment he spoke lovingly about in a Bourbon Mood (as if it were a woman he'd seen in a train station, a woman with silky hair who tilted her head close to the gla.s.s so Dad saw a cloud where her mouth should be), when he stood on Benno Ohnesorg's stiff shoelace at a Berlin protest rally and the innocent student was shot dead by police. This was when he realized that "the man who stands up and protests, the lone man who says no-he will be crucified." essays (every now and then he still received fan mail), and it was a Primary Theme that had served as the basis for his highly regarded Harvard dissertation of 1978, "The Curse of the Freedom Fighter: The Fallacies of Guerrilla Warfare and Third-World Revolution." (It was also the reason he called Lou Swann a "hack.") And then there was Dad's palpable Moment of Turning, a moment he spoke lovingly about in a Bourbon Mood (as if it were a woman he'd seen in a train station, a woman with silky hair who tilted her head close to the gla.s.s so Dad saw a cloud where her mouth should be), when he stood on Benno Ohnesorg's stiff shoelace at a Berlin protest rally and the innocent student was shot dead by police. This was when he realized that "the man who stands up and protests, the lone man who says no-he will be crucified."

"And that was my Bolshevik moment, so to speak," Dad said. "When I decided to storm the Winter Palace."

When charting what I knew to be my life, somehow I'd managed to omit an entire continent (see Antarctica: The Coldest Place on Earth, Antarctica: The Coldest Place on Earth, Turg, 1987). Turg, 1987). "Always content, aren't you, to hide behind the lecture podium?" "Always content, aren't you, to hide behind the lecture podium?" I'd overheard Servo shouting at Dad. Servo was the "hormonal teenager," Dad, the theorist. (Frankly, Servo had hit the nail on the head; Dad didn't like dishwasher soap on his hands, much less the blood of men.) And Servo doubtlessly paid Dad well for his theorizing. Though Dad, over the years, had always pleaded poverty, when it came down to it, he could still live it up like Kubla Kahn, renting an ornate house like 24 Armor Street, staying at the Ritz, shipping a 200-pound, $17,000 antique desk across the country and lying about it. Even Dad's choice of bourbon, George T. Stagg, was considered by I'd overheard Servo shouting at Dad. Servo was the "hormonal teenager," Dad, the theorist. (Frankly, Servo had hit the nail on the head; Dad didn't like dishwasher soap on his hands, much less the blood of men.) And Servo doubtlessly paid Dad well for his theorizing. Though Dad, over the years, had always pleaded poverty, when it came down to it, he could still live it up like Kubla Kahn, renting an ornate house like 24 Armor Street, staying at the Ritz, shipping a 200-pound, $17,000 antique desk across the country and lying about it. Even Dad's choice of bourbon, George T. Stagg, was considered by Stuart Mills Booze Bible Stuart Mills Booze Bible (2003 ed.) "the Bentley of all bourbons." (2003 ed.) "the Bentley of all bourbons."

In Paris, had I come upon them arguing about Hannah Schneider, or the encroaching problem of Ada Harvey? Highly hysterical, problem, Simone de Beauvoir- Highly hysterical, problem, Simone de Beauvoir-the overheard conversation was a mule; it wouldn't come back willingly. I had to coax and cajole it, tug it back into my head, so by the time I lined up the shards of conversation for inspection, I was just as confused as when I began. My head felt hollowed out with a spoon.