Special Topics In Calamity Physics Part 11

And then she saw us.

There was a skid of her eyes, a brief suspension of smile, a catch, a soft sweater snagging a tree branch. All Nigel and I could do was stand with lousy smiles safety-pinned to our faces like h.e.l.lO MY NAME IS name tags. She didn't say anything until she was next to us.

"Shame on you," she said.

"Hi," said Nigel brightly, as if he thought she'd said, "Overjoyed to see you," and to my horror, he was now extending his hand to the man, who'd turned his large, soggy face curiously in our direction. "I'm Nigel Creech."

The man raised one white eyebrow and tilted his head, smiling good-naturedly. "Smoke," he said. His eyes were a crisp seersucker blue, and shrewd-surprisingly so. Dad said you could tell how sharp someone was by the tempo of his/her eyes on your face when you were introduced. If they barely did the box step or took to being wallflowers somewhere between your eyebrows, the person had "the IQ of caribou," but if they waltzed from your eyes to your shoes, not nervously, but with easy, untroubled curiosity, then the person had "a respectable ac.u.men." Well, Smoke's eyes mac.u.mbaed from Nigel to me back to Nigel and I felt in that simple movement he grasped every embarra.s.sment of our lives. I couldn't help but like him. Laugh lines parenthesized his mouth.

"You're visiting for the weekend?" Nigel asked.

Smoke glanced at Hannah before he answered. "Yes. Hannah's been kind enough to show me around." "Where are you from?" Nigel's aggressive curiosity wasn't lost on Smoke. Again, he looked at Hannah. "West Virginia," he said.

And then it was horrifying because Hannah didn't say a word. word. I could see she was angry: redness soaked her cheeks, her forehead. She smiled, somewhat shyly, and then (and I noticed this because I was one step up from Nigel and could see her entirely, her too-long cuff and sleeve, the cane in her hand) she squeezed, tightly, Smoke's bicep. This seemed to be a signal of sorts, because he smiled again, and said in his bear-hug voice: "Well, nice meeting you. So long." I could see she was angry: redness soaked her cheeks, her forehead. She smiled, somewhat shyly, and then (and I noticed this because I was one step up from Nigel and could see her entirely, her too-long cuff and sleeve, the cane in her hand) she squeezed, tightly, Smoke's bicep. This seemed to be a signal of sorts, because he smiled again, and said in his bear-hug voice: "Well, nice meeting you. So long."

They continued on, pa.s.sing the sheikh and the tourists ("Not many people realize the electric chair's not a bad way to go," shouted one) and some private dancer, a dancer for money in a tiny silver dress and white go-go boots.

At the top of the stairs, they turned down the hall, out of sight.

"s.h.i.+t," said Nigel, grinning.

"What's the matter with you?" I asked. I wanted to slap the smile off his face. "What?" "How could you do that?" He shrugged. "I wanted to know who her boyfriend was. Could have been Valerio."

Doc do-si-doed into my head. "I'm not sure Valerio exists."

"Well, you, doll face, may be an atheist but I'm I'm a believer. Let's get some air," he said, and then he grabbed my hand and yanked me down the stairs after him, stepping around Tarzan and Jane (Jane pressed against the wall, Tarzan leaning a believer. Let's get some air," he said, and then he grabbed my hand and yanked me down the stairs after him, stepping around Tarzan and Jane (Jane pressed against the wall, Tarzan leaning way way in) and outside onto the patio. in) and outside onto the patio.

Jade and the others had joined the crowd by now, which hadn't thinned, but buzzed like a porch wasp nest after a housewife stabs it with a broom. Leulah and Jade shared a deck chair talking to two men who wore their swollen, fleshy masks as hats. (They depicted Ronald Reagan, Donald Trump, Clark Gable, or any renowned man over fifty with formidable ears.) I didn't see Milton (Black could come and go like stormy weather) but Charles was by the barbecue flirting with a woman in a lioness costume who'd pulled her mane down around her neck and casually stroked it every time Charles said something. Abraham Lincoln threw himself against a jackrabbit, banging into the picnic table so a platter of wilted lettuce fireworked into the air. Rock music screamed from speakers rigged by the hanging plants, and the electric guitar, the roars of the singer, so many shrieks and laughs, the moon, a sickle stabbing the pine trees off to the right-it all fused into a strange suffocating violence. Maybe it was because I was a little drunk and my thoughts moved slowly like blobs in a lava lamp, but I felt it was a crowd that could attack, loot, rape, cause a "violent uprising that detonated like a bomb, and ended a day later with the whimper of a silk scarf pulled from the flabby neck of an old lady-as all all rebellions do, if they arise purely from emotion and no forethought" (see "The Last of the Summer Whine: A Study of the Novgorod Rebellion, USSR, August 1965," Van Meer, rebellions do, if they arise purely from emotion and no forethought" (see "The Last of the Summer Whine: A Study of the Novgorod Rebellion, USSR, August 1965," Van Meer, The SINE Review, The SINE Review, Spring, 1985). Spring, 1985).

Sharp light from the tiki torches cut into the masks, turning even the sweet costumes, the cute black cats and tutu angels into ghouls with buried eyes and dagger chins.

And then, my heart stopped.

On the brick wall, staring out over the crowd, stood a man. He wore a black hooded cloak and a gold mask with a hooked nose. Not a centimeter of human was visible. It was that horrible Brigh.e.l.la mask, worn during carnivals in Venice and Mardi Gras-Brigh.e.l.la, the lascivious villain from the Commedia dell'arte-but the sick thing, the thing that made the rest of the beasts at the party s.h.i.+ver out of focus, was not not that the mask was demonic, that it turned eyes to bullet holes, but the fact that it was Dad's costume. In Erie, Louisiana, June Bug Karen Sawyer had coerced him into partic.i.p.ating in her Junior League Halloween Fas.h.i.+on Show and she'd brought the outfit back for him from her trip to New Orleans. ("Is it me or do I look robustly absurd?" Dad had asked when he'd first tried on the velvet robe.) And the figure opposite me, far across the patio, as tall as Dad so he rose out of the crowd like a crucifix, what he wore was identical, down to the bronze color of the mask, the blistered nose, the satin trim around the hood, the tiny fish-eye b.u.t.tons down the front. The man didn't move. He seemed to watch me. I could see cigarette cinders in his eyes. that the mask was demonic, that it turned eyes to bullet holes, but the fact that it was Dad's costume. In Erie, Louisiana, June Bug Karen Sawyer had coerced him into partic.i.p.ating in her Junior League Halloween Fas.h.i.+on Show and she'd brought the outfit back for him from her trip to New Orleans. ("Is it me or do I look robustly absurd?" Dad had asked when he'd first tried on the velvet robe.) And the figure opposite me, far across the patio, as tall as Dad so he rose out of the crowd like a crucifix, what he wore was identical, down to the bronze color of the mask, the blistered nose, the satin trim around the hood, the tiny fish-eye b.u.t.tons down the front. The man didn't move. He seemed to watch me. I could see cigarette cinders in his eyes.

"Retch?"

"I see-my dad-" I managed to say. My heart rolling in my chest, I pushed through the Flintstones, red-faced Rapunzel, squeezing past shoulders and tinseled backs and elbows and stuffed tails stabbing me in the stomach. The wire edge of an angel wing knifed my cheek. "I -excuse me." I pushed a caterpillar. "Screw you!" it shouted, its bloodshot eyes infected with glitter. I was shoved hard and fell onto the brick, snaring in sneakers and fishnet stockings and plastic cups.

Seconds later, Nigel was crouching next to me. "What a beaatch. I'd shout 'catfight,' but I don't think you want to go there."

"The man," I said.

"Hmm?"

"Standing on the wall. A tall man. I-is he there?"

"Who?"

"He's wearing a mask with a long nose."

Nigel looked at me, puzzled, but stood up, and I watched his red Adidas sneakers turn in a circle. He bent down again. "I don't see anyone."

My head felt if it were unst.i.tching from my neck. I blinked and he helped me up. "Come on, old girl. Easy does it." Holding onto his shoulder, I craned my neck around the orange wig, the halo, to catch another glimpse of that face, to be sure, sure, to realize I was only intoxicated, imagining impossible, highly dramatic things-but there were only Cleopatras on the brick wall now, their wide faces sweaty and rainbowed like oil puddles in parking lots: to realize I was only intoxicated, imagining impossible, highly dramatic things-but there were only Cleopatras on the brick wall now, their wide faces sweaty and rainbowed like oil puddles in parking lots: "Haaaaarveeeeey!" "Haaaaarveeeeey!" one screamed, shrilly, pointing at someone in the crowd. one screamed, shrilly, pointing at someone in the crowd.

"We have to get the f.u.c.k out of here or we might be trampled," Nigel said. He tightened his grip on my wrist. I a.s.sumed he was going to lead me out into the yard, but instead he was pulling me back inside.

"I have an idea," he said with a smile.

As a rule, Hannah's bedroom door remained closed.

Charles once told me she was peculiar about it-she hated people in her "private s.p.a.ce"-and, rather incredibly, none of them, in the three years they'd known her, had ever been inside or seen it, except at a pa.s.sing glance.

I wouldn't have intruded in a million Ming Dynasties if I hadn't been tipsy and marginally catatonic after conjuring Dad as Brigh.e.l.la, or if Nigel hadn't been there, hauling me up the stairs past the hippies and the cavemen, knocking three times on the closed door at the end of the hall. And though I certainly knew it was wrong to take refuge in her bedroom, I also felt, as I removed my shoes-"We don't want heavy footprints on the carpet," Nigel said, as he closed and locked the door behind us-that perhaps Hannah herself wouldn't mind so much, if it was only this once, and besides, it was her her fault everyone was so curious about her, so spellbound. If she hadn't cultivated her own fault everyone was so curious about her, so spellbound. If she hadn't cultivated her own aire de mystere, aire de mystere, always being reluctant to answer even the most humdrum of questions, maybe we wouldn't have gone into her bedroom in the first place -maybe we'd have gone back to the car or even home. (Dad said all criminals have complicated means of rationalizing their aberrant behavior. This twisty logic was mine.) always being reluctant to answer even the most humdrum of questions, maybe we wouldn't have gone into her bedroom in the first place -maybe we'd have gone back to the car or even home. (Dad said all criminals have complicated means of rationalizing their aberrant behavior. This twisty logic was mine.) "I'll fix you right up," Nigel said, planting me on the bed and switching on the bedside lamp. He disappeared into the bathroom and returned with a gla.s.s of water. Away from the music and ferocious crowd, I realized, with a little wonder, I was much more lucid than I'd thought, and after only a few sips of water, some deep breaths, staring at the starkness of Hannah's bedroom, I began to come around, feel twinges of what was commonly known in paleontologist circles as "Dig Fever," a blind, untiring enthusiasm for unearthing the history of life. (It was allegedly experienced by both Mary and Louis Leakey when they first wandered around Oldupai Gorge in the eastern Serengeti Plains of Tanzania, a location that would go on to become one of the most revealing archeological sites in the world.) Her bedroom walls were beige, without a single picture or painting. The carpet under the bed was preppy green. Considering the rest of her house, muddled with animals, cat hair, oriental wall hangings, handicapped furniture, every National Geographic National Geographic since 1982, the austere furnis.h.i.+ngs here were bizarre and, I felt, a definitive sign of something ("A man's bedroom is direct insight into his character," wrote Sir Montgomery Finkle in 1953s since 1982, the austere furnis.h.i.+ngs here were bizarre and, I felt, a definitive sign of something ("A man's bedroom is direct insight into his character," wrote Sir Montgomery Finkle in 1953s Gory Details). Gory Details). The few pieces of humble furniture -chest of drawers, wooden Quaker chair, a vanity table-had been relegated to the corners of the room as if they'd been punished. The bed was queen sized, neatly made (although where I was sitting it wrinkled) and the comforter (or bedspread, as there was nothing comforting about it) was a th.o.r.n.y blanket the color of brown rice. The bedside table featured a lamp, and on the bottom shelf only a single well-worn book, I The few pieces of humble furniture -chest of drawers, wooden Quaker chair, a vanity table-had been relegated to the corners of the room as if they'd been punished. The bed was queen sized, neatly made (although where I was sitting it wrinkled) and the comforter (or bedspread, as there was nothing comforting about it) was a th.o.r.n.y blanket the color of brown rice. The bedside table featured a lamp, and on the bottom shelf only a single well-worn book, I Ching, or The Book of Changes. Ching, or The Book of Changes. ("There's nothing more irritating than Americans hoping to locate their inner Tao," Dad said.) Standing up, I noticed a faint but unmistakable smell hanging in the air, like a flashy guest that refused to go home: men's musky cologne, the sort of persistent syrup a Miami hunk doused on his trunk-thick neck. ("There's nothing more irritating than Americans hoping to locate their inner Tao," Dad said.) Standing up, I noticed a faint but unmistakable smell hanging in the air, like a flashy guest that refused to go home: men's musky cologne, the sort of persistent syrup a Miami hunk doused on his trunk-thick neck.

Nigel was having a look around too. He'd stuffed his Zorro mask into his pocket and had a subdued, almost reverential look on his face, as if we'd snuck into a monastery and he didn't want to disturb nuns at prayer. He crept over to Hannah's closet and, very slowly, slid open the door.

I was about to follow him-the closet was crowded with clothes, and when he tugged the string to turn on the light, a black pump fell from a shelf piled with shoe boxes and shopping bags-but then, I noticed something I'd never seen in the house before, three framed photographs positioned along the edge of the chest of drawers. They each strictly faced forward like suspects in a police lineup. I tiptoed over to them, but realized immediately they were not the obvious evidence of an extinct species (ex-boyfriend) or Jura.s.sic period (fierce Goth phase) I'd been hoping to discover.

No, they each featured (one in black and white, the others in outdated 1970s colors, Brady Bunch Brady Bunch brown, brown, M*A*S*H* M*A*S*H* maroon) a girl who was presumably Hannah between the ages of, say, nine months and six, and yet the baby with hair like a squirt of icing on its bald cupcake head, the toddler wearing nothing but a diaper, looked nothing like her-not at maroon) a girl who was presumably Hannah between the ages of, say, nine months and six, and yet the baby with hair like a squirt of icing on its bald cupcake head, the toddler wearing nothing but a diaper, looked nothing like her-not at all. all. This thing looked portly and red as an alcoholic uncle; if you squinted, it looked like it'd pa.s.sed out in its crib from too much scotch. Even the eyes were dissimilar. Hannah's were almond-shaped, and these were the same color, black-brown, but round. I was prepared to accept that maybe these pictures weren't of Hannah, but a beloved sister-and yet, peering closer, particularly at the one of her at four, sitting atop a fierce Whitman-s.h.a.ggy pony, the resemblance This thing looked portly and red as an alcoholic uncle; if you squinted, it looked like it'd pa.s.sed out in its crib from too much scotch. Even the eyes were dissimilar. Hannah's were almond-shaped, and these were the same color, black-brown, but round. I was prepared to accept that maybe these pictures weren't of Hannah, but a beloved sister-and yet, peering closer, particularly at the one of her at four, sitting atop a fierce Whitman-s.h.a.ggy pony, the resemblance did did surface: the perfect mouth, upper lip fitting with bottom lip like delicate pieces of a jigsaw puzzle, and as she stared down at the reigns held tightly in her fists, that intense yet secret expression. surface: the perfect mouth, upper lip fitting with bottom lip like delicate pieces of a jigsaw puzzle, and as she stared down at the reigns held tightly in her fists, that intense yet secret expression.

Nigel was still in Hannah's closet-he seemed to be trying on shoes-so I slipped into the adjacent master bathroom and switched on the light. In terms of decor, it was an extension of the bedroom, austere, stark as a penitentiary cell: a white-tiled floor, neat white towels, the sink and mirror meticulous, without a single splatter or smear. Words from a certain book flashed into my head, the paperback June Bug Amy Steinman had left at our house, Stranded in the Dark, Stranded in the Dark, by P.C. Mailey, Ph.D. (1979). The book detailed in frantic, husky prose, "the surefire signs of depression in single women," one of which was "a stark living s.p.a.ce as a form of self-torture" (p. 87). "A severely depressed woman either lives in squalor or in a strict, minimalist living s.p.a.ce-without anything that could remind her of her own taste or personality. In other rooms, however, she certainly might have 'stuff' in order to appear normal and happy to her friends" (p. 88). by P.C. Mailey, Ph.D. (1979). The book detailed in frantic, husky prose, "the surefire signs of depression in single women," one of which was "a stark living s.p.a.ce as a form of self-torture" (p. 87). "A severely depressed woman either lives in squalor or in a strict, minimalist living s.p.a.ce-without anything that could remind her of her own taste or personality. In other rooms, however, she certainly might have 'stuff' in order to appear normal and happy to her friends" (p. 88).

I found it somewhat disheartening. However, it was when I knelt down and opened the cabinet under the bathroom sink that I was really really taken aback, and I don't think it was the same joyful disbelief Mary Leakey felt in 1959 when she stumbled upon taken aback, and I don't think it was the same joyful disbelief Mary Leakey felt in 1959 when she stumbled upon Zinjanthropus Zinjanthropus or "Zinj." or "Zinj."

Inside, a.s.sembled in a pink plastic basket, was a collection of prescription bottles that made anything Judy Garland had popped in her glory days look like a few rolls of Smarties. I counted nineteen orange containers (barbiturates, amphetamines, I was chanting to myself, Secouai, Phen.o.barbital, Dexedrine; Secouai, Phen.o.barbital, Dexedrine; Marilyn and Elvis would've had a heyday) but, rather frustratingly, it was impossible to know what they were; there wasn't a single label, not even evidence they'd been ripped off. On each PUSH DOWN AND TURN cap was a piece of colored tape in blue, red, green or yellow. Marilyn and Elvis would've had a heyday) but, rather frustratingly, it was impossible to know what they were; there wasn't a single label, not even evidence they'd been ripped off. On each PUSH DOWN AND TURN cap was a piece of colored tape in blue, red, green or yellow.

I picked up one of the larger ones, shaking the tiny blue tablets, each marked with a tiny 50.1 was tempted to steal it, then at home, try to decipher what it was by consulting the Internet or Dad's twenty-pound Encyclopedia of Medicine Encyclopedia of Medicine (Baker & Ash, 2000), but then-What If Hannah had a secret terminal illness and this was the treatment that kept her alive? What If I swiped one of these vital drugs and tomorrow she couldn't take her necessary dosage and lapsed into a coma like Sunny von Bulow and I thus became the s.h.i.+fty Claus character? What If I had to hire Alan Dershowitz who talked about me incessantly with his mob of irksome college students who stuffed themselves with spaghetti and ginger prawns while waxing poetic on Degrees of Innocence and Guilt while my life danced in their hands like a marionette poorly rigged with sewing thread? (Baker & Ash, 2000), but then-What If Hannah had a secret terminal illness and this was the treatment that kept her alive? What If I swiped one of these vital drugs and tomorrow she couldn't take her necessary dosage and lapsed into a coma like Sunny von Bulow and I thus became the s.h.i.+fty Claus character? What If I had to hire Alan Dershowitz who talked about me incessantly with his mob of irksome college students who stuffed themselves with spaghetti and ginger prawns while waxing poetic on Degrees of Innocence and Guilt while my life danced in their hands like a marionette poorly rigged with sewing thread?

I returned the container.

"Blue! Come here!" here!"

Nigel was buried in the closet behind a few garment bags. He was one of those pa.s.sionate yet chaotic excavators who shamelessly contaminated the site; he'd removed at least ten shoe boxes from the top shelf and left them heedlessly on the floor. Faded cotton sweaters had been strewn between balled up tissue paper, plastic bags, a rhinestone belt, jewelry case, one sweat-petrified burgundy shoe. He was wearing a strand of fake pink pearls around his neck.

"I'm Hannah Schneider and I'm mysterious," he said in a vampish voice, tossing the end of the necklace over his shoulder as if he were Isadora Duncan, the Mother of Modern Dance (see This Red, So Am This Red, So Am I, Hillson, 1965). I, Hillson, 1965).

"What're you doing?" I asked, giggling.

"Window shopping." "You have to put this stuff back. She's going to know we were here. She could come back-"

"Oh, check this out," he said excitedly and plopped a heavy, intricately carved wooden case into my hands. Biting his bottom lip, he opened the lid. Inside glinted a silver machete approximately eighteen inches long, the sort of horrifying weapon rebels used to cut the arms off of children in Sierra Leone ("Romancing the Stones," Van Meer, The Foreign Quarterly, The Foreign Quarterly, June 2001). I was speechless. "There's a whole knife collection up here," he was saying. "She must be into S & M. Oh, I also found a picture." June 2001). I was speechless. "There's a whole knife collection up here," he was saying. "She must be into S & M. Oh, I also found a picture."

He cheerfully took back the knife (as if he were the enthusiastic manager of a p.a.w.nshop), throwing it on the carpet, and after digging through another shoe box, handed me a faded square photo.

"She kind of looked like Liz when she was young," he said dreamily. "Very National Velvet" National Velvet"

The picture was of Hannah when she eleven or twelve. It was a photo taken from the waist up so you couldn't tell if she was outside or inside, but she was smiling hugely (frankly, I'd never seen her so happy). Her arm was mink-shrugged around the neck of another girl who was also probably quite beautiful, but she'd shyly twisted away from the camera, smiling, but blinking just as the photo was taken so you could only see into the foyer of her face (cheek, a bit of regal forehead, rumors of eyelash) and maybe a bit of parlor room (perfect ski slope nose). They wore the same school uniform (white blouse, a navy jacket-on Hannah's, a gold lion insignia on the breast pocket) and it was one of those snapshots that seemed to have trapped not only an image but a grainy reel of life-their ponytails were full of static, stands of hair cobwebbed in the wind. You could almost hear their laughs twisting together.

And yet-there was something eerie about them. I couldn't help but think of Holloway Barnes and Eleanor Tilden, the girls who'd conspired to murder their parents in Honolulu in 1964, subject of Arthur Lewis' chilling nonfiction account, Little Girls Little Girls (1988). Holloway killed Eleanor's parents with a pick-ax as they slept and Eleanor killed Holloway's with a rifle, shooting them in the face as if playing a game, hoping to win a stuffed panda, and in the photographs section in the middle of the book, there'd been a picture of the girls almost exactly like this one, the two of them in Catholic schoolgirl uniforms, their arms pretzeled, their brutal smiles piercing their faces like fish hooks. (1988). Holloway killed Eleanor's parents with a pick-ax as they slept and Eleanor killed Holloway's with a rifle, shooting them in the face as if playing a game, hoping to win a stuffed panda, and in the photographs section in the middle of the book, there'd been a picture of the girls almost exactly like this one, the two of them in Catholic schoolgirl uniforms, their arms pretzeled, their brutal smiles piercing their faces like fish hooks.

"Wonder who the other one is," Nigel said. He sighed wistfully. "Two people that beautiful should die. Immediately."

"Does Hannah have a sister?" I asked.

He shrugged. "Don't know."

I moved back over to the three framed photographs on the chest of drawers. "What?" he asked, walking up behind me. I held up the picture for comparison. "It's not the same person." "Huh?" "These photos. They're not of Hannah." "Aren't those baby pictures?" "But it's not the same face." He leaned closer, nodding. "Maybe it's a fat cousin." I turned over the picture of Hannah with the blonde. There was a date written in the corner in blue pen: 1973. "Wait" "Wait" Nigel whispered suddenly, a hand pressed to the pearls around his neck, his eyes wide. "Oh, f.u.c.k. Listen." The music downstairs, which had been beating with the steadiness of a healthy heart, had stopped, leaving total silence. Nigel whispered suddenly, a hand pressed to the pearls around his neck, his eyes wide. "Oh, f.u.c.k. Listen." The music downstairs, which had been beating with the steadiness of a healthy heart, had stopped, leaving total silence.

I moved toward the door, unlocked it and peered down the hall.

It was deserted.

"Let's get out of here," I said.

Nigel, with a small squeak, was already at the closet, madly trying to refold the sweaters and matching lids to shoe boxes. I considered swiping the photograph of Hannah and the other girl-but then, did Howard Carter blithely help himself to treasures in the tomb of Tutankhamen? Did Donald Johanson covertly pocket a piece of Lucy, the 3.18-million-year-old hominid? Reluctantly, I handed the photograph back to Nigel who slipped it into the Evan Picone shoe box, standing on his tiptoes to return it to the shelf. We switched off every light, grabbed our shoes, did a final check of the room to make sure we hadn't dropped something ("All thieves leave behind a calling card because the human ego craves recognition the way junkies crave smack," noted Detective Clark Green in Fingerprints Fingerprints [Stipple, 1979]). We closed Hannah's bedroom door and hurried down the hall. [Stipple, 1979]). We closed Hannah's bedroom door and hurried down the hall.

The stairs were empty, and below, in the whirlpools of people, some sweaty bird in a crooked feather headdress was screeching something, a hysterical "Ooooooooo" that went on and on, cutting through the noise like a sword during any climatic fight scene. Charlie Chaplin was trying to restrain her. "Breathe! f.u.c.kin' breathe, Amy!" Nigel and I glanced at each other, baffled, then continued down the stairs, only to find ourselves drowning in a flood of feet, plastic masks, tails, wands, wigs, all of them trying to shove their way toward the back door, out onto the patio.

"Stop pus.h.i.+ng!" someone shouted. someone shouted. "Stop pus.h.i.+ng, motherf.u.c.ker!" "Stop pus.h.i.+ng, motherf.u.c.ker!" "I saw it," said a penguin. "But what about the police?" wailed a fairy. "I mean, why aren't they "I saw it," said a penguin. "But what about the police?" wailed a fairy. "I mean, why aren't they here? here? Did someone call nine-one-one?" "Hey," said Nigel, grabbing the shoulder of the merman pus.h.i.+ng in front of us. "What's going on?" "Someone's dead," he said. Did someone call nine-one-one?" "Hey," said Nigel, grabbing the shoulder of the merman pus.h.i.+ng in front of us. "What's going on?" "Someone's dead," he said.

A Moveable Feast

When he was seven years old, Dad almost drowned in Lake Brienz. He claimed it was the second most illuminating experience of his life, trailing in significance only to one other occasion, the day he saw Benno Ohnesorg die.

In customary fas.h.i.+on, Dad was trying to outperform one Hendrik Salzmann, a twelve-year-old, another boy at the Zurich Waisenhaus. Waisenhaus. Although Dad "showed dogged endurance and athleticism" as he splashed past the weary Hendrik, when he was some thirty or forty meters beyond the swimmer's boundary, Dad found himself too exhausted to go on. Although Dad "showed dogged endurance and athleticism" as he splashed past the weary Hendrik, when he was some thirty or forty meters beyond the swimmer's boundary, Dad found himself too exhausted to go on.

The bright green sh.o.r.e floated far behind him. "It appeared to be waving good-bye," Dad said. As he slumped into the gurgling darkness, arms and legs heavy as bags of stones, after an initial panic, which was "really nothing more than surprise, that this was it, it, what it all comes down to," Dad claimed he felt what is frequently referred to as the "Socrates Syndrome," a feeling of utter tranquility moments before death. Dad closed his eyes and saw not a tunnel, not blinding light, not a slide show of his short, d.i.c.kensian life, not even a Smiling Bearded White Man in a Robe, but sweets. what it all comes down to," Dad claimed he felt what is frequently referred to as the "Socrates Syndrome," a feeling of utter tranquility moments before death. Dad closed his eyes and saw not a tunnel, not blinding light, not a slide show of his short, d.i.c.kensian life, not even a Smiling Bearded White Man in a Robe, but sweets.

"Caramel truffles, marmalade," Dad said, "Babel cookies, marzipan. I could smell them. I really believed I was falling not to my watery grave, but into a Cafe Conditorei." Cafe Conditorei."

Dad also swore he heard, somewhere in the depths, Beethoven's Fifth, which some beloved nun named Fraulein Uta (the first June Bug in recorded history, der erste Maikafer in der Geschichte) der erste Maikafer in der Geschichte) played in her room on Sat.u.r.day evenings. When he was wrenched from this sugary euphoria and hauled ash.o.r.e by none other than Hendrik Salzmann (experiencing a heroic second wind), Dad said his first conscious thought was that he wanted to go back, down into the dark water, for dessert and the Allegro-Presto. played in her room on Sat.u.r.day evenings. When he was wrenched from this sugary euphoria and hauled ash.o.r.e by none other than Hendrik Salzmann (experiencing a heroic second wind), Dad said his first conscious thought was that he wanted to go back, down into the dark water, for dessert and the Allegro-Presto.

Dad, on Death: "When it's your time-and naturally, none of us know when we'll be drafted-there's no use sniveling. Please. Please. You should walk out a warrior, even if the revolution you waged in your life was for biology or neurology, the origins of the sun, bugs, the Red Cross, like your mother. Might I remind you of the way Che Guevara went out? He was a deeply flawed man -his pro-Chinese, pro-Communist viewpoints were blinkered, naive at best. You should walk out a warrior, even if the revolution you waged in your life was for biology or neurology, the origins of the sun, bugs, the Red Cross, like your mother. Might I remind you of the way Che Guevara went out? He was a deeply flawed man -his pro-Chinese, pro-Communist viewpoints were blinkered, naive at best. Yet" Yet"-Dad sat up in his chair and leaned forward, his hazel eyes huge behind his gla.s.ses, his voice rising up then plunging deep into himself-"on October 9,1967, after a traitor alerted CIA operatives to the secret location of Guevara's guerrilla encampment, after he was so badly injured he couldn't stand and he surrendered to the Bolivian army and Rene Barrientos ordered his execution, after a lily-livered officer drew the short straw and, trembling so severely witnesses thought he was having a seizure, entered the windowless schoolhouse in order to put a bullet in Guevara's head. He was going to murder, once and for all, the man who charged into battle for those he believed in, the man who said, 'Freedom,' and 'Justice,' without a hint of sarcasm, Guevara, who knew knew what was coming, he turned to the officer . . ." Here, Dad turned to an imaginary officer standing to his left. "They say he wasn't afraid, sweet, not a bead of sweat, not the what was coming, he turned to the officer . . ." Here, Dad turned to an imaginary officer standing to his left. "They say he wasn't afraid, sweet, not a bead of sweat, not the slightest slightest tremor in his voice-he said, 'Shoot, coward. You are only going to kill a man.' " tremor in his voice-he said, 'Shoot, coward. You are only going to kill a man.' "

Dad stared at me.

"May you and I aspire to such certainty."

After Hannah told us about Smoke Harvey, with a raw voice and a certain grayness seeping around her eyes (as if something inside her had spilled), and her every detail about him laid a pink brick in the re-creation of his big, noisy plantation of a life, I found myself wondering about Smoke's certainty. As he drowned, I tried to imagine what it was that wooed him, if not Dad's childhood loves of sugar and Beethoven, then Cuban cigars, or his first wife's doll hands ("She was so tiny she couldn't wrap her arms all the way around him," said Hannah), or a gla.s.s of Johnnie Walker on the rocks (Blue Label probably, as Hannah said he enjoyed "the fine things"), anything to gently push him away from the fact that the culmination of his life, sixty-eight years lived with great vigor and force ("gusto" and "zest" Hannah said) was to be in her swimming pool, inebriated and dressed as Mao Zedong, drifting over a concrete floor eight feet under and no one noticing.

His full name was Smoke Wyannoch Harvey, age 68. Not many people knew who he was, unless they lived in Findley, West Virginia, or used him as a Portfolio Manager when he worked at DBA LLC, or found the book he'd written in the 8o-percent off bin, The Doloroso Treason The Doloroso Treason (1999), or browsed the two articles about his death in (1999), or browsed the two articles about his death in The Stockton Observer The Stockton Observer on November 24 and November 28 (see "West Virginia Man Drowns in Pool," "Weekend Drowning Ruled Accidental," Local News, 2B, 5B, respectively). on November 24 and November 28 (see "West Virginia Man Drowns in Pool," "Weekend Drowning Ruled Accidental," Local News, 2B, 5B, respectively).

He was, of course, the distinguished gray-haired man Nigel and I had met with Hannah on the stairs, the one I'd liked (Visual Aid 12.0).

After we heard someone was dead, Nigel and I pushed our way to one of the windows overlooking the patio. We could only see the backs of people, all of them staring at something in front of them, as if watching a stirring street performance of King Lear. King Lear. Most of them were half-birthed from their costumes, so they looked between species, and the ground was littered with pipe-cleaner antennae and beached-jellyfish wigs. Most of them were half-birthed from their costumes, so they looked between species, and the ground was littered with pipe-cleaner antennae and beached-jellyfish wigs.

Screams from an ambulance ripped through the night. Red light hurtled around the lawn. Everyone on the patio was herded into the living room.

"Things'll go quick soon as everyone gets quiet," the blond police officer said from the door. He chewed gum. From the way he leaned against the doorjamb, rested one foot on Hannah's jug of umbrellas and took seconds too long to blink, you could tell his body was present, but his mind was back at some red felt pool table where he'd missed an easy draw shot, or else, back with his wife in their swayback bed.

I was in an O-mouthed state of shock-wondering who it was, wanting to make sure it wasn't Milton or Jade or any of them (if it has to be someone, it could be that sick caterpillar) (if it has to be someone, it could be that sick caterpillar)-but Nigel was acting like a Boy Scout Leader. Grabbing my hand again, he forced us across the room, stepping on the hippies who'd sat down on the floor to give each other contrition ma.s.sages. He ejected a sick Jane from the bathroom (she'd lost Tarzan) and, locking the door, instructed me to start drinking water.

"We don't want to be asked by a flatfoot to take a Breathalyzer," he said agitatedly. I was shocked by his intensity. Dad said emergencies created an elemental s.h.i.+ft in everyone, and while most people liquefied immediately, Nigel was turning into a denser, somewhat more formidable version of himself. "I'm going to find the others," he said with Rockette-kick fervor. "We have to come up with a good story as to why we're here because they're going to be securing the scene, taking names and addresses," he said as he opened the door, "and I'll be d.a.m.ned d.a.m.ned if I'm getting kicked out of school for some slob who can't hold his liquor and never took a swimming lesson." if I'm getting kicked out of school for some slob who can't hold his liquor and never took a swimming lesson."

Some people have a knack for finding themselves, if not the star of every Detective Film, Skin Flick, Love Story or Spaghetti Western, at the very least, one of the supporting players, or appearing in an unforgettable cameo for which they garner critical acclaim and considerable buzz.

Unsurprisingly, it was Jade who was cast as Unwitting Eyewitness. She was outside talking to Ronald Reagan, who, in a drunken desire to show off, flopped into the heated pool, and, backstroking in his blue suit, avoiding the four rats playing Marco Polo, he shouted out names as Jade looked on, trying to guess who she was dressed as ("Pam Anderson! Ginger Lynn!"). He accidentally kicked the dark, submerged body with his foot.

"What the - ?" The Gipper said.

"Someone's unconscious! Call nine-one-one! Who knows CPR? Get me a f.u.c.king doctor!" Get me a f.u.c.king doctor!" Jade claimed she screamed, though Milton, who'd just returned to the patio after smoking the remainder of his joint in the woods, said she didn't do or say anything until the Great Communicator and one of the rats hauled the great whale of a body out of the water, at which point she sat down in the deck chair and only watched, biting her nails while people began to murmur their "Oh, my f.u.c.king G.o.ds." A man in zebra print tried to resuscitate him. Jade claimed she screamed, though Milton, who'd just returned to the patio after smoking the remainder of his joint in the woods, said she didn't do or say anything until the Great Communicator and one of the rats hauled the great whale of a body out of the water, at which point she sat down in the deck chair and only watched, biting her nails while people began to murmur their "Oh, my f.u.c.king G.o.ds." A man in zebra print tried to resuscitate him.

Jade was still on the patio with Dutch and the other main characters waiting to be interviewed by the police, but Nigel returned to the bathroom with Charles, Milton and Lu. Charles and Lu looked as if they'd barely survived the War of 1812, but Milton looked as he always did, laid-back and lumpy, a smear of smile on his face.

"Who died?" I asked.

"A very large man," Leulah said, sitting down on the edge of the bathtub, an unfocused look in her eyes. "And he really is dead. dead. There's a dead body on Hannah's patio. He's sopping wet. And this terrible blubbery color." She pressed a hand to her stomach. "I might throw up." There's a dead body on Hannah's patio. He's sopping wet. And this terrible blubbery color." She pressed a hand to her stomach. "I might throw up."

"Life, death," sighed Nigel. "It's all so Hollywood."

"Did anyone see Hannah?" asked Charles quietly.

It was a grisly thought. Even if it was an accident, it was never a good thing for someone to die unexpectedly at one's house while one is entertaining, for a person to "walk out of this outrageous world" (as Dad was fond of saying) on one's property, in one's kidney-shaped pool. None of us spoke. Behind the closed door, a few tadpole-words wriggled free of the noise ("Ow," "Sheila!" "Did you know him?" "Hey, what's going on?") and through the open window by the tub, the police car radios fizzed, ceaseless and indecipherable.

"Well, I'd say run for it," Nigel said, slipping behind the shower curtain, and hunching down as he peered out the window as if someone might open fire. "I doubt they even have a squad car at the end of the driveway. But we can't leave Jade, so we'll have to take our chances following police procedure."

"Of course course we can't flee the crime scene," said Charles irritably. "What are you -nuts?" His face was red. He was obviously worried about Hannah. I noticed, whenever Jade or Nigel did a little guesswork in the Purple Room about what she did on the weekends (if they so much as whispered, "Cottonwood"), he became fiery and short tempered as a Latin American dictator. In a matter of seconds, his entire body-face, hands too-could go the pink of Tropical Punch. Milton, as usual, said nothing, only chuckled as he leaned against the burgundy hand towels. we can't flee the crime scene," said Charles irritably. "What are you -nuts?" His face was red. He was obviously worried about Hannah. I noticed, whenever Jade or Nigel did a little guesswork in the Purple Room about what she did on the weekends (if they so much as whispered, "Cottonwood"), he became fiery and short tempered as a Latin American dictator. In a matter of seconds, his entire body-face, hands too-could go the pink of Tropical Punch. Milton, as usual, said nothing, only chuckled as he leaned against the burgundy hand towels.

"It wouldn't be a big deal," Nigel said. "Drownings are obvious. obvious. They can see by the skin if it's an accident or foul play and in this case, there's a high rate of drownings that are linked to alcohol. Some bombed guy falls in the water? Knocks himself out? Dies? What can you do? He did it to himself. And it happens all the time. The Coast Guard's always finding sloshed motherf.u.c.kers floating in the ocean who had too many rum and c.o.kes." They can see by the skin if it's an accident or foul play and in this case, there's a high rate of drownings that are linked to alcohol. Some bombed guy falls in the water? Knocks himself out? Dies? What can you do? He did it to himself. And it happens all the time. The Coast Guard's always finding sloshed motherf.u.c.kers floating in the ocean who had too many rum and c.o.kes."

"How do you know this?" I asked, though I'd read something similar in Murder in La Havre Murder in La Havre (Monalie, 1992). "My mom's a huge crime fiction fanatic," he said proudly. "Diana could perform her own autopsy." (Monalie, 1992). "My mom's a huge crime fiction fanatic," he said proudly. "Diana could perform her own autopsy."

When we decided we weren't visibly drunk (Death had the effect of six cups of coffee and a dip in the Bering Sea), we returned to the living room. A new officer had taken charge, Officer Donnie Lee with globular, off-centered features reminiscent of a wrecked urn on a potter's wheel. He was trying to line people up "in orderly fas.h.i.+on, folks," with the sort of manic patience of an Activities Director on a cruise s.h.i.+p organizing a Sh.o.r.e Excursion. Gradually, the crowd ringed around the room.

"Let me go first," said Nigel. "And don't say anything. I'll give you the advice my mom gave me. No matter what happens, look like you're having a Christ experience."

Officer Donnie Lee happened to have saturated himself in Paul Revere-like cologne (it rode far ahead of him, alerting all of his impending arrival) so by the time he came to Nigel, wrote down his name, phone number, and asked, "How old are you, son?" Nigel was prepared for the impending ma.s.sacre.

"Seventeen, sir."

"Uh-huh."

"I a.s.sure you Ms. Schneider knew nothing about our showing up this evening. My friends and I mistakenly thought it'd be fun to crash an adult party. To see what it was like. Not, Not, let me add, to partake in illegal substances. I've been a Baptist all my life, head of my own wors.h.i.+p circle for two years, and it's against my religion to partake in alcohol of any kind. Abstinence works well enough for me, sir." let me add, to partake in illegal substances. I've been a Baptist all my life, head of my own wors.h.i.+p circle for two years, and it's against my religion to partake in alcohol of any kind. Abstinence works well enough for me, sir."