"Blue?"

To my horror, it was Hannah Schneider, descending the steps behind me.

"What are you doing here at this hour?"

"Oh," I said, smiling as joyously as I could. "My dad's running late at work." It was critical to appear happy and well loved; after school, teachers stared at kids unattended by parents like they were suspicious packages abandoned in an airport lounge.

"You don't drive?" she asked, stopping next to me.

"Not yet. I can can drive. I just haven't gotten my license." (Dad didn't see the point: "What, so you can cruise around town for a year before you go off to college like a nurse shark lazing around a reef desperate for guppies? I don't think so. Next thing I know you'll be wearing biker leather. Wouldn't you prefer, anyway, to be chauffeured?") drive. I just haven't gotten my license." (Dad didn't see the point: "What, so you can cruise around town for a year before you go off to college like a nurse shark lazing around a reef desperate for guppies? I don't think so. Next thing I know you'll be wearing biker leather. Wouldn't you prefer, anyway, to be chauffeured?") Hannah nodded. She wore a long black skirt and a yellow b.u.t.ton-down sweater. While most teachers' hair at the end of the day resembled crusty windowsill plants, Hannah's-dark, but rusting a little in the late-day light-posed provocatively around her shoulders like Lauren Bacall in a doorway. It was strange for a teacher to be so guiltily watchable, so addictive. She wasDynasty, As the World Turns; one felt something fantastically b.i.t.c.hy was about to happen. one felt something fantastically b.i.t.c.hy was about to happen.

"Jade will have to swing by and pick you up then," she announced matter-of-factly. "It's just as well. The house is difficult to find. This Sunday. Twoish, two-thirty. You like Thai food?" (She didn't wait for my answer.) "Every Sunday I cook for them and you're the guest of honor from now until the end of the year. You'll get to know them. Gradually. They're wonderful kids. Charles is adorable and sweet, but the others can be difficult. Like most people they hate change, but everything good in life is an acquired taste. If they give you a hard time, remember it's not you -it's them. They'll just have to get over themselves." She gave one of those housewife commercial sighs (kid, carpet stain) and waved away an invisible fly. "How do you like your cla.s.ses? Are you adjusting?" She spoke quickly and for some reason my heart was. .h.i.tch-kicking excitedly in the air as if I was Orphan Annie and she was that wonderful character played by Anne Reinking who Dad said had spectacular legs.

"Yes," I said, standing up.

"Wonderful." She clasped her hands together-sort of like a fashion designer admiring his own fall line. "I'll get your address from the office and give it to Jade."

At this point, I noticed Dad in the Volvo, parked by the curb. He was probably watching us, but I couldn't see his face, only his splotchy outline in the driver's seat. The windshield and windows mirrored the oak trees and the yellowed sky.

"That must be your ride," Hannah said following my stare. "See you Sunday?"

I nodded. Her arm lightly around my shoulder-she smelled like pencil lead and soap, and, oddly enough, a vintage clothing store-she walked me toward the car, waving at Dad before continuing down the sidewalk toward the Faculty Parking Lot.

"You're absurdly late," I said, pulling the door closed.

"I apologize," Dad said. "I was walking out of the office when the most appalling student marched in, held me hostage with the most mundane questions-"

"Well, it doesn't look good. Makes me look like one of those unloved latchkey children they make after-school specials about."

"Don't sell yourself short. You're more Masterpiece Theatre." Masterpiece Theatre." He started the car, squinting in the rearview mirror. "And that, I deduce, was the meddling woman from the shoe store?" He started the car, squinting in the rearview mirror. "And that, I deduce, was the meddling woman from the shoe store?"

I nodded.

"What'd she want this time?"

"Nothing. Just wanted to say h.e.l.lo."

I intended to tell him the truth; I'd have to, if on Sunday I wanted to run off with some "slack-jawed Suzy," some "invertebrate," a "post-p.u.b.escent wasteoid who imagines the Khmer Rouge to be makeup and Guerrilla Warfare to be that rivalry which occurs between apes"-but then we were accelerating past Bartleby Athletic Center and the football field where a crowd of shirtless boys leapt into the air like trout as they hit soccer b.a.l.l.s with their heads. And as we rounded the chapel, Hannah Schneider was directly in front of us unlocking the door to an old red Subaru, one of the back doors dented like a c.o.ke can. She brushed her hair off her forehead as she watched our pa.s.sing car, and smiled. It was the distinct, secret smile of adulterous housewives, bluffing poker players, consummate con artists in mug shots and I decided, in that split second, to hold onto what she said, cup it tightly in my hands, setting it free only at the last possible second.

Dad, on Having a Secret, Well-Laid Plan: "There is nothing more delirious to the human mind."

VIII.

Madame Bovary

There was a poem Dad was quite fond of and knew by heart, ent.i.tled "My Darling" or "Mein Liebling" by the late German poet, Schubert Koenig Bonheoffer (1862-1937). Bonheoffer was crippled, deaf, had only one eye, but Dad said he was able to discern more about the nature of the world than most people in possession of all their senses. For some reason, and perhaps unfairly, the poem always reminded me of Hannah.

"Where is the soul of my Darling?" I ask, Oh, somewhere her soul must be, It lives not in words, nor in promises, Mutable as gold hers can be.

"It's in the eyes," the great poets say, "

'Tis where the soul must dwell."

But watch her eyes; they glisten bright At news of heaven and of h.e.l.l.

I once believed her crimson lips, Marked her soul soft as winter's snow, But then they curled at tales dismal, sad; What it meant, I could not know.

I thought her fingers, then, her slender hands, 'Cross her lap, they're delicate doves, Though sometimes cold as ice to touch, They surely hint of all she loves.

Aye, but there are moments she waves farewell, I confess my Darling I do not follow, She vanishes from view 'fore I reach the road, Windows bare, house quiet and hollow.

And at times I wish I might read her walk, Like a sailor his map o' the sea, Or find instructions for her looks, Explaining all she hopes will be.

How curious such an enlightened life!

G.o.d Himself wouldn't deign to doubt her Instead, I'm left a-wondering, Darling's shadows lurking about her.

Dinner at Hannah's was a honey-bunch tradition, held more or less every Sunday for the past three years. Charles and his friends looked forward to the hours at her house (the address itself, a little enchanting: 100 Willows Road) much in the way New York City's celery-thin heiresses and beetroot B-picture lotharios looked forward to noserubbing at the Stork Club certain sweaty Sat.u.r.day nights in 1943 (see Forget About El Morocco: The Xanadu of the New York Elite, the Stork Club, Forget About El Morocco: The Xanadu of the New York Elite, the Stork Club, 1929-1965, Riser, 1981). 1929-1965, Riser, 1981).

"I can't remember how it all started, but the five of us just got on with her famously," Jade told me. "I mean, she's an amazing woman-anyone can see that. We were freshman, taking her film cla.s.s, and we'd spend hours after school sitting in her cla.s.sroom talking about any old thing-life, s.e.x, Forrest Gump. Forrest Gump. And then we started going to dinner and things. And then she invited us over for Cuban food and we stayed up all night howling. About what I don't remember, but it was And then we started going to dinner and things. And then she invited us over for Cuban food and we stayed up all night howling. About what I don't remember, but it was amazing. amazing. Of course, we had to be hush-hush about it. Still do. Havermeyer doesn't like relationships between teachers and students that go beyond faculty advising or athletic coaching. He's afraid of shades of gray, if you know what I mean. And that's what Hannah is. A shade of gray." Of course, we had to be hush-hush about it. Still do. Havermeyer doesn't like relationships between teachers and students that go beyond faculty advising or athletic coaching. He's afraid of shades of gray, if you know what I mean. And that's what Hannah is. A shade of gray."

Of course, I didn't know any of this that first afternoon. In fact, I wasn't even positive I knew my own name as I rode next to Jade, the very disturbing person who only two days prior had maliciously directed me toward the Demonology Guild.

I'd actually a.s.sumed I'd been stood up again; by 3:30 P.M. there'd been no sign of her, or anyone. That morning, I'd hinted to Dad that I might have a Study Group later that afternoon (he'd frowned, surprised I was willing to subject myself again to such torture), but in the end, there was no need to give him a lengthier explanation; he'd disappeared to the university, having left a critical book on Ho Chi Minh in his office. He'd phoned to say he'd simply finish his latest Forum Forum essay there-"The Trappings of Iron-Clad Ideologies," or something to that effect-but would be home for dinner. I'd sat down in the kitchen with a chicken salad sandwich, resigned to an afternoon essay there-"The Trappings of Iron-Clad Ideologies," or something to that effect-but would be home for dinner. I'd sat down in the kitchen with a chicken salad sandwich, resigned to an afternoon of Absalom, Absalom!: The Corrected Text of Absalom, Absalom!: The Corrected Text (Faulkner, 1990), when I heard the extended howl of a car horn in the driveway. (Faulkner, 1990), when I heard the extended howl of a car horn in the driveway.

"I'm appallingly late. I am so sorry," so sorry," a girl shouted through the inch-opened, tinted window of the blubbery black Mercedes beached at the front door. I couldn't see her, only her squinting eyes of indeterminate color and some beach-blond hair. "Are you ready? Otherwise I might have to take off without you. Traffic's a b.i.t.c.h." a girl shouted through the inch-opened, tinted window of the blubbery black Mercedes beached at the front door. I couldn't see her, only her squinting eyes of indeterminate color and some beach-blond hair. "Are you ready? Otherwise I might have to take off without you. Traffic's a b.i.t.c.h."

Hastily, I grabbed keys to the house and the first book I could find, one of Dad's favorites, Civil War Endgames Civil War Endgames (Agner, 1955), and ripped a page from the back. I scrawled a terse note (Study Group, (Agner, 1955), and ripped a page from the back. I scrawled a terse note (Study Group, Ulysses) Ulysses) and left it for him on the round table in the foyer without even bothering to sign it "Love, Christabel." And then I was in her killer whale of a Mercedes, all Disbelief, Awkwardness and Outright Panic as I compulsively glanced at the speedometer trembling toward 80 mph, her lazy manicured hand slung atop the steering wheel, her blond hair in the cruel bun, the sandal straps x.x.xing up her legs. Candelabra earrings broadsided her neck every time she took her eyes off the highway to survey me with a look of "corroding tolerance." (It was how Dad described his mood waiting for June Bug Shelby Hollow tending to her acrylic nails, creative half-a-head highlights and pedicured feet-"With bunionettes," Dad noted-at Hot-2-Trot Hair & Nails.) and left it for him on the round table in the foyer without even bothering to sign it "Love, Christabel." And then I was in her killer whale of a Mercedes, all Disbelief, Awkwardness and Outright Panic as I compulsively glanced at the speedometer trembling toward 80 mph, her lazy manicured hand slung atop the steering wheel, her blond hair in the cruel bun, the sandal straps x.x.xing up her legs. Candelabra earrings broadsided her neck every time she took her eyes off the highway to survey me with a look of "corroding tolerance." (It was how Dad described his mood waiting for June Bug Shelby Hollow tending to her acrylic nails, creative half-a-head highlights and pedicured feet-"With bunionettes," Dad noted-at Hot-2-Trot Hair & Nails.) "Yeah, so this"-Jade touched the front of the elaborate, parrot-green kimono dress she was wearing; she must have thought I was silently admiring her outfit-"this was a gift to my mom Jefferson when she entertained Hirofumi Kodaka, some loaded j.a.panese businessman for three grisly nights at the Ritz in 1982. He had jetlag and didn't speak English so she was his twenty-four-hour translator if you know what I mean-Get off the f.u.c.king road!" She leaned on the horn; we veered in front of a lowly gray Oldsmobile driven by an old lady no bigger than a Dixie cup. Jade craned her neck around to give her a dirty look, then flipped her off. "Why doncha go to a graveyard and kick the bucket, old bag." She leaned on the horn; we veered in front of a lowly gray Oldsmobile driven by an old lady no bigger than a Dixie cup. Jade craned her neck around to give her a dirty look, then flipped her off. "Why doncha go to a graveyard and kick the bucket, old bag."

We darted down Exit 19.

"That reminds me," she said, tossing me a look. "Why didn't you show?"

"What?" I managed to ask.

"You weren't there. We waited." waited."

"Oh. Well, I went to room 208-"

"208?" She made a face. "It was 308."

She wasn't fooling anyone. "You wrote 208," I said quietly.

"I did not. not. I remember perfectly-308. And you totally missed out. We had a cake for you and a lot of icing and candles and everything," she added sort of absentmindedly (I was bracing myself for tales of hired belly dancers, elephant rides, whirling dervishes), but then, to my relief, she leaned forward and with a haughty, "G.o.d, I love Dara and the Bouncing Checks," turned the CD I remember perfectly-308. And you totally missed out. We had a cake for you and a lot of icing and candles and everything," she added sort of absentmindedly (I was bracing myself for tales of hired belly dancers, elephant rides, whirling dervishes), but then, to my relief, she leaned forward and with a haughty, "G.o.d, I love Dara and the Bouncing Checks," turned the CD way way up, a heavy metal band with a lead singer that sounded as if he were being gouged by bulls at Pamplona. up, a heavy metal band with a lead singer that sounded as if he were being gouged by bulls at Pamplona.

We drove on, not a word spoken between us. (She'd resolved to shake me off like a hit funnybone.) She checked her watch, winced, huffed, d.a.m.ned stop lights, road signs, anyone abiding the speed limit in front of us, proudly surveyed her blue eyes in the rearview mirror, brushed specks of mascara off her cheeks, dabbed her lips with glittery pink lip gloss and then more more glittery lip gloss so some of it started to ooze off the side of her mouth-a detail I didn't have the guts to point out. In fact, driving to Hannah's made the girl so apparently restless and anxiety ridden, I couldn't help but wonder if at the end of this nauseating parade of woods and pastures and nameless dirt roads, and shoe-box barns and gaunt horses waiting by fences, I'd find not a house, but a black door barred by a velvet rope, a man with a clipboard who'd look me over and, when ascertaining I didn't know Frank or Errol or Sammy personally (nor any other t.i.tan of entertainment), would declare me unfit to enter, by inference, to continue living. glittery lip gloss so some of it started to ooze off the side of her mouth-a detail I didn't have the guts to point out. In fact, driving to Hannah's made the girl so apparently restless and anxiety ridden, I couldn't help but wonder if at the end of this nauseating parade of woods and pastures and nameless dirt roads, and shoe-box barns and gaunt horses waiting by fences, I'd find not a house, but a black door barred by a velvet rope, a man with a clipboard who'd look me over and, when ascertaining I didn't know Frank or Errol or Sammy personally (nor any other t.i.tan of entertainment), would declare me unfit to enter, by inference, to continue living.

But at last, at the very end of the twisting gravel road was the house, an awkward, wooden-faced coy mistress clinging to half a hill with bulky additions stuck to her sides like giant faux pas. As soon as we parked by the other cars and rang the bell, Hannah swung open the front door in a wave of Nina Simone, Eastern spices, perfume, Eau de Somethingfrench, her face warm as the living room light. A pack of seven or eight dogs, all different breeds and sizes, crept nervously behind her.

"This is Blue," Jade said indifferently, walking inside.

"Of course," said Hannah, smiling. She was barefoot, wearing chunky gold bracelets and an African batik caftan in orange and yellow. Her dark hair was a perfect swish of ponytail. "The lady of the hour."

To my surprise, she hugged me. It was an Epic Hug, heroic, big budget, sprawling, with ten thousand extras (not short, grainy and made on a shoestring). When she finally let go, she grabbed my hand and squeezed it the way people at airports grab the hands of people they haven't seen in years, asking how the flight was. She pulled me next to her, her arm around my waist. She was unexpectedly thin.

"Blue meet f.a.gan, Brody, he's got three legs-though it doesn't stop him from going through the garbage - Fang, Peabody, Arthur, Stallone, the Chihuahua with half-a-tail-accident with a car door-and the Old b.a.s.t.a.r.d. Don't look him in the eye." She was referring to a skin-and-bones greyhound with the red eyes of a middle-aged, midnight tollbooth collector. The other dogs glanced at Hannah doubtfully, as if she were introducing them to a poltergeist. "Somewhere around here are the cats," she continued. "Lana and Turner, the Persians, and in the study we have our lovebird. Lennon. I'm in desperate need of an Ono, but there aren't many birds that show up at the shelter. Want some oolong tea?"

"Sure," I said.

"Oh, and you haven't met the others yet, have you?"

I looked up from the black-and-tan Chihuahua, who'd snuck over to me to consider my shoes, and saw them. Including Jade, who'd flopped down onto a half-melted chocolate couch and lit a cigarette (aiming it at me like a dart), they each stared with eyes so immobile and bodies so stiff, they might have been the series of paintings Dad and I scrutinized in the nineteenth-century Masters Gallery at the Chalk House outside Atlanta. There was the scrawny girl with brown seaweed hair, hugging her knees on the piano bench (Portrait of a Peasant Girl, (Portrait of a Peasant Girl, pastel on paper); a tiny kid wearing Ben Franklin spectacles, Indian-style by a mangy dog, Fang pastel on paper); a tiny kid wearing Ben Franklin spectacles, Indian-style by a mangy dog, Fang (Master with Foxhound, (Master with Foxhound, British, oil on canvas); and another, a huge, boxy-shouldered boy leaning against a bookshelf, his arms and ankles crossed, brittle black hair sagging across his forehead British, oil on canvas); and another, a huge, boxy-shouldered boy leaning against a bookshelf, his arms and ankles crossed, brittle black hair sagging across his forehead (The Old Mill, (The Old Mill, artist unknown). The only one I recognized was Charles in the leather chair artist unknown). The only one I recognized was Charles in the leather chair (The Gay Shepherd, (The Gay Shepherd, gilt frame). He smiled encouragingly, but I doubted it meant much; he seemed to hand out smiles like a guy in a chicken costume distributing coupons for a free lunch. gilt frame). He smiled encouragingly, but I doubted it meant much; he seemed to hand out smiles like a guy in a chicken costume distributing coupons for a free lunch.

"Why don't you introduce yourselves?" Hannah said cheerfully.

They said their names with paint-by-numbers politeness.

"Jade."

"We've met," said Charles.

"Leulah," said the Peasant Girl.

"Milton," said the Old Mill.

"Nigel Creech, very pleased to meet you," said the Master with Foxhound, and then he flashed a smile, which disappeared instantly like a spark off a defunct lighter.

If all histories have a period known as The Golden Age, somewhere between The Beginning and The End, I suppose those Sundays during Fall Semester at Hannah's were just that, or, to quote one of Dad's treasured characters of cinema, the ill.u.s.trious Norma Desmond as she recalled the lost era of silent film: "We didn't need dialogue. We had faces."

I sort of like to think the same was true back in those days at Hannah's (Visual Aid 8.0). (Forgive my regrettable rendering of Charles-and Jade for that matter; they were much more beautiful in real life.) Charles was the handsome one (handsome in the opposite way of Andreo). Gold-haired, mercury-tempered, he was not only St. Gallway's Track and Field star, excelling at both hurdles and the high jump, but also its Travolta. It wasn't unusual to see him sliding between cla.s.ses engaged in a shameless, campus-wide soft shoe, involving not only known Gallway beauties but also the less physically heralded. Somehow he was able to twirl one girl away by the Teacher's Lounge just as another rumbaed over to him, and they pachangaed down the hall. (Amazingly, no one's feet were ever stepped on.) Jade was the terrifying beauty (see "Tawny Eagle," Magnificent Birds of Prey, Magnificent Birds of Prey, George, 1993). She swooped into a cla.s.sroom and girls scattered like chipmunks and squirrels. (The boys, equally afraid, played dead.) She was brutally blond ("bleached to the hilt," I heard Beth Price remark in AP English), five-feet-eight ("wiry"), stalked the halls in short skirts, her books in a black leather bag ("Guess she's Donna f.u.c.king Karan") and what I took to be a severe and sad look on her face, though most took it for conceit. Due to Jade's fortresslike manner, which, like any well-built castle, made access challenging, girls found her existence not only threatening, but flat out wrong. Although Bartleby Athletic Center featured the latest advertising campaign of Ms. St.u.r.ds's three-member Benevolent Body-Image Club (laminated George, 1993). She swooped into a cla.s.sroom and girls scattered like chipmunks and squirrels. (The boys, equally afraid, played dead.) She was brutally blond ("bleached to the hilt," I heard Beth Price remark in AP English), five-feet-eight ("wiry"), stalked the halls in short skirts, her books in a black leather bag ("Guess she's Donna f.u.c.king Karan") and what I took to be a severe and sad look on her face, though most took it for conceit. Due to Jade's fortresslike manner, which, like any well-built castle, made access challenging, girls found her existence not only threatening, but flat out wrong. Although Bartleby Athletic Center featured the latest advertising campaign of Ms. St.u.r.ds's three-member Benevolent Body-Image Club (laminated Vogue Vogue and and Maxim Maxim covers above captions, "You Can't Have Thighs Like This and Still Walk" and "All Airbrushing"), Jade would only have to swan by, munching on a Snickers to reveal a disturbing truth: you covers above captions, "You Can't Have Thighs Like This and Still Walk" and "All Airbrushing"), Jade would only have to swan by, munching on a Snickers to reveal a disturbing truth: you could could have thighs like that and still walk. She emphasized what few wanted to accept, that some people did win Trivial Pursuit: The Deity Looks Edition and there wasn't a thing you could do about it, except come to terms with the fact have thighs like that and still walk. She emphasized what few wanted to accept, that some people did win Trivial Pursuit: The Deity Looks Edition and there wasn't a thing you could do about it, except come to terms with the fact you'd you'd only played Trivial Pursuit: John Doe Genes and come away with three pie pieces. only played Trivial Pursuit: John Doe Genes and come away with three pie pieces.

Nigel was the cipher (see "Negative s.p.a.ce," Art Lessons, Art Lessons, Trey, 1973, p. 29). At first glance (even at second and third), he was ordinary. His face - rather his entire being-was a b.u.t.tonhole: small, narrow, uneventful. He stood no more thanfive-feet-five with a round face, brown hair, features weak and baby-feet pink (neither complemented nor marred by the wire gla.s.ses he wore). At school, he sported thin, tonguelike neckties in neon orange, a fashion statement I guessed was his effort to force people to take notice of him, much like a car's hazard lights. And yet, upon closer examination, the ordinariness was extraordinary: he bit his nails into thumbtacks; spoke in hushed spurts (uncolored guppies darting through a tank); in large groups, his smile could be a dying light bulb (shining reluctantly, flickering, disappearing); and a single strand of his hair (once found on my skirt after sitting next to him), held directly under a light, shimmered with every color in a rainbow, including purple. Trey, 1973, p. 29). At first glance (even at second and third), he was ordinary. His face - rather his entire being-was a b.u.t.tonhole: small, narrow, uneventful. He stood no more thanfive-feet-five with a round face, brown hair, features weak and baby-feet pink (neither complemented nor marred by the wire gla.s.ses he wore). At school, he sported thin, tonguelike neckties in neon orange, a fashion statement I guessed was his effort to force people to take notice of him, much like a car's hazard lights. And yet, upon closer examination, the ordinariness was extraordinary: he bit his nails into thumbtacks; spoke in hushed spurts (uncolored guppies darting through a tank); in large groups, his smile could be a dying light bulb (shining reluctantly, flickering, disappearing); and a single strand of his hair (once found on my skirt after sitting next to him), held directly under a light, shimmered with every color in a rainbow, including purple.

And then there was Milton, st.u.r.dy and grim, with a big, cushiony body like someone's favorite reading chair in need of reupholstering (see "American Black Bear," Meat-Eating Land Animals, Meat-Eating Land Animals, Richards, 1982). He was eighteen, but looked thirty. His face, cluttered with brown eyes, curly black hair, a swollen mouth, had a curdled handsomeness to it, as if, incredibly, it wasn't what it'd once been. He had an Orson Wellian quality, Gerardepardieuian too: one suspected his large, slightly overweight frame smothered some kind of dark genius and after a twenty-minute shower he'd still reek of cigarettes. He'd lived most of his life in a town called Riot in Alabama and thus spoke in a Southern accent so gooey and thick you could probably cut into it and spread it on dinner rolls. Like all Mysteriosos, he had an Achilles' heel: a giant tattoo on his upper right arm. He refused to talk about it, went to great pains to conceal it-never removing his shirt, always wearing long sleeves-and if some clown during P.E. asked him what it was, he either stared at the kid as if he were a Richards, 1982). He was eighteen, but looked thirty. His face, cluttered with brown eyes, curly black hair, a swollen mouth, had a curdled handsomeness to it, as if, incredibly, it wasn't what it'd once been. He had an Orson Wellian quality, Gerardepardieuian too: one suspected his large, slightly overweight frame smothered some kind of dark genius and after a twenty-minute shower he'd still reek of cigarettes. He'd lived most of his life in a town called Riot in Alabama and thus spoke in a Southern accent so gooey and thick you could probably cut into it and spread it on dinner rolls. Like all Mysteriosos, he had an Achilles' heel: a giant tattoo on his upper right arm. He refused to talk about it, went to great pains to conceal it-never removing his shirt, always wearing long sleeves-and if some clown during P.E. asked him what it was, he either stared at the kid as if he were a Price Is Right Price Is Right rerun, barely blinking, or replied in his mola.s.ses accent: "Nunna ya G.o.dd.a.m.n business." rerun, barely blinking, or replied in his mola.s.ses accent: "Nunna ya G.o.dd.a.m.n business."

And then there was the delicate creature (see Juliet, Juliet, J. W. Waterhouse, 1898). Leulah Maloney was pearl skinned, with skinny bird arms and long brown hair always worn in a braid, like one of those cords aristocracy pulled in the nineteenth century to summon servants. Hers was an eerie, old-fashioned beauty, a face at home in amulets or carved into cameos-a romantic look I actually used to wish I had whenever Dad and I were reading about Gloriana in J. W. Waterhouse, 1898). Leulah Maloney was pearl skinned, with skinny bird arms and long brown hair always worn in a braid, like one of those cords aristocracy pulled in the nineteenth century to summon servants. Hers was an eerie, old-fashioned beauty, a face at home in amulets or carved into cameos-a romantic look I actually used to wish I had whenever Dad and I were reading about Gloriana in The Faerie Queene The Faerie Queene (Spenser, 1596) or discussing Dante's love for Beatrice Portinari. ("Know how difficult it is to find a woman that looks like Beatrice in today's world?" asked Dad. "You've a better chance running at the speed of light.-) (Spenser, 1596) or discussing Dante's love for Beatrice Portinari. ("Know how difficult it is to find a woman that looks like Beatrice in today's world?" asked Dad. "You've a better chance running at the speed of light.-) Early in the Fall, when I least expected it, I'd spot Leulah in a long dress (usually white or diaphanous blue) strolling the Commons in the middle of a downpour, holding her little antique face up to the rain while everyone else streaked past her screaming, textbooks or disintegrating GallwayGazettes GallwayGazettes held over their heads. Twice I noticed her like this-another time, crouched in Elton House shrubbery, apparently fascinated by a piece of bark or tulip bulb-and I couldn't help but think such faerielike behavior was all very calculated and irritating. Dad had carried on a tedious five-day affair with a woman named Birch Peterson in Okush, New Mexico, and Birch, having been born outside Ontario on a "terrific" free-loving commune called Verve, was always entreating Dad and me to walk untroubled in rain, bless mosquitoes, eat tofu. When she came for dinner she said a prayer before we "consumed," a fifteen-minute plea asking "Shod" to bless every slime mold and mollusk. held over their heads. Twice I noticed her like this-another time, crouched in Elton House shrubbery, apparently fascinated by a piece of bark or tulip bulb-and I couldn't help but think such faerielike behavior was all very calculated and irritating. Dad had carried on a tedious five-day affair with a woman named Birch Peterson in Okush, New Mexico, and Birch, having been born outside Ontario on a "terrific" free-loving commune called Verve, was always entreating Dad and me to walk untroubled in rain, bless mosquitoes, eat tofu. When she came for dinner she said a prayer before we "consumed," a fifteen-minute plea asking "Shod" to bless every slime mold and mollusk.

"The word G.o.d G.o.d is inherently male," said Birch, "so I came up with is inherently male," said Birch, "so I came up with she, he, she, he, and and G.o.d G.o.d rolled into one. rolled into one. Shod Shod exemplifies the truly genderless Higher Power." exemplifies the truly genderless Higher Power."

I concluded Leulah -Lu, as they all called her-with her gossamer dresses, reedy hair, decisions to skip daintily along everything but sidewalks, had to have Birch's persona of bean curd, that esprit de spirulina, until I discovered someone had actually hexed the girl, cast a powerful spell, so her oddities were eternally unthinking, careless and unscripted, so she never questioned what people thought or how she looked, so the cruelties of the entire kingdom ("There's something sour about her. She's totally past her Eat-by date," I heard Lucille Hunter remark in AP English) dissolved miraculously-never reaching her ears.

Since much has already been made of Hannah's paramount face, I won't mention it again, except to say, unlike other Helens of Troy, who can never quite get over their own magnificence, like a pair of perilously high heels they're always wandering around in (self-consciously stooped over or haughtily towering over everyone), Hannah managed to wear hers day and night and still be only vaguely aware she was wearing shoes. With her, you noticed how exhausting beauty actually was, how used up one might feel after a day of strangers rubbernecking to watch you pour Sweet'N Low into your coffee or pick out the tin of blueberries with the least mold.

"Whatever," Hannah said, without a trace of false modesty when, one Sunday, Charles commented how great she looked in a black T-shirt and army fatigues. "I'm just a tired old lady."

There was, too, the problem of her name.

While it cartwheeled off the tongue nimbly enough, more elegantly than, say, Juan San Sebastien Orillos-Maripon (the lip-calisthenics name of Dad's teaching a.s.sistant at Dodson-Miner), I couldn't help but think there was something criminal about it. Whoever had named her-mother, father, I didn't know-was a person harrowingly out of touch with reality, because even as an infant, Hannah could never have been one of those troll-babies, and a troll-baby was what you dubbed "Hannah." (Granted, I was biased: "Thank G.o.d that thing's incarcerated in his carriage. Otherwise, people might start to panic, thinking we have a veritable War of the Worlds War of the Worlds on our hands," Dad said, peering down at a happy, yet decidedly elderly baby parked in an aisle at Office Depot. Then the mother arrived. "I see you've met Hannah!" she cried.) If she on our hands," Dad said, peering down at a happy, yet decidedly elderly baby parked in an aisle at Office Depot. Then the mother arrived. "I see you've met Hannah!" she cried.) If she had had to have a common name, she was Edith or Nadia or Ingrid, at the very least, Elizabeth or Catherine; but her gla.s.s-slipper name, the one that to have a common name, she was Edith or Nadia or Ingrid, at the very least, Elizabeth or Catherine; but her gla.s.s-slipper name, the one that really really fit, was something along the lines of Countess Saskia Lepinska, or Anna-Maria d'Aubergette, even Agnes of Scudge or Ursula of Poland ("Hideous names on beautiful women tend to rumplestiltskin quite nicely," Dad said). fit, was something along the lines of Countess Saskia Lepinska, or Anna-Maria d'Aubergette, even Agnes of Scudge or Ursula of Poland ("Hideous names on beautiful women tend to rumplestiltskin quite nicely," Dad said).

"Hannah Schneider" fit her like stonewashed Jordache jeans six sizes too big. And once, oddly enough, when Nigel said her name during dinner, I could have sworn I noticed a funny delay in her response, as if, for a split second, she had no idea he was talking to her.

It made me wonder, even if it was solely on the subconscious level, maybe Hannah Schneider didn't love "Hannah Schneider" either. Maybe she wished she was Angelique von Heisenstagg too.

Many people speak enviously of the Fly on a Wall. They yearn for its characteristics: virtually invisible, yet privy to the secrets and shifty dialogues of an exclusive group of people. And yet, as I was nothing more than a fly on a wall for those first six, maybe seven Sunday afternoons at Hannah's, I can say with some authority such disregard gets old fairly quickly. (Actually, one could argue flies elicited more attention than I did, because someone always rolled up a magazine and doggedly chased them around a room, and no one did that to me -unless one counted Hannah's erratic attempts to insert me into the conversation, which I found more embarra.s.sing than the others' disdain.) Of course, that very first Sunday ended up nothing more than a disastrous humiliation, in many ways worse than the Study Group at Leroy 's, because at least Leroy and the others had wanted wanted me there (granted, wanted me as their beast of burden, so I could haul them up the steep hill toward eighth grade), but these kids -Charles, Jade and the others-they made it clear my presence at the house was entirely Hannah's idea, not theirs. me there (granted, wanted me as their beast of burden, so I could haul them up the steep hill toward eighth grade), but these kids -Charles, Jade and the others-they made it clear my presence at the house was entirely Hannah's idea, not theirs.

"Know what I hate?" Nigel asked pleasantly as I helped him clear the plates off the dinner table.

"What?" I asked, grateful he was attempting small talk.

"Shy people," he replied, and of course there was no ambiguity about what what shy person had prompted this announcement; I'd remained entirely mute during both dinner and dessert and the one instance Hannah had asked me a question ("You just moved here from Ohio?"), I was so taken aback my voice stumbled on the curb of my teeth. And then, minutes later, when I was pretending to be fascinated by the paperback cookbook Hannah had wedged next to her CD player, shy person had prompted this announcement; I'd remained entirely mute during both dinner and dessert and the one instance Hannah had asked me a question ("You just moved here from Ohio?"), I was so taken aback my voice stumbled on the curb of my teeth. And then, minutes later, when I was pretending to be fascinated by the paperback cookbook Hannah had wedged next to her CD player, Cooking Without Processed Foods Cooking Without Processed Foods (Chiobi, 1984), I overhead Milton and Jade in the kitchen. He was asking her-in all seriousness it seemed -if I spoke English. (Chiobi, 1984), I overhead Milton and Jade in the kitchen. He was asking her-in all seriousness it seemed -if I spoke English.

She laughed. "She must be one of those Russian mail-order brides," she said. "With those looks though, Hannah got seriously ripped off. I wonder what the return policy is. Hopefully we can send her back COD."

Minutes later, Jade was driving me home like a bat out of h.e.l.l (Hannah must have only paid minimum wage) and I stared out the window, thinking it had been the most horrible night of my life. Obviously I'd never speak to these halfwits, these simpletons ("ba.n.a.l, spiritless teenagers," Dad would add) everagain. everagain. And I wouldn't give that s.a.d.i.s.tic Hannah Schneider the time of day either; it was she, after all, who'd lured me to that snake pit, let me flail around with nothing but a chic smile on her face as she chitchatted about homework or what fifth-tier college those slack-jawed mopes hoped to squeeeeze their way into, and then after dinner, that unforgivable way she calmly lit a cigarette, her manicured hand tipped into the air like a delicate teakettle, as if all was fantastic with the world. And I wouldn't give that s.a.d.i.s.tic Hannah Schneider the time of day either; it was she, after all, who'd lured me to that snake pit, let me flail around with nothing but a chic smile on her face as she chitchatted about homework or what fifth-tier college those slack-jawed mopes hoped to squeeeeze their way into, and then after dinner, that unforgivable way she calmly lit a cigarette, her manicured hand tipped into the air like a delicate teakettle, as if all was fantastic with the world.

But then I don't know what happened. The following Tuesday, I pa.s.sed Hannah briefly in Hanover Hall-"See you this weekend?" she called out brightly through the crowd of students; naturally my reaction was that of a deer in headlights-and then, on Sunday, Jade appeared in the driveway again, this time at 2:15 P.M. and the entire entire window unrolled. window unrolled.

"Coming?" she shouted.

I was powerless as a maiden who'd been fed upon by vampires. Zombielike, I told Dad I'd forgotten about my Study Group and before he could protest, I'd kissed him on the cheek, a.s.sured him it was a St. Gallwaysponsored event and fled the house.

Embarra.s.sedly-and then, after a month, kind of resignedly-I settled into my appointed role as fly on the wall, as barely tolerated mute, because the truth was, when it came down to it (and I could never admit this to Dad), being snubbed at Hannah's was infinitely more electrifying than being mulled over back at the Van Meer's.

Wrapped up like an expensive gift in her emerald batik caftan, her purple and gold sari or some wheat-colored housedress straight out of Peyton Place Peyton Place (for this comparison you had to pretend you didn't see the cigarette burn at the hip), on Sunday afternoons, Hannah (for this comparison you had to pretend you didn't see the cigarette burn at the hip), on Sunday afternoons, Hannah entertained, entertained, in the old-fashioned, European sense of the word. Even now, I don't understand how she managed to prepare those extravagant dinners in her tiny mustard-yellow kitchen - Turkish lamb chops ("with mint sauce"), Thai steak ("with ginger-infused potatoes"), beef noodle soup ("Authentic Pho Bo"), on one less successful occasion, a goose ("with cranberry rub and sage carrot fries"). in the old-fashioned, European sense of the word. Even now, I don't understand how she managed to prepare those extravagant dinners in her tiny mustard-yellow kitchen - Turkish lamb chops ("with mint sauce"), Thai steak ("with ginger-infused potatoes"), beef noodle soup ("Authentic Pho Bo"), on one less successful occasion, a goose ("with cranberry rub and sage carrot fries").

She cooked. The very air began to saute in a reduction of candle, wine, wood, her perfume, and damp animal. We picked through the remains of our homework. The kitchen door swung open, and she stepped forth, a Birth of Venus Birth of Venus in a red ap.r.o.n smeared with mint sauce, walking with the fast, swingy grace of Tracy Lord in in a red ap.r.o.n smeared with mint sauce, walking with the fast, swingy grace of Tracy Lord in The PhiladelphiaStory, The PhiladelphiaStory, all soft bare feet (if those were toes, what you had was something else altogether, tuds), twinkles at her earlobes, the p.r.o.nunciation of certain words with little shivers on the endings. (The same word, when you said it, went limp.) all soft bare feet (if those were toes, what you had was something else altogether, tuds), twinkles at her earlobes, the p.r.o.nunciation of certain words with little shivers on the endings. (The same word, when you said it, went limp.) "How's everything? Getting everything done, I hope?" she said in her alwaysalittlehoa.r.s.e voice.

She carried the silver tray to the hunchback coffee table, kicking a paperback on the floor missing half its cover (The Lib Wo (The Lib Wo by Ari So): more Gruyere and British farmhouse cheddar fanned around the plate like Busby Berkeley girls, another pot of oolong tea. Her appearance caused the dogs and cats to come out of their salooned shadows and band around her, and when she returned in a swoosh to the kitchen (they weren't allowed, when she was cooking), they roamed the living room like dazed cowboys, unsure what to do with themselves with no showdown. by Ari So): more Gruyere and British farmhouse cheddar fanned around the plate like Busby Berkeley girls, another pot of oolong tea. Her appearance caused the dogs and cats to come out of their salooned shadows and band around her, and when she returned in a swoosh to the kitchen (they weren't allowed, when she was cooking), they roamed the living room like dazed cowboys, unsure what to do with themselves with no showdown.

Her house ("Noah's Arc," Charles called it) I found fascinating, schizophrenic, in fact. Its original personality was old-fashioned and charming, albeit slightly outmoded and wooden (the two-floor log cabin structure built in the late 1940s with a stone fireplace and low, beamed ceilings). Yet there was another persona lurking inside as well, which could spring forth unexpectedly as soon as one turned a corner, a profane, common, at times embarra.s.singly crude disposition (the boxy aluminum-siding additions she'd made to the ground floor the previous year).

Every room was crammed with so much worn, mismatched furniture (stripe married to plaid, orange engaged to pink, paisley coming out of the closet), at any position in any of the rooms, you could take a haphazard Polaroid and end up with a snapshot that bore a startling resemblance to Pica.s.so's Les Demoiselles d'Avignon. Les Demoiselles d'Avignon. Instead of misshapen cube-ladies filling the frame, the angular shapes would be Hannah's skewed bookshelf (used, not for a library, but for displaying plants, Oriental ashtrays and her chopstick collection, with a few notable exceptions: Instead of misshapen cube-ladies filling the frame, the angular shapes would be Hannah's skewed bookshelf (used, not for a library, but for displaying plants, Oriental ashtrays and her chopstick collection, with a few notable exceptions: On the Road On the Road [Kerouac, 1957], [Kerouac, 1957], Change Your Brain Change Your Brain [Leary, 1988], [Leary, 1988], Modem Warriors Modem Warriors [Chute, 1989], a Bob Dylan book of lyrics and [Chute, 1989], a Bob Dylan book of lyrics and Queenie Queenie [1985] by Michael Korda), Hannah's blistered leather chair, Hannah's samovar by the hat rack devoid of hats, the end table without an end. [1985] by Michael Korda), Hannah's blistered leather chair, Hannah's samovar by the hat rack devoid of hats, the end table without an end.

Hannah's furnishings weren't the only things tired and poor. I was surprised to observe that, despite her immaculate appearance, which rarely, upon even the closest inspections, had an eyelash out of place, some of her clothes were somewhat fatigued in appearance, though this was only obvious if you were sitting next to her and she happened to shift a certain way.There, suddenly, the lamplight stone-skipped across hundreds of tiny lint b.a.l.l.s rippling through the front of her wool skirt, or, very faintly, as she picked up her winegla.s.s and laughed like a man, the unmistakable smell of mothb.a.l.l.s embedded in all that Palais de Anything. suddenly, the lamplight stone-skipped across hundreds of tiny lint b.a.l.l.s rippling through the front of her wool skirt, or, very faintly, as she picked up her winegla.s.s and laughed like a man, the unmistakable smell of mothb.a.l.l.s embedded in all that Palais de Anything.

A lot of her clothes looked as if they'd gone a night without sleeping or had taken the red-eye, like her canary-and-cream Chanel-like suit with the weary hem, or her white cashmere sweater with the haggard elbows and debilitated waist, and a few few articles, like the silver blouse with the drooping rose safety-pinned to the neck, actually looked like runner-ups in a three-day Depression dance marathon (see articles, like the silver blouse with the drooping rose safety-pinned to the neck, actually looked like runner-ups in a three-day Depression dance marathon (see They Shoot Horses, Don't They?). They Shoot Horses, Don't They?).

I overheard the others referring to Hannah's "secret trust fund" on countless occasions, but I a.s.sumed these suppositions were incorrect and a precarious financial situation lay at the heart of Hannah's evident thrift store purchases. I once watched Hannah over a rump of lamb "with tea leaves and cherry-rose compote" and envisioned her teetering, like a cartooned man, drunk and blindfolded, on the craggy cliffs of Bankruptcy and Ruin. (Even Dad lamented teachers' salaries in a Bourbon Mood: "And they wonder why Americans can't locate Sri Lanka on a map! I hate to break the news to them, but there ain't no grease for the wheel of American education! Non dinero! Kein Geld!") Non dinero! Kein Geld!") As it turned out, money had nothing to do with it. On one occasion, when Hannah was outside with the dogs, Jade and Nigel were laughing about the gigantic peeling wagon wheel that had just appeared that day, leaning against the side of the garage like a fat man on a cigarette break. It was missing half its spokes and Hannah had announced she was planning to turn it into a coffee table.

"St. Gallway must not pay her enough," I noted quietly.

Jade turned to me. "What?" "What?" she asked, as if I'd just insulted her. she asked, as if I'd just insulted her.