Special Topics In Calamity Physics Part 1

Special topics in calamity physics.

by Marisha Pessl.

Introduction.

I had always said a person must have a magnificent reason for writing out his or her Life Story and expecting anyone to read it.

"Unless your name is something along the lines of Mozart, Matisse, Churchill, Che Guevara or Bond-James Bond-you best spend your free time finger painting or playing shuffleboard, for no one, with the exception of your flabby-armed mother with stiff hair and a mashed-potato way of looking at you, will want to hear the particulars of your pitiable existence, which doubtlessly will end as it began-with a wheeze." Bond-you best spend your free time finger painting or playing shuffleboard, for no one, with the exception of your flabby-armed mother with stiff hair and a mashed-potato way of looking at you, will want to hear the particulars of your pitiable existence, which doubtlessly will end as it began-with a wheeze."

Given such rigid parameters, I always a.s.sumed I wouldn't have my my Magnificent Reason until I was at least seventy, with liver spots, rheumatism, wit as quick as a carving knife, a squat stucco house in Avignon (where I could be found eating 365 different cheeses), a lover twenty years my junior who worked in the fields (I don't know what kind of fields-any kind that were gold and frothy) and, with any luck, a small triumph of science or philosophy to my name. And yet the decision -no, the grave necessity-to take pen to paper and write about my childhood-most critically, the year it unst.i.tched like a snagged sweater-came much sooner than I ever imagined. Magnificent Reason until I was at least seventy, with liver spots, rheumatism, wit as quick as a carving knife, a squat stucco house in Avignon (where I could be found eating 365 different cheeses), a lover twenty years my junior who worked in the fields (I don't know what kind of fields-any kind that were gold and frothy) and, with any luck, a small triumph of science or philosophy to my name. And yet the decision -no, the grave necessity-to take pen to paper and write about my childhood-most critically, the year it unst.i.tched like a snagged sweater-came much sooner than I ever imagined.

It began with simple sleeplessness. It had been almost a year since I'd found Hannah dead, and I thought I'd managed to erase all traces of that night within myself, much in the way Henry Higgins with his relentless elocution exercises had scrubbed away Eliza's c.o.c.kney accent.

I was wrong.

By the end of January, I again found myself awake in the dead of night, the hall hushed, dark, spiky shadows crouching in the edges of the ceiling. I had nothing and no one to my name but a few fat, smug textbooks like Introduction to Astrophysics Introduction to Astrophysics and sad, silent James Dean gazing down at me where he was trapped in black and white and taped to the back of our door. I'd stare back at him through the smudged darkness, and see, in microscopic detail, Hannah Schneider. and sad, silent James Dean gazing down at me where he was trapped in black and white and taped to the back of our door. I'd stare back at him through the smudged darkness, and see, in microscopic detail, Hannah Schneider.

She hung three feet above the ground by an orange electrical extension cord. Her tongue - bloated, the cherry pink of a kitchen sponge -slumped from her mouth. Her eyes looked like acorns, or dull pennies, or two black b.u.t.tons off an overcoat kids might stick into the face of a snowman, and they saw nothing. Or else that was the problem, they'd seen everything; everything; J. B. Tower wrote that the moment before death is "seeing everything that has ever existed all at once" (though I wondered how he knew this, as he was in the prime of life when he wrote J. B. Tower wrote that the moment before death is "seeing everything that has ever existed all at once" (though I wondered how he knew this, as he was in the prime of life when he wrote Mortality). Mortality). And her shoelaces-an entire treatise could be written on those shoelaces-they were crimson, symmetrical, tied in perfect double knots. And her shoelaces-an entire treatise could be written on those shoelaces-they were crimson, symmetrical, tied in perfect double knots.

Still, being an inveterate optimist ("Van Meers are natural idealists and affirmative freethinkers," noted Dad) I hoped lurid wakefulness might be a phase I'd quickly grow out of, a fad of some kind, like poodle skirts or having a pet rock, but then, one night early in February as I read The Aeneid, The Aeneid, my roommate, Soo-Jin, mentioned without looking up from her my roommate, Soo-Jin, mentioned without looking up from her Organic Chemistry Organic Chemistry textbook that some of the freshmen on our hall were planning to crash an off-campus party at some doctor of philosophy's but I wasn't invited because I was considered more than a little "bleak" in demeanor: "Especially in the morning when you're on your way to Intro to '60s Counterculture and the New Left. You look so like, textbook that some of the freshmen on our hall were planning to crash an off-campus party at some doctor of philosophy's but I wasn't invited because I was considered more than a little "bleak" in demeanor: "Especially in the morning when you're on your way to Intro to '60s Counterculture and the New Left. You look so like, afflicted." afflicted."

This, of course, was only Soo-Jin talking (Soo-Jin whose face employed the same countenance for both Anger and Elation). I did my best to wave away this remark, as if it were nothing more than an unpleasant odor coming off a beaker or test tube, but then I did did start to notice all kinds of unquestionably bleak things. For example, when Bethany brought people into her room for a Friday night Audrey Hepburn marathon, I was distinctly aware, at the end of start to notice all kinds of unquestionably bleak things. For example, when Bethany brought people into her room for a Friday night Audrey Hepburn marathon, I was distinctly aware, at the end of Breakfast at Tiffany's, Breakfast at Tiffany's, unlike the other girls sitting on pillows chain-smoking with tears in their eyes, I actually found myself hoping Holly unlike the other girls sitting on pillows chain-smoking with tears in their eyes, I actually found myself hoping Holly didn't didn't find Cat. No, if I was completely honest with myself, I realized I wanted Cat to stay lost and abandoned, mewing and s.h.i.+vering all by its Cat self in those splintery crates in that awful Tin Pan Alleyway, which from the rate of that Hollywood downpour would be submerged under the Pacific Ocean in less than an hour. (This I disguised, of course, smiling gaily when George Peppard feverishly grasped Audrey feverishly grasping Cat who no longer looked like a cat but a drowned squirrel. I believe I even uttered one of those girly, high-pitched, "Ewws," in perfect harmony with Bethany's sighs.) find Cat. No, if I was completely honest with myself, I realized I wanted Cat to stay lost and abandoned, mewing and s.h.i.+vering all by its Cat self in those splintery crates in that awful Tin Pan Alleyway, which from the rate of that Hollywood downpour would be submerged under the Pacific Ocean in less than an hour. (This I disguised, of course, smiling gaily when George Peppard feverishly grasped Audrey feverishly grasping Cat who no longer looked like a cat but a drowned squirrel. I believe I even uttered one of those girly, high-pitched, "Ewws," in perfect harmony with Bethany's sighs.) And that wasn't the end of it. A couple of days later, I was in American Biography, led by our Teaching a.s.sistant, Glenn Oakley, with his cornbread complexion and habit of swallowing right in the middle of a word. He was discussing Gertrude Stein's deathbed.

" 'So what is the answer, Gertrude?' " Glenn quoted in his pretentious whisper, his left hand up as if holding an invisible parasol, pinky outstretched. (He resembled Alice B. Toklas with that specter-mustache.) " 'Well, Alice, what is the quest-gurg/i-tion?' "

I stifled a yawn, happened to glance down at my notebook and saw, in horror, I'd absentmindedly been scribbling in strange loopy cursive a very disturbing word: good-bye. On its own it was breathy and harmless, sure, but I'd happened to scrawl it like some heartbroken lunatic at least forty times down the entire margin of the page -a little bit on the preceding preceding page too. page too.

"Can anyone tell me what Gertrude meant by such a statement? Blue? No? Could you stay with us please? What about you, s.h.i.+lla?" "It's obvious. She was talking about the insufferable vacuity of subsistence."

"Very good."

It appeared, in spite of my concerted efforts to the contrary (I wore fuzzy sweaters in yellow and pink, fixed my hair into what I considered a very upbeat ponytail), I had started to twist into that very something I'd been afraid of, ever since all of it had happened. I was becoming Wooden and Warped (mere rest stops on the highway to Hopping Mad), the kind of person who, in middle age, winced at children, or deliberately raced into a dense flock of pigeons minding their own business as they pecked at crumbs. Certainly, I'd always felt chills tiptoeing down my spine when I came across an eerily resonant newspaper headline or advertis.e.m.e.nt: "Steel Magnate Sudden Death at 50, Cardiac Arrest," "CAMPING EQUIPMENT LIQUIDATION SALE." But I always told myself that everyone -at least everyone fascinating-had a few scars. And scars didn't necessarily mean one couldn't be, say, more Katharine Hepburn than Captain Queeg when it came to overall outlook and demeanor, a little more Sandra Dee than Scrooge.

My gradual decent into grimdom might have continued unabated, had it not been for a certain startling phone call one cold March afternoon. It was almost a year to the day after Hannah died.

"You' said Soo-Jin, barely turning from Diagram 2114.74 "Amino Acids and Peptides" to hand me the phone.

"h.e.l.lo?"

"Hi. It's me. Your past."

I couldn't breathe. It was unmistakable-her low voice of s.e.x and highways, equal parts Marilyn and Charles Kuralt, but it had changed. If once it had been sugared and crackly, now it was porridged, grueled.

"Don't worry/' Jade said. "I'm not catching up with you." She laughed, a short, Ha Ha laugh, like a foot kicking a rock. "I no longer smoke," she announced, obviously quite proud of herself, and then she went on to explain that after St. Gallway she hadn't made it to college. Instead, due to her "troubles" she'd voluntarily admitted herself to a "Narnia kind of place" where people talked about their feelings and learned to watercolor fruit. Jade hinted excitedly that a "really huge rock star" had been in residence on laugh, like a foot kicking a rock. "I no longer smoke," she announced, obviously quite proud of herself, and then she went on to explain that after St. Gallway she hadn't made it to college. Instead, due to her "troubles" she'd voluntarily admitted herself to a "Narnia kind of place" where people talked about their feelings and learned to watercolor fruit. Jade hinted excitedly that a "really huge rock star" had been in residence on her her floor, the comparatively well-adjusted floor, the comparatively well-adjusted third third floor ("not as suicidal as the fourth or as manic as the second") and they'd become "close," but to reveal his name would be to forsake everything she'd learned during her ten-month "growth period" at Heathridge Park. (Jade now, I realized, saw herself as some sort of herbaceous vine or creeper.) One of the parameters of her "graduation," she explained (she used this word, probably because it was preferable to "release") was that she tie up Loose Ends. floor ("not as suicidal as the fourth or as manic as the second") and they'd become "close," but to reveal his name would be to forsake everything she'd learned during her ten-month "growth period" at Heathridge Park. (Jade now, I realized, saw herself as some sort of herbaceous vine or creeper.) One of the parameters of her "graduation," she explained (she used this word, probably because it was preferable to "release") was that she tie up Loose Ends.

I was a Loose End.

"So how are you?" she asked. "How's life? Your dad?"

"He's fantastic."

"And Harvard?"

"Fine."

"Well, that brings me to the purpose of the call, an apology, which I will not dodge or do unconvincingly," she said officially, which made me sort of sad, because it sounded nothing at all like the Real Jade. The Jade I knew, as a rule, always always dodged apology and, if forced, did it unconvincingly, but this was the Jade Vine dodged apology and, if forced, did it unconvincingly, but this was the Jade Vine (Strongylodon macrobotrys), (Strongylodon macrobotrys), a member of the a member of the Leguminosae Leguminosae family, distantly related to the humble garden pea. family, distantly related to the humble garden pea.

"I'm sorry for the way I behaved. I know what happened had nothing to do with you. She just lost it, you know. People do that all the time and they always have their own reasons. Please accept my request for forgiveness."

I thought about interrupting her with my little cliff-hanger, my about-face, my kick in the teeth, myfine print: "Actually, to be technical about the whole thing, uh . .." But I couldn't do it. Not only did I not have the courage, I didn't see the point of telling her the truth -not now. Jade was blooming, after all, receiving ideal amounts of sun exposure and water, displaying promising signs of reaching her maximum height of seventy feet, and would eventually expand via seeds, stem-cutting in the summer, layering in the spring, to overtake the entire side of a stone wall. My words would have the effect of a one-hundred-day drought.

The rest of the call was a fervid exchange of "so give me your e-mail," and "let's plan big reunions"-paper-doll pleasantness that did little to cover the fact we'd never see each other again and would rarely speak. I was aware as ever that she, and maybe the others too, would occasionally float over to me like pollen off a withered dandelion with news of sugarplum marriages, gooey divorces, moves to Florida, a new job in real estate, but there was nothing keeping them and they'd drift away as simply and randomly as they'd come.

Later that day, as Fate would have it, I had my "Greek and Roman Epic" lecture with Professor of the Humanities, Emeritus, Zolo Kydd. Students called Zolo "Rolo," because, if only in stature and complexion, he happened to resemble that particular chewable chocolate caramel candy. He was short, tan and round, wore bright plaid Christmas pants regardless of the time of year, and his thick, yellow-white hair encrusted his s.h.i.+ny freckled forehead as if, ages ago, Hidden Valley Ranch salad dressing had been dribbled all over him. Customarily, by the end of Zolo's lectures on "G.o.ds and G.o.dlessness" or "The Beginning and the End," most students had nodded off; unlike Dad, Zolo had an anesthetizing delivery style, which had to do with his run-on sentences and tendency to repeat a certain word, usually a preposition or adjective, in a way that brought to mind a small green frog bouncing across lily pads.

And yet, on this particular afternoon, my heart was in my throat. I hung on his every word.

"Came across a-a-a funny little editorial the other day about Homer," Zolo was saying, frowning down at the podium and sniffing. (Zolo sniffed when he was nervous, when he'd made the brave decision to leave the safe bank of his lecture notes and drift away on a shaky digression.) "It was in a small journal, I encourage all of you to take a look at it in the library, the-thethe little-known, Cla.s.sic Epic and Modern America. Cla.s.sic Epic and Modern America. Winter volume, I believe. It turns out, a year ago, a couple of wacko Greek and Latinists like myself wanted to conduct an experiment on the power of the epic. They arranged to give copies Winter volume, I believe. It turns out, a year ago, a couple of wacko Greek and Latinists like myself wanted to conduct an experiment on the power of the epic. They arranged to give copies of The Odyssey of The Odyssey to-to-to a hundred of the most hardened criminals at a maximum-security prison-Riverbend, I think it was-and would you know it, twenty of the convicts read the thing cover to cover, and three of them sat down and wrote their own epic tales. One is going to be published next year by Oxford University Press. The article discussed epic poetry as a very viable means to reform the-the-the deadliest offenders in the world. It-it appears, funnily enough, there's something within it that lessens the rage, the-the stress, pain, brings about, even to those who are far, far, gone, a sense of to-to-to a hundred of the most hardened criminals at a maximum-security prison-Riverbend, I think it was-and would you know it, twenty of the convicts read the thing cover to cover, and three of them sat down and wrote their own epic tales. One is going to be published next year by Oxford University Press. The article discussed epic poetry as a very viable means to reform the-the-the deadliest offenders in the world. It-it appears, funnily enough, there's something within it that lessens the rage, the-the stress, pain, brings about, even to those who are far, far, gone, a sense of hope- hope-because there's an absence in this day and age of real heroism. Where are are the n.o.ble heroes? The great deeds? Where are the G.o.ds, the muses, the warriors? Where is ancient Rome? Well, they have to-to-to be somewhere, don't they, because according to Plutarch, history repeats itself. If only we'd have the nerve to look for it in-in ourselves, it just-it just might-" the n.o.ble heroes? The great deeds? Where are the G.o.ds, the muses, the warriors? Where is ancient Rome? Well, they have to-to-to be somewhere, don't they, because according to Plutarch, history repeats itself. If only we'd have the nerve to look for it in-in ourselves, it just-it just might-"

I don't know what came over me.

Maybe it was Zolo's perspiring face, festively reflecting the overhead fluorescents like a river reflecting carnival light, or the way he gripped the podium as if without it he'd collapse into a pile of brightly colored laundry- direct contrast to Dad's posture on any stage or raised platform. Dad, as he expounded upon Third World Reform (or whatever he felt felt like expounding upon; Dad was neither intimidated by, nor nervy around, the Verbal Foray on-the-Fly or the Apropos Excursion), always stood without the slightest slouch or sway. ("While lecturing, I always imagine myself a Doric column on the Parthenon," he said.) like expounding upon; Dad was neither intimidated by, nor nervy around, the Verbal Foray on-the-Fly or the Apropos Excursion), always stood without the slightest slouch or sway. ("While lecturing, I always imagine myself a Doric column on the Parthenon," he said.) Without thinking, I stood up, my heart heaving against my ribs. Zolo stopped midsentence and he, along with the other three hundred drowsy students in the lecture hall, stared at me as I, head down, hacked through backpacks, outstretched legs, overcoats, sneakers and textbooks to get to the nearest aisle. I lurched toward the double EXIT doors.

"There goes Achilles," Zolo quipped into the microphone. There were a few tired laughs.

I ran back to the dorm. I sat down at my desk, laid out a three-inch stack of white paper and hastily began to scrawl this Introduction, which originally started with what happened to Charles, after he'd broken his leg in three places and had been rescued by the National Guard. Supposedly he'd been in such pain he couldn't stop shouting, "G.o.d help me!" over and over again. Charles had a terrifying voice when he was upset, and I couldn't help but think those words had minds of their own, floating up like helium balloons through the sterile halls of the Burns County Hospital, all the way to the Maternity Ward, so every child entering the world that morning heard his screams.

Of course, "Once upon a time there was a beautiful, sad little boy named Charles" wasn't exactly fair. Charles was St. Gallway's dreamboat, its Doctor Zhivago, its Destry Rides Again. Destry Rides Again. He was the gold-limbed kid Fitzgerald would've picked out of the senior cla.s.s photo and described with sun-soaked words like "patrician" and "of eternal rea.s.surance." Charles would fiercely object to my beginning any story with his moment of indignity. He was the gold-limbed kid Fitzgerald would've picked out of the senior cla.s.s photo and described with sun-soaked words like "patrician" and "of eternal rea.s.surance." Charles would fiercely object to my beginning any story with his moment of indignity.

Again I was at a standstill (I wondered how those hard-edged convicts had managed, against the odds and with such flair, to conquer the Blank Page), yet just as I threw those crumpled pages into the trash can under Einstein (miserably held hostage on the wall next to Soo-Jin's ill-conceived "To Do or Not to Do" bulletin board), I suddenly remembered something Dad once said back in Enid, Oklahoma. He was paging through a remarkably attractive course catalogue for the University of Utah at Rockwell, which, if memory serves, had just offered him a visiting professors.h.i.+p.

"There is nothing more arresting than a disciplined course of instruction," he said abruptly.

I must have rolled my eyes or grimaced, because he shook his head, stood up and shoved the thing-an impressive two inches thick-into my hands.

"I'm serious. Is there anything more glorious than a professor? Forget about his molding the minds, the future of a nation-a dubious a.s.sertion; there's little you can do when they tend to emerge from the womb predestined for Grand Theft Auto Vice City. No. What I mean is, a professor is the only person on earth with the power to put a veritable frame around life -not the whole thing, G.o.d G.o.d no-simply a fragment of it, a small no-simply a fragment of it, a small wedge. wedge. He organizes the unorganizable. Nimbly part.i.tions it into modern and postmodern, renaissance, baroque, primitivism, imperialism and so on. Splice that up with Research Papers, Vacation, Midterms. All that order-simply divine. The symmetry of a semester course. Consider the words themselves: the seminar, the tutorial, the advanced whatever workshop accessible He organizes the unorganizable. Nimbly part.i.tions it into modern and postmodern, renaissance, baroque, primitivism, imperialism and so on. Splice that up with Research Papers, Vacation, Midterms. All that order-simply divine. The symmetry of a semester course. Consider the words themselves: the seminar, the tutorial, the advanced whatever workshop accessible only only to seniors, to graduate fellows, to doctoral candidates, the practic.u.m-what a marvelous word: to seniors, to graduate fellows, to doctoral candidates, the practic.u.m-what a marvelous word: practic.u.ml practic.u.ml You think me crazy. Consider a Kandinsky. Utterly muddled, put a frame around it, voila-looks rather quaint above the fireplace. And so it is with the curriculum. That celestial, sweet set of instructions, culminating in the scary wonder of the Final Exam. And what You think me crazy. Consider a Kandinsky. Utterly muddled, put a frame around it, voila-looks rather quaint above the fireplace. And so it is with the curriculum. That celestial, sweet set of instructions, culminating in the scary wonder of the Final Exam. And what is is the Final Exam? A test of one's deepest understanding of giant concepts. No wonder so many adults long to return to university, to all those deadlines- ahhh, that structure! Scaffolding to which we may cling! Even if it the Final Exam? A test of one's deepest understanding of giant concepts. No wonder so many adults long to return to university, to all those deadlines- ahhh, that structure! Scaffolding to which we may cling! Even if it is is arbitrary, without it, we're lost, wholly incapable of separating the Romantic from the Victorian in our sad, bewildering lives . . ." arbitrary, without it, we're lost, wholly incapable of separating the Romantic from the Victorian in our sad, bewildering lives . . ."

I told Dad he'd lost his mind. He laughed.

"One day you'll see," he said with a wink. "And remember. Always have everything you say exquisitely annotated, and, where possible, provide staggering Visual Aids, because, trust me, there will always be some clown sitting in the back-somewhere by the radiator-who will raise his fat, flipperlike hand and complain, 'No, no, you've got it all wrong.' "

I swallowed, staring down at the blank page. I triple-lutzed the ink pen in my fingers, my gaze falling out the window where, down in Harvard Yard, solemn students, winter scarves wrapped tightly around their necks, hurried down the paths and across the gra.s.s. " 'I sing of arms and of the man, fated to be an exile,' " Zolo had sung only a few weeks ago, bizarrely tapping his foot on every other word so the cuffs of his plaid pants raised and you caught an unwelcome glimpse of his toothpick ankles and dainty white socks. I took a deep breath. At the top of the page, I wrote in my neatest handwriting, "Curriculum," and then, "Required Reading."

That was always how Dad began.

Part One

I.

Oth.e.l.lo

Before I tell you about Hannah Schneider's death, I'll tell you about my mother's.

At 3:10 P.M. on September 17, 1992, two days before she was to pick up the new blue Volvo station wagon at Dean King's Volvo and Infiniti dealers.h.i.+p in Oxford, my mother, Natasha Alicia Bridges van Meer, driving her white Plymouth Horizon (the car Dad had nicknamed Certain Death) crashed through a guardrail along Mississippi State Highway 7 and hit a wall of trees.

She was killed instantly. I would've been killed instantly too if Dad had not, by that strange, oily hand of Fate, telephoned my mother around lunch to tell her that she didn't need to pick me up from Calhoun Elementary as she always did. Dad had decided to blow off the kids who always hung around after his Political Science 400a: Conflict Resolution cla.s.s to pose ill-considered questions. He'd pick me up from Ms. Jetty's kindergarten and we'd spend the rest of the day at the Mississippi Wildlife Conservatory Project in Water Valley.

While Dad and I learned that Mississippi had one of the best deer management programs in the country with a population of 1.75 million white-tailed deer (surpa.s.sed only by Texas), rescue crews were trying to extricate my mother's body from the totaled car with the Jaws of Life.

Dad, on Mom: "Your mother was anarabesque."

Dad was fond of using ballet terms to describe her (other favorites include att.i.tude, ciseaux att.i.tude, ciseaux and and balance), balance), in part because she trained as a girl for seven years at the famed Larson Ballet Conservatory in New York (quitting, per her parents wishes, to attend The Ivy School on East 81st Street) but also because she lived her life with beauty and discipline. "Though cla.s.sically trained, early in life Natasha developed her own technique and was seen by her family and friends as quite radical for the era," he said, alluding to her parents, George and Geneva Bridges, and her childhood peers who didn't understand why Natasha chose to live not in her parents' five-story townhouse near Madison Avenue but in a studio in Astoria, why she worked not for American Express or Coca-Cola, but for NORM (Non-profit Organization for Recovering Mothers), why she fell for Dad, a man thirteen years her senior. in part because she trained as a girl for seven years at the famed Larson Ballet Conservatory in New York (quitting, per her parents wishes, to attend The Ivy School on East 81st Street) but also because she lived her life with beauty and discipline. "Though cla.s.sically trained, early in life Natasha developed her own technique and was seen by her family and friends as quite radical for the era," he said, alluding to her parents, George and Geneva Bridges, and her childhood peers who didn't understand why Natasha chose to live not in her parents' five-story townhouse near Madison Avenue but in a studio in Astoria, why she worked not for American Express or Coca-Cola, but for NORM (Non-profit Organization for Recovering Mothers), why she fell for Dad, a man thirteen years her senior.

After he'd had three shots of bourbon, Dad was known to talk about the night they met in the Pharaoh Room of the Edward Stillman Collection of Egyptian Art on East 86th Street. He saw her across a crowded room of mummified limbs of Egyptian kings and people eating duck at $1,000 a head with proceeds going toward a charity for orphaned children in the Third World. (Dad, quite fortuitously, had been given the two tickets by a tenured university colleague unable to attend. I can therefore thank Columbia Political Science Professor Arnold B. Levy and his wife's diabetes for my existence.) Natasha's dress had a tendency to change colors in his memory. Sometimes she was "wrapped in a dove-white dress accenting her perfect figure, which made her as arresting as Lana Turner in The Postman Always Rings Twice." The Postman Always Rings Twice." Other times she was wearing "all red." Dad had brought a date, a Miss Lucy Marie Miller of Ithaca who was a new a.s.sociate Professor in Columbia's English Department. Dad could never remember what color Other times she was wearing "all red." Dad had brought a date, a Miss Lucy Marie Miller of Ithaca who was a new a.s.sociate Professor in Columbia's English Department. Dad could never remember what color she she was wearing. He didn't even remember seeing Lucy, or saying good-bye to her after their brief discussion about King Taa II's hip's remarkable state of preservation, because, moments later, he spotted the pale blond, aristocratically nosed Natasha Bridges standing in front of the knee and lower thigh of Ahmosis IV, chatting absentmindedly with her date, Nelson L. Aimes of the San Francisco Aimeses. was wearing. He didn't even remember seeing Lucy, or saying good-bye to her after their brief discussion about King Taa II's hip's remarkable state of preservation, because, moments later, he spotted the pale blond, aristocratically nosed Natasha Bridges standing in front of the knee and lower thigh of Ahmosis IV, chatting absentmindedly with her date, Nelson L. Aimes of the San Francisco Aimeses.

"The kid had the charisma of a throw rug," Dad liked to recall, though sometimes in his accounts the unfortunate Mr. Aimes was only guilty of "weak posture" and "a hedge of a hairline."

Theirs was a brutal romance of fairy tales, replete with wicked queen, bungling king, stunning princess, impoverished prince, a love that was enchanted (caused birds and other furry creatures to congregate on a windowsill)-and one Final Curse.

"You vill die unhappy vith him," Geneva Bridges allegedly said to my mother during their last telephone conversation.

Dad was at a loss when asked to articulate exactly why why George and Geneva Bridges were so unimpressed with him when the rest of the world was. Gareth van Meer, born July 25, 1947, in Biel, Switzerland, never knew his parents (though he suspected his father was a German soldier in hiding) and grew up in a Zurich orphanage for boys where Love George and Geneva Bridges were so unimpressed with him when the rest of the world was. Gareth van Meer, born July 25, 1947, in Biel, Switzerland, never knew his parents (though he suspected his father was a German soldier in hiding) and grew up in a Zurich orphanage for boys where Love (Liebe) (Liebe) and Understanding and Understanding (Verstandnis) (Verstandnis) were as likely to make personal appearances as the Rat Pack were as likely to make personal appearances as the Rat Pack (Der Ratte-Satz). (Der Ratte-Satz). With nothing but his "iron will" pus.h.i.+ng himself toward "greatness," Dad earned a scholars.h.i.+p to the University of Lausanne to study economics, taught social science for two years at the Jefferson International School in Kampala, Uganda, worked as a.s.sistant to the Director for Guidance and Academics at the Dias-Gonzales School in Managua, Nicaragua, and came to America for the first time in 1972. In 1978, he earned his Ph.D. from Harvard's Kennedy School of Government, completing a highly regarded dissertation, "The Curse of the Freedom Fighter: Fallacies of Guerrilla Warfare and Third-World Revolution." He spent the next four years teaching in Cali, Colombia, and then Cairo, while in his spare time conducting fieldwork in Haiti, Cuba and various African countries, including Zambia, Sudan and South Africa, for a book on territorial conflict and foreign aid. Returning to the United States he became a Harold H. Clarkson Professor of Political Science at Brown, and in 1986, an Ira F. Rosenblum Professor of World Order Studies at Columbia University, also publis.h.i.+ng his first book, With nothing but his "iron will" pus.h.i.+ng himself toward "greatness," Dad earned a scholars.h.i.+p to the University of Lausanne to study economics, taught social science for two years at the Jefferson International School in Kampala, Uganda, worked as a.s.sistant to the Director for Guidance and Academics at the Dias-Gonzales School in Managua, Nicaragua, and came to America for the first time in 1972. In 1978, he earned his Ph.D. from Harvard's Kennedy School of Government, completing a highly regarded dissertation, "The Curse of the Freedom Fighter: Fallacies of Guerrilla Warfare and Third-World Revolution." He spent the next four years teaching in Cali, Colombia, and then Cairo, while in his spare time conducting fieldwork in Haiti, Cuba and various African countries, including Zambia, Sudan and South Africa, for a book on territorial conflict and foreign aid. Returning to the United States he became a Harold H. Clarkson Professor of Political Science at Brown, and in 1986, an Ira F. Rosenblum Professor of World Order Studies at Columbia University, also publis.h.i.+ng his first book, The Powers That Be The Powers That Be (Harvard University Press, 1987). That year he was awarded six different honors, including the Mandela Award of the American Political Science Inst.i.tute and the esteemed McNeely Prize of International Affairs. (Harvard University Press, 1987). That year he was awarded six different honors, including the Mandela Award of the American Political Science Inst.i.tute and the esteemed McNeely Prize of International Affairs.

When George and Geneva Bridges of 16 East 64th Street met Gareth van Meer, however, they didn't award him any prizes, not even an Honorable Mention.

"Geneva was Jewish and she loathed my German accent. Never mind that her family was from St. Petersburg and she she had an accent too. Geneva complained that every time she heard me she thought of Dachau. I tried to curb it, an effort that brought me to the squeaky clean accent I have today. Ah, had an accent too. Geneva complained that every time she heard me she thought of Dachau. I tried to curb it, an effort that brought me to the squeaky clean accent I have today. Ah, well," well," Dad sighed and waved in the air, his gesture of When All's Said and Done. "I suppose they didn't think I was good enough. They had plans to marry her off to one of those pretty boys with hair mannerisms and a preponderance of real estate, someone who hadn't seen the world, or if he had, only through the windows of a Presidential Suite at the Ritz. They didn't understand her." Dad sighed and waved in the air, his gesture of When All's Said and Done. "I suppose they didn't think I was good enough. They had plans to marry her off to one of those pretty boys with hair mannerisms and a preponderance of real estate, someone who hadn't seen the world, or if he had, only through the windows of a Presidential Suite at the Ritz. They didn't understand her."

And so my mother, "tying her duty, beauty, wit and fortunes / In an extravagant and wheeling stranger / Of here and everywhere," fell for Dad's tales of flood and field. They were married at a registrar in Pitts, New Jersey, with two witnesses recruited from a highway Huddle House: one, a truck driver; the other, a waitress named Peaches who hadn't slept in four days and yawned thirty-two times (Dad counted) during the exchange of vows. Around this time Dad had been having disagreements with the conservative head of the Political Science Department at Columbia, culminating in a major blowout over an article Dad published in The Federal Journal of Foreign Affairs The Federal Journal of Foreign Affairs ent.i.tled "Steel-Toe Stilettos: The Designer Fas.h.i.+ons of American Foreign Aid" (Vol. 45, No. 2,1987). He quit mid-semester. They moved to Oxford, Mississippi. Dad took a position teaching Conflict Resolution in the Third World at Ole Miss, while my mother worked for the Red Cross and began to catch b.u.t.terflies. ent.i.tled "Steel-Toe Stilettos: The Designer Fas.h.i.+ons of American Foreign Aid" (Vol. 45, No. 2,1987). He quit mid-semester. They moved to Oxford, Mississippi. Dad took a position teaching Conflict Resolution in the Third World at Ole Miss, while my mother worked for the Red Cross and began to catch b.u.t.terflies.

I was born five months later. My mother decided to call me Blue, because for her first year of Lepidoptera study with the Southern Belles' a.s.sociation of b.u.t.terflies, with its Tuesday night meetings at the First Baptist Church (lectures included "Habitat, Conservation and Hindwing Coupling," as well as "Attractive Showcase Display"), the Ca.s.sius Blue was the only b.u.t.terfly Natasha could catch (see "Leptotesca.s.sius" b.u.t.terfly Dictionary, "Leptotesca.s.sius" b.u.t.terfly Dictionary, Meld, 2001 ed.). She tried different nets (canvas, muslin, mesh), perfumes (honeysuckle, patchouli), the various stalking techniques (upwind, downwind, crosswind) and the many netting swings (the Swoop, the Shorthanded Jackknife, the Lowsell-Pit Maneuver). Beatrice "Bee" Lowsell, President of SBAB, even met privately with Natasha on Sunday afternoons to coach her on Modes of the b.u.t.terfly Chase (the Zigzag, the Indirect Pursuit, the Speedy Snag, the Recovery) as well as the Art of Hiding One's Shadow. Nothing worked. The Shy Yellow, the White Admiral, the Viceroy were repelled from my mother's net like two same-sided magnets. Meld, 2001 ed.). She tried different nets (canvas, muslin, mesh), perfumes (honeysuckle, patchouli), the various stalking techniques (upwind, downwind, crosswind) and the many netting swings (the Swoop, the Shorthanded Jackknife, the Lowsell-Pit Maneuver). Beatrice "Bee" Lowsell, President of SBAB, even met privately with Natasha on Sunday afternoons to coach her on Modes of the b.u.t.terfly Chase (the Zigzag, the Indirect Pursuit, the Speedy Snag, the Recovery) as well as the Art of Hiding One's Shadow. Nothing worked. The Shy Yellow, the White Admiral, the Viceroy were repelled from my mother's net like two same-sided magnets.

"Your mother decided it was a sign, so she decided to adore only only catching Ca.s.sius Blues. She'd come home with about fifty of them every time she went into the fields and managed to become quite an expert on them. Sir Charles Erwin, Princ.i.p.al Lepidoptera Survival Specialist at the Surrey Museum of Insects in England, a man who evidently had appeared not once but catching Ca.s.sius Blues. She'd come home with about fifty of them every time she went into the fields and managed to become quite an expert on them. Sir Charles Erwin, Princ.i.p.al Lepidoptera Survival Specialist at the Surrey Museum of Insects in England, a man who evidently had appeared not once but four four times on times on Bug Watch Bug Watch on the BBC, he actually phoned your mother to discuss on the BBC, he actually phoned your mother to discuss Leptotes ca.s.sius Leptotes ca.s.sius feeding patterns on matured flowers of the lima bean." feeding patterns on matured flowers of the lima bean."

Whenever I voiced a particular hatred of my name, Dad always said the same thing: "You should be happy she wasn't always catching the Swamp Metalmark or the Scarce Silver-spotted Flambeau."

The Lafayette County Police told Dad Natasha had apparently fallen asleep at the wheel in broad daylight, and Dad admitted that, four or five months prior to the accident, Natasha had been known to work through the night on her b.u.t.terflies. She'd fallen asleep in the oddest of places: cooking Dad Irish oatmeal at the stove, on the examination table as Dr. Moffet listened to her heart, even while riding the escalator between the first and second floors of Ridgeland Mall.

"I told her not to work so hard on the bugs," Dad said. "After all, they were only a hobby. But she insisted on working through the night on those display cases, and she could be very bullheaded. When she had an idea, when she believed believed something, she wouldn't let go of it. And still-she was as fragile as her own b.u.t.terflies, an artist who feels things deeply. To be sensitive is fine, but it makes day-to-day living-life -rather painful, I'd imagine. I used to joke that when someone cut down a tree in the Brazilian Amazon, or stepped on a fire ant, or when a sparrow flew smack into a sliding gla.s.s door, it hurt her." something, she wouldn't let go of it. And still-she was as fragile as her own b.u.t.terflies, an artist who feels things deeply. To be sensitive is fine, but it makes day-to-day living-life -rather painful, I'd imagine. I used to joke that when someone cut down a tree in the Brazilian Amazon, or stepped on a fire ant, or when a sparrow flew smack into a sliding gla.s.s door, it hurt her."

If it weren't for Dad's anecdotes and observations (his pas de deux pas de deux and and att.i.tudes), att.i.tudes), I don't know how much of her I'd remember. I was five when she died, and unfortunately, unlike those geniuses who boast vivid memories of their own births ("An earthquake underwater," said renowned physicist Johann Schweitzer of the event. "Petrifying."), my memory of life in Mississippi stutters and stalls like an engine that refuses to turn over. I don't know how much of her I'd remember. I was five when she died, and unfortunately, unlike those geniuses who boast vivid memories of their own births ("An earthquake underwater," said renowned physicist Johann Schweitzer of the event. "Petrifying."), my memory of life in Mississippi stutters and stalls like an engine that refuses to turn over.

Dad's favorite photograph of Natasha is the one in black and white, taken before she ever met him, when she was twenty-one and dressed for a Victorian costume party (Visual Aid 1.0). (I no longer have the original photograph and so, where appropriate, I've supplied ill.u.s.trations, drawn from what I can remember.) Although she is in the foreground, she seems about to drown in the rest of the room, a room overflowing with "bourgeois belongings," as Dad would note with a sigh. (Those are real Pica.s.sos.) And although Natasha stares almost directly at the camera and has an elegant yet approachable look on her face, I never feel a spark of recognition while surveying this blonde of p.r.o.nounced cheekbone and superb hair. Nor can I a.s.sociate this refined person with the cool and a.s.sured sense I do do remember, however vaguely: the feel of her wrist in my hand, smooth as polished wood, as she led me into a cla.s.sroom with orange carpet and a stench of glue, the way, when we were driving, her milky hair covered almost all of her right ear, though the edge still peeked out, barely, like a fish fin. remember, however vaguely: the feel of her wrist in my hand, smooth as polished wood, as she led me into a cla.s.sroom with orange carpet and a stench of glue, the way, when we were driving, her milky hair covered almost all of her right ear, though the edge still peeked out, barely, like a fish fin.

The day she died is thin and insubstantial too, and though I think I remember Dad sitting in a white bedroom making strange, strangled noises into his hands, and everywhere the smell of pollen and wet leaves, I wonder if this is not a Forced Memory, born of necessity and "iron will." I do remember looking out to the spot where her white Plymouth had been parked by the lawn-mower shed, and seeing nothing but oil drips. And I remember, for a few days, until Dad was able to rearrange his lecture schedule, our next-door neighbor picked me up from kindergarten, a pretty woman in jeans who had short red porcupine hair and smelled of soap, and when we pulled into our driveway, she wouldn't immediately unlock the car, but gripped the steering wheel, whispering how sorry she was-not to me, but to the garage door. She'd then light a cigarette and sit very still as the smoke squirmed around the rearview mirror.

recall, too, how our house, once c.u.mbersome and wheezing as a rheumatoid aunt, seemed tense and restrained without my mother, as if awaiting her return so it could feel comfortable to croak and groan again, allow the wooden floors to grimace under our hurried feet, let the screen door spank the door frame 2.25 times with every opening, consent to the curtain rods belching when an uncouth breeze barged through a window. The house simply refused to complain without her, and so until Dad and I packed up and left Oxford in 1993, it remained trapped in the ashamed, tight-lipped deportment required for Reverend Monty Howard's dull sermons at the New Presbyterian Church, where Dad dropped me every Sunday morning while he waited in the parking lot of the McDonald's across the street, eating hash-browns and reading The New Republic. The New Republic.

However not really remembered, you might imagine how a day like September 17, 1992, could float around in one's mind when a particular teacher couldn't remember one's name and finally called one "Green." I thought of September 17 at Poe-Richards Elementary, when I'd snuck into the murky stacks of the library to eat my lunch and read War and Peace War and Peace (Tolstoy, 1865-69) or when Dad and I were driving a highway at night, and he'd lapsed into such strict silence, his profile looked carved on a totem pole. I'd stare out the window, at that black doily silhouette of pa.s.sing trees, and experience an attack of the What Ifs. What If Dad hadn't picked me up from school and (Tolstoy, 1865-69) or when Dad and I were driving a highway at night, and he'd lapsed into such strict silence, his profile looked carved on a totem pole. I'd stare out the window, at that black doily silhouette of pa.s.sing trees, and experience an attack of the What Ifs. What If Dad hadn't picked me up from school and she'd she'd come to get me and, knowing I was in the backseat, made particular effort come to get me and, knowing I was in the backseat, made particular effort not not to fall asleep -unrolling the window so her glossy hair flew all over the place (exposing her to fall asleep -unrolling the window so her glossy hair flew all over the place (exposing her entire entire right ear), singing along with one of her favorite songs on the radio, "Revolution" by the Beatles? Or What If she hadn't been asleep? What If she'd right ear), singing along with one of her favorite songs on the radio, "Revolution" by the Beatles? Or What If she hadn't been asleep? What If she'd deliberately deliberately veered to the right at 80 mph cras.h.i.+ng through the guardrail, colliding, head-on, with the wall of tulip poplar trees nine meters from the shoulder of the highway? veered to the right at 80 mph cras.h.i.+ng through the guardrail, colliding, head-on, with the wall of tulip poplar trees nine meters from the shoulder of the highway?

Dad didn't like to talk about that.

"That very morning your mother had talked to me of plans to enroll in a night cla.s.s, Intro to Moths of North America, so rid yourself of such dour thoughts. Natasha was the victim of one too many b.u.t.terfly nights." Dad gazed at the floor. "A sort of moth moon madness," he added quietly.

He smiled then and looked back at me, where I was standing in the door, but his eyes were heavy, as if it required strength to hold them to my face. "We'll leave it at that," he said.

II.

A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man

Due to the surprisingly high sales of The Powers That Be The Powers That Be (compared to the other page-turners published by Harvard University Press that year, including (compared to the other page-turners published by Harvard University Press that year, including Currency Abroad Currency Abroad [Toney, 1987] and [Toney, 1987] and FDR and His Big Deal: A New Look at the First 100 Days FDR and His Big Deal: A New Look at the First 100 Days [Robbe, 1987]), his impeccable twelve-page curriculum vitae, the frequent appearance of his essays in such respected, highly specialized (yet little-read) journals as [Robbe, 1987]), his impeccable twelve-page curriculum vitae, the frequent appearance of his essays in such respected, highly specialized (yet little-read) journals as International Affairs and American Policies International Affairs and American Policies and Daniel Hewitt's and Daniel Hewitt's Federal Forum Federal Forum (not to mention a nomination in 1990 for the heralded Johann D. Stuart Prize for American Political Science Scholars.h.i.+p), Dad had managed to make enough of a name for himself to be a perennial visiting lecturer at political science departments across the country. (not to mention a nomination in 1990 for the heralded Johann D. Stuart Prize for American Political Science Scholars.h.i.+p), Dad had managed to make enough of a name for himself to be a perennial visiting lecturer at political science departments across the country.

Mind you, Dad no longer wooed top-tiered universities for their esteemed multinamed teaching positions: the Eliza Grey Peastone-Parkinson Professor of Government at Princeton, the Louisa May Holmo-Gilsendanner Professor of International Politics at MIT. (I a.s.sumed, given the extreme compet.i.tion, these inst.i.tutions weren't mourning Dad's absence from their "tight-knit circle of incest"-what he called highbrow academia.) No, Dad was now interested in bringing his erudition, international fieldwork experience and research to the bottom tiers ("bottom-feeders" ("bottom-feeders" he called them in a Bourbon Mood), the schools no one had ever heard of, sometimes not even the students enrolled in them: the Cheswick Colleges, the Dodson-Miner Colleges, the Hattiesburg Colleges of Arts and Sciences and the Hicks-burg State Colleges, the universities of Idaho and Oklahoma and Alabama at Runic, at Stanley, at Monterey, at Flitch, at Parkland, at Picayune, at Petal. he called them in a Bourbon Mood), the schools no one had ever heard of, sometimes not even the students enrolled in them: the Cheswick Colleges, the Dodson-Miner Colleges, the Hattiesburg Colleges of Arts and Sciences and the Hicks-burg State Colleges, the universities of Idaho and Oklahoma and Alabama at Runic, at Stanley, at Monterey, at Flitch, at Parkland, at Picayune, at Petal.

"Why should I waste my time teaching puffed-up teenagers whose minds are curdled by arrogance and materialism? No, I shall spend my energies enlightening America's una.s.suming and ordinary. 'There's majesty in no one but the Common Man.' " (When questioned by colleagues as to why he no longer wished to educate the Ivy League, Dad adored waxing poetic on the Common Man. And yet, sometimes in private, particularly while grading a frighteningly flawed final exam or widely-off-the-mark research paper, even the ill.u.s.trious, unspoiled Common Man could become, in Dad's eyes, a "half-wit," a "nimrod," a "monstrous misuse of matter.") An excerpt from Dad's personal University of Arkansas at Wilsonville Web page (www.uaw.edu/polisci/vanmeer): Dr. Gareth van Meer (Ph.D. Harvard University, 1978) is the Visiting Professor of Political Science for the 1997-1998 school year. He hails from Ole Miss, where he is Chair of the Department of Political Science and Director of the Center for the Study of the United States. He is interested, broadly, in political and economic revitalization, military and humanitarian involvement, and post-conflict renewal of Third World nations. He is currently working on a book ent.i.tled The Iron Grip, The Iron Grip, about African and South American ethnic politics and civil war. about African and South American ethnic politics and civil war.

Dad was always hailing from somewhere, usually Ole Miss, though we never went back to Oxford in the ten years we traveled. He was also always "currently working on The Iron Grip" The Iron Grip" though I knew as well as he did that the though I knew as well as he did that the Grip Grip -fifty-five legal pads filled with unintelligible handwriting (much of it water damaged), stored in a large cardboard box labeled in black permanent marker, GRIP-had not been worked on, currently or otherwise, in the last fifteen years. -fifty-five legal pads filled with unintelligible handwriting (much of it water damaged), stored in a large cardboard box labeled in black permanent marker, GRIP-had not been worked on, currently or otherwise, in the last fifteen years.

"America," Dad sighed as he drove the blue Volvo station wagon across another state line. Welcome to Florida, the Suns.h.i.+ne State. Welcome to Florida, the Suns.h.i.+ne State. I flipped down the visor so I wasn't blinded. "Nothing like this country. No indeedy-o. Really is the Promised Land. Land of the Free and the Brave. Now how about that Sonnet number 30? You didn't finish. 'When to the sessions of sweet silent thought, I summon up remembrance of things past.' Come on, I know you know this one. Speak up. 'And with old woes I flipped down the visor so I wasn't blinded. "Nothing like this country. No indeedy-o. Really is the Promised Land. Land of the Free and the Brave. Now how about that Sonnet number 30? You didn't finish. 'When to the sessions of sweet silent thought, I summon up remembrance of things past.' Come on, I know you know this one. Speak up. 'And with old woes From second grade at Wadsworth Elementary in Wadsworth, Kentucky, until my senior year of high school at the St. Gallway School in Stockton, North Carolina, I spent as much time in the blue Volvo as I did in a cla.s.sroom. Although Dad always maintained an elaborate explanation for our itinerant existence (see below), I secretly imagined we wandered the country because he was fleeing my mother's ghost, or else he was looking for it in every rented two-bedroom house with a grouchy porch swing, every diner serving waffles tasting of sponge, every motel with pancake pillows, bald carpeting and TVs with a broken CONTRAST b.u.t.ton so newscasters resembled Oompa Loompas.

Dad, on Childrearing: "There's no education superior to travel. Think of The Motorcycle Diaries, The Motorcycle Diaries, or what Montrose St. Millet wrote in or what Montrose St. Millet wrote in Ages of Exploration: Ages of Exploration: 'To be still is to be stupid. To be stupid is to die.' And so we shall 'To be still is to be stupid. To be stupid is to die.' And so we shall live. live. Every Betsy sitting next to you in a cla.s.sroom will only know Maple Street on which sits her boxy white house, inside of which whimper her boxy white parents. After your travels, you'll know Maple Street, sure, but also wilderness and ruins, carnivals and the moon. You'll know the man sitting on an apple crate outside a gas station in Cheerless, Texas, who lost his legs in Vietnam, the woman in the tollbooth outside of Dismal, Delaware, in possession of six children, a husband with black lung but no teeth. When a teacher asks the cla.s.s to interpret Every Betsy sitting next to you in a cla.s.sroom will only know Maple Street on which sits her boxy white house, inside of which whimper her boxy white parents. After your travels, you'll know Maple Street, sure, but also wilderness and ruins, carnivals and the moon. You'll know the man sitting on an apple crate outside a gas station in Cheerless, Texas, who lost his legs in Vietnam, the woman in the tollbooth outside of Dismal, Delaware, in possession of six children, a husband with black lung but no teeth. When a teacher asks the cla.s.s to interpret Paradise Lost, Paradise Lost, no one will be able to grab your coattails, sweet, for you will be flying far, far out in front of them all. For them, you will be a speck somewhere above the horizon. And thus, when you're ultimately set loose upon the world . . ." He shrugged, his smile lazy as an old dog. "I suspect you'll have no choice but to go down in history." no one will be able to grab your coattails, sweet, for you will be flying far, far out in front of them all. For them, you will be a speck somewhere above the horizon. And thus, when you're ultimately set loose upon the world . . ." He shrugged, his smile lazy as an old dog. "I suspect you'll have no choice but to go down in history."

Typically, our year was divided between three towns, September though December in one, January through June in another, July through August in a third, though occasionally this increased to a maximum of five towns in the span of one year, at the end of which I threatened to start sporting a burdensome amount of black eyeliner and baggy clothing. (Dad decided we'd return to the median number of three towns per year.) Driving with Dad wasn't cathartic, mind-freeing driving (see On the Road, On the Road, Kerouac, 1957)- It was mind-taxing driving. It was Sonnet-a-thons. It was One Hundred Miles of Solitude: Attempting to Memorize Kerouac, 1957)- It was mind-taxing driving. It was Sonnet-a-thons. It was One Hundred Miles of Solitude: Attempting to Memorize The Waste Land. The Waste Land. Dad could meticulously divide a state end to end, not into equal driving s.h.i.+fts but into rigid half-hour segments of Vocabulary Flash Cards (words every genius should know), Author a.n.a.logies ("the a.n.a.logy is The Citadel of thought: the toughest way to condition unruly relations.h.i.+ps"), Essay Recitation (followed by a twenty-minute question-and-answer period), War of the Words (Coleridge/Wordsworth face-offs), Sixty Minutes of an Impressive Novel (selections included Dad could meticulously divide a state end to end, not into equal driving s.h.i.+fts but into rigid half-hour segments of Vocabulary Flash Cards (words every genius should know), Author a.n.a.logies ("the a.n.a.logy is The Citadel of thought: the toughest way to condition unruly relations.h.i.+ps"), Essay Recitation (followed by a twenty-minute question-and-answer period), War of the Words (Coleridge/Wordsworth face-offs), Sixty Minutes of an Impressive Novel (selections included The Great Gatsby The Great Gatsby [Fitzgerald, 1925] and [Fitzgerald, 1925] and The Sound and the Fury The Sound and the Fury [Faulkner, 1929], and The Van Meer Radio Theater Hour, featuring such plays as Mrs. [Faulkner, 1929], and The Van Meer Radio Theater Hour, featuring such plays as Mrs. Warrens Profession Warrens Profession (Shaw, 1894), (Shaw, 1894), The Importance of Being Earnest The Importance of Being Earnest (Wilde, 1895) and various selections from Shakespeare's oeuvre, including the late romances. (Wilde, 1895) and various selections from Shakespeare's oeuvre, including the late romances.

"Blue, I can't fully distinguish Gwendolyn's sophisticated upper-cla.s.s accent from Cicely's girlish country one. Try to make them more distinct and, if I may give you a little Orson Wellian direction here, understand, in this scene they're quite angry. Do not lie back and pretend you're sitting down to a leisurely tea. No No The stakes are The stakes are high high They both believe they're engaged to the same man! Ernest!" They both believe they're engaged to the same man! Ernest!"

States later, eyes watery and focus sore, our voices hoa.r.s.e, in the high-way's evergreen twilight Dad would turn on, not the radio, but his favorite A. E. Housman Poetry on Wenlock Edge Poetry on Wenlock Edge CD. We'd listen in silence to the steel-drum baritone of Sir Brady Heliwick of the Royal Shakespeare Company (recent roles included Richard in CD. We'd listen in silence to the steel-drum baritone of Sir Brady Heliwick of the Royal Shakespeare Company (recent roles included Richard in Richard III, Richard III, t.i.tus in t.i.tus in t.i.tus Andronicus, t.i.tus Andronicus, Lear in Lear in King Lear) King Lear) as he read "When I Was One-and-Twenty" and "To an Athlete Dying Young" against a sinuous violin. Sometimes Dad spoke the words along with Brady, trying to outdo him. as he read "When I Was One-and-Twenty" and "To an Athlete Dying Young" against a sinuous violin. Sometimes Dad spoke the words along with Brady, trying to outdo him.