Special Topics In Calamity Physics Part 2

"Oh-no."

"Well, if you'd accompany me to Garden and Patio, I believe I've found a winner. The Beech Total Ovation Symphony Hot Tub Spa with Stereo. Typhoon back and neck jets. Maintenance free. Eight people may pile in for the fun at once. And price? Firmly Firmly rolled back. Hurry. We don't have much time." rolled back. Hurry. We don't have much time."

I managed to extricate myself from Dad under the somewhat shaky guise of wanting to peruse Apparel, and after I saw him head merrily toward Pets, I quickly circled back to the Photo Center. He wasn't there. I checked Pharmacy; Gifts & Flowers; Toys, where a red-faced woman was spanking her kids; Jewelry, where a Latino couple was trying on watches; the Vision Center, where an old woman bravely considered life behind brown-tinted billboard frames. I ran through a slew of cranky mothers in Baby; dazed newlyweds in Bath; Pets, where I covertly observed Dad discussing freedom with a goldfish ("Life ain't so good in the slammer, is it, old boy?"); and Sewing, where a bald man weighed the pros and cons of pink-and-white cotton chintz. I patrolled the cafe and the checkout aisles, including Customer Service and the Express Lane where a fat toddler screamed and kicked the candy bars.

But again-he was gone. There'd be no awkward reunion, no WHEN LOVE SPEAKS STOP THE VOICE OF THE G.o.dS MAKE HEAVEN DROWSY WITH THE HARMONY STOP.

It wasn't until I dejectedly returned to the Photo Center that I noticed the shopping cart. Abandoned by the Drop-Off counter, jutting out into the middle of the aisle, it was empty-as I could have sworn his had been-apart from one item, a small plastic package of something called, s.h.i.+fTbush Invisible Gear, Fall Mix.

Puzzled, I picked up the bag. It was stuffed with crunchy nylon leaves. I read the back: "s.h.i.+fTbush Fall Mix, a blend of 3-D, photo-enhanced, synthetic forest leaves. Apply it using EZStik to your existing camo and you'll be instantly invisible in your woodland surroundings, even to the keenest of animals. s.h.i.+fTbush is the accomplished hunter's dream."

"Don't tell me you're about to go through a deer-hunting phase," Dad said behind me. He sniffed. "What is that horrific smell -men's cologne, acidic sap. I couldn't find you. Figured you'd disappeared into that black hole known as the public restroom."

I tossed the package back into the cart. "I thought I saw someone."

"Oh? Now tell me your gut reaction to the following words. Colonial. DeWahay. DeWahay. Wood. Patio. Five Pieces. Sun resistant, wind resistant, Judgment Day resistant. Amazing value at just $299. And consider the Dellahay motto neatly inscribed on their cute little tags: 'Patio furniture isn't furniture. It's a state of mind.' " Dad smiled, putting his arm around me as he pushed me gently toward Garden. "I'll give you ten thousand dollars if you can tell me what that means." Wood. Patio. Five Pieces. Sun resistant, wind resistant, Judgment Day resistant. Amazing value at just $299. And consider the Dellahay motto neatly inscribed on their cute little tags: 'Patio furniture isn't furniture. It's a state of mind.' " Dad smiled, putting his arm around me as he pushed me gently toward Garden. "I'll give you ten thousand dollars if you can tell me what that means."

Dad and I left Wal-Mart with patio furniture, a coffee machine and one paroled goldfish (freedom was too much for him; he went belly up after a day of living on the outside), and yet, weeks later, even when the Improbables and Highly Unlikelies had taken over my head, I couldn't let go of the thought that it had, in fact, been he, restless and moody Heathcliff. Day after day, he floated through all the Wai-Marts in America, searching for me in a million lonely aisles.

IV.

The House of the Seven Gables

Naturally, for me, the idea of a Permanent Home (the definition of which I took to be any shelter Dad and I inhabited in excess of ninety days-the time an American c.o.c.kroach could go without food) was nothing more than a Pipe Dream, Cloud-Cuckoo-Land, the hope to purchase a brand new Cadillac Coupe DeVille with baby blue leather interior for any Soviet during the drab winter of 1985.

On countless occasions, I pointed out New York City or Miami on our Rand-McNally map. "Or Charleston. Why can't you teach Conflict Resolution at University of South Carolina at This Is Actually a Civilized Location?" My head mashed against the window, seatbelt strangling me, my gaze dazed by the ceaseless rewinding of cornfields, I'd fantasize that one day, Dad and I would quietly settle somewhere-anywhere-like dust.

Due to his stock refusals over the years, however, during which he ridiculed my sentimentality ("How can you eschew travel? I don't understand. How can my my daughter wish to be dimwitted and dull as some handmade ashtray, as floralized wallpaper, as that sign-yes, daughter wish to be dimwitted and dull as some handmade ashtray, as floralized wallpaper, as that sign-yes, that that one-Big Slushy. Ninety-nine cents. That's your name from now on. Big Slushy."), during our highway discussions of one-Big Slushy. Ninety-nine cents. That's your name from now on. Big Slushy."), during our highway discussions of The Odyssey The Odyssey (Homer, h.e.l.lenistic Period) or (Homer, h.e.l.lenistic Period) or The Grapes of Wrath The Grapes of Wrath (Steinbeck, 1939), I'd stopped even (Steinbeck, 1939), I'd stopped even alluding alluding to such literary themes as the Homestead, Motherland or Native Soil. And thus it was with great fanfare Dad unveiled over rhubarb pie at the Qwik Stop Diner outside of Lomaine, Kansas ("Ding! Dong! The Witch Is Dead," he sang facetiously, causing the waitress to frown at us suspiciously), that for the to such literary themes as the Homestead, Motherland or Native Soil. And thus it was with great fanfare Dad unveiled over rhubarb pie at the Qwik Stop Diner outside of Lomaine, Kansas ("Ding! Dong! The Witch Is Dead," he sang facetiously, causing the waitress to frown at us suspiciously), that for the entirety entirety of my high school senior year, all seven months and nineteen days, we would reside in a single location: Stockton, North Carolina. of my high school senior year, all seven months and nineteen days, we would reside in a single location: Stockton, North Carolina.

I'd heard of it oddly enough, not only because I'd read, a few years back, the cover story in Ventures Ventures magazine, "Fifty Top Retirement Towns," and Stockton (pop. 53,339), marooned in the Appalachian Mountains, evidently quite pleased with its nickname (The Florence of the South) had been written up as #39, but also because the mountain city had featured prominently in a fascinating FBI account of the Jacksonville fugitives, magazine, "Fifty Top Retirement Towns," and Stockton (pop. 53,339), marooned in the Appalachian Mountains, evidently quite pleased with its nickname (The Florence of the South) had been written up as #39, but also because the mountain city had featured prominently in a fascinating FBI account of the Jacksonville fugitives, Escaped Escaped (Pillars, 2004), the true story of the Vicious Three who escaped from Florida State Prison and survived for twenty-two years in the Great Smoky Mountain National Park. They roamed the thousands of trails veining the foothills between North Carolina and Tennessee, living on deer, rabbit, skunk and the refuse of weekend campers, and would have remained at large ("The Park is so expansive it could effectively hide a herd of pink elephants," wrote the author, retired Special Agent Janet Pillars) had one of them not acted on the apparently uncontrollable urge to hang at the local mall. On a Friday afternoon in fall 2002, Billy "The Pit" Pikes wandered into a West Stockton shopping center, Dinglebrook Arcade, bought a few dress s.h.i.+rts, ate a calzone and was identified by a cas.h.i.+er at Cinnabon. Two of the Vicious Three were captured, but the last, known simply as "Sloppy Ed," remained at large, somewhere in the mountains. (Pillars, 2004), the true story of the Vicious Three who escaped from Florida State Prison and survived for twenty-two years in the Great Smoky Mountain National Park. They roamed the thousands of trails veining the foothills between North Carolina and Tennessee, living on deer, rabbit, skunk and the refuse of weekend campers, and would have remained at large ("The Park is so expansive it could effectively hide a herd of pink elephants," wrote the author, retired Special Agent Janet Pillars) had one of them not acted on the apparently uncontrollable urge to hang at the local mall. On a Friday afternoon in fall 2002, Billy "The Pit" Pikes wandered into a West Stockton shopping center, Dinglebrook Arcade, bought a few dress s.h.i.+rts, ate a calzone and was identified by a cas.h.i.+er at Cinnabon. Two of the Vicious Three were captured, but the last, known simply as "Sloppy Ed," remained at large, somewhere in the mountains.

Dad, on Stockton: "As dreary a mountain town as any in which I'll collect a frighteningly diminutive paycheck from UNCS and you'll secure your place next year at Harvard."

"Hot diggity dog," I said.

The August before our arrival, while living at the Atlantic Waters Condotel in Portsmouth, Maine, Dad had been in close contact with one Ms. Dianne L. Seasons, a Senior a.s.sociate with a very impressive sales and long-term lease record at the Stockton-based Sherwig Realty. Once a week, Dianne mailed Dad glossy photos of Featured Sherwig Properties, each one accompanied with her handwritten note on Sherwig memo stationary, paper-clipped to the corner: "A lovely mountain oasis!" "Full of Southern charm!" "Exquisite and special, one of my all-time favesl" favesl"

Dad, famous for toying with Salespersons Desperate to Close like gra.s.sland cats with a limping wildebeest, deferred making a final decision on a house and responded to Dianne's evening phone calls ("Just wanted to know how ya'll liked 52 Primrose!") with melancholic indecision and plenty of sighing and thus, Dianne's handwritten memos became increasingly frenzied ("Won't last the summer!!" "Will go like a hot cake!!!").

Finally, Dad put Dianne out of her misery when he chose one of the most exclusive of all Featured Sherwig Properties, the fully furnished 24 Armor Street, #1 on the Hot List.

I was shocked. Dad, hailing from his visiting professors.h.i.+p at Hicksburg State College or the University of Kansas at Petal, certainly had not been ama.s.sing great reserves of wealth (Federal Forum (Federal Forum paid a derisory $150 per essay) and almost every other address at which we'd lived, the 19 Wilson Streets, the 4 Clover Circles, had been tiny, forgettable houses. And yet Dad had selected the SPRAWLING 5BR TUDOR FURNISHED IN KINGLY LUXURY, which looked, at least in Dianne's glossy photo, like an enormous two-humped Bactrian Camel at rest. (Dad and I would discover that the Sherwig photographer took particular care to conceal the fact that it was a paid a derisory $150 per essay) and almost every other address at which we'd lived, the 19 Wilson Streets, the 4 Clover Circles, had been tiny, forgettable houses. And yet Dad had selected the SPRAWLING 5BR TUDOR FURNISHED IN KINGLY LUXURY, which looked, at least in Dianne's glossy photo, like an enormous two-humped Bactrian Camel at rest. (Dad and I would discover that the Sherwig photographer took particular care to conceal the fact that it was a molting molting Bactrian Camel at rest. Almost all of the gutters were detaching and many of the wooden beams decorating the exterior fell down during Fall Term.) Bactrian Camel at rest. Almost all of the gutters were detaching and many of the wooden beams decorating the exterior fell down during Fall Term.) Within minutes of our arrival at 24 Armor Street, Dad began his customary effort to transform himself into Leonard Bernstein, orchestrating the men of Feathery Touch Moving Co. as if they weren't simply Larry, Roge, Stu and Greg hoping to get off early and go for a beer, but sections of Bra.s.s, Woodwinds, Strings and Percussion.

I snuck away and did my own tour of the house and grounds. Not only did the mansion come with 5BR, a COOK'S HEAVEN ON EARTH W/GRANITE, HARDWOODS, IN-DRAWER FRIDGE and CUSTOM HEART PINE CABINETS, but also a MASTER SUITE w/ MARBLE BATH, an ENCHANTING FISH POND and a BOOKWORM'S FANTASY LIBRARY.

"Dad, how are we paying paying for this place?" for this place?"

"Hmm, oh, don't worry about that-excuse me, must you carry that box on its side? See the arrow there and those words that read, 'This End Up'? Yes. That means, this end up."

"We can't afford it."

"Of course we -I ask you once and I will ask you again, that goes in the living room, not here, please don't drop-there are valuables -I've saved a little in the last year, sweet. Not there! there! You see, my daughter and I employ a You see, my daughter and I employ a system. system. Yes, if you read the boxes you will discover that there are Yes, if you read the boxes you will discover that there are words words written there in permanent marker and those words correspond to a particular written there in permanent marker and those words correspond to a particular room room in this house. That's right! You get a gold star!" in this house. That's right! You get a gold star!"

Carrying a gigantic box, Strings lumbered past us into COOK'S HEAVEN ON EARTH.

"We should leave, Dad. We should go to 52 Primrose."

"Don't be ridiculous. I worked out a fine price with Miss Seasons Greetings-yes, now that that goes downstairs into my study, and please, there are actual b.u.t.terflies in that box, do not drag-don't you read? Yes, lighten your griP" Bra.s.s clumsily made his way down the stairs with the giant box marked b.u.t.tERFLIES FRAGILE. goes downstairs into my study, and please, there are actual b.u.t.terflies in that box, do not drag-don't you read? Yes, lighten your griP" Bra.s.s clumsily made his way down the stairs with the giant box marked b.u.t.tERFLIES FRAGILE.

"Hmm? Now, yes, simply relax and enjoy-"

"Dad, this is too much money."

"I'm, well, yes, I understand your point, sweet, and certainly, this is . . ." Dad's eyes drifted up to the giant, bra.s.s light hanging from the ten-foot plaster ceiling, an upside-down representation of the 1815 Mt. Tambora eruption (see Indonesia and the Ring of Fire, Indonesia and the Ring of Fire, Priest, 1978). "It's somewhat more ornate than we're used to, but why Priest, 1978). "It's somewhat more ornate than we're used to, but why not? not? We're going to be here the entire year, aren't we? It's the last chapter, so to speak, before you go off, conquer the world. I want to make it memorable." We're going to be here the entire year, aren't we? It's the last chapter, so to speak, before you go off, conquer the world. I want to make it memorable."

He adjusted his gla.s.ses and looked back down into the opened box labeled LINENS like Jean Peters gazing into the Trevi Fountain, about to throw in a coin and make a wish.

I sighed. It was evident, and had been for some time, that Dad was determined to make une grande affaire une grande affaire out of this year, my senior year (hence, the Bactrian Camel and other perplexing Auntie Mame-like lavishes I shall soon detail). Yet he was dreading it too (hence, the gloomy gaze into LINENS). Part of it was that he didn't want to think about me leaving him at the end of the year. I didn't particularly want to think about leaving him either. The thought was difficult to fathom. Abandoning Dad felt like de-boning all the old American musicals, separating Rodgers from Hammerstein, Lerner from Loewe, Comden from Green. out of this year, my senior year (hence, the Bactrian Camel and other perplexing Auntie Mame-like lavishes I shall soon detail). Yet he was dreading it too (hence, the gloomy gaze into LINENS). Part of it was that he didn't want to think about me leaving him at the end of the year. I didn't particularly want to think about leaving him either. The thought was difficult to fathom. Abandoning Dad felt like de-boning all the old American musicals, separating Rodgers from Hammerstein, Lerner from Loewe, Comden from Green.

The other reason why I thought Dad was feeling a little blue, and perhaps the more significant one, was that our scheduled year-long stay in a single location would mark an undeniably monotonous pa.s.sage within chapter 12, "American Teachings and Travel" of Dad's otherwise thrilling mental biography.

"Always live your life with your biography in mind," Dad was fond of saying. "Naturally, it won't be published unless you have a Magnificent Reason, but at the very least you will be living grandly." It was painfully obvious Dad was hoping his posthumous biography would be reminiscent not of Kissinger: The Man Kissinger: The Man (Jones, 1982) or even (Jones, 1982) or even Dr. Rhythm: Living with Bing Dr. Rhythm: Living with Bing (Grant, 1981) but something along the lines of the New Testament or the Qur'an. (Grant, 1981) but something along the lines of the New Testament or the Qur'an.

Though he certainly never said so, it was evident Dad adored being in motion, in transit, in the midst. He found standstills, halts, finis.h.i.+ng points, termini, to be unappetizing, dull. Dad wasn't concerned with the fact that he was seldom at a university long enough to learn his students' names and was forced, for the sake of a.s.signing their grades correctly at the end of term, to give them certain pertinent monikers, such as Too Many Questions, Tadpole Gla.s.ses, Smile Is All Gums and Sits on My Left.

Sometimes I was afraid Dad felt having a daughter was a last stop, a finis.h.i.+ng point. Sometimes when he was in a Bourbon Mood, I worried he wanted to ditch me and America and return to former Zaire, presently the Democratic Republic of the Congo (democratic (democratic in Africa, a word like the slang usage of in Africa, a word like the slang usage of totally totally and and bobbing for fries, bobbing for fries, used purely for cool effect) in order to play a Che-c.u.m-Trotsky-c.u.m-Spartacus to the native people's fight for freedom. Whenever Dad spoke of the four treasured months spent in the Congo River Basin in 1985, hobn.o.bbing with the "kindest, hardest-working, most genuine" people he'd ever met, he adopted an unusually flimsy appearance. He resembled an aged silent movie star photographed with b.u.t.tery lights and lens. used purely for cool effect) in order to play a Che-c.u.m-Trotsky-c.u.m-Spartacus to the native people's fight for freedom. Whenever Dad spoke of the four treasured months spent in the Congo River Basin in 1985, hobn.o.bbing with the "kindest, hardest-working, most genuine" people he'd ever met, he adopted an unusually flimsy appearance. He resembled an aged silent movie star photographed with b.u.t.tery lights and lens.

I'd accuse him of secretly wanting to return to Africa in order to spearhead a well-organized revolution, single-handedly stabilizing the DRC (expunging Hutu-aligned forces), then moving on to other countries waiting to be freed like exotic maidens tied to railroad tracks (Angola, Cameroon, Chad). When I voiced these suspicions, he'd laugh of course, but I always felt the laugh wasn't quite quite hard enough; it was conspicuously hollow, which made me wonder if I'd haphazardly thrown in my line and caught the biggest, most unlikely of fishes. This was Dad's deep-sea secret, never before photographed or scientifically cla.s.sified: he wished to be a hero, a poster boy for freedom, silk-screened, reduced to bright colors and printed on a hundred thousand T-s.h.i.+rts, Dad with Marxist beret, martyr-ready eyes, and a threadbare mustache (see hard enough; it was conspicuously hollow, which made me wonder if I'd haphazardly thrown in my line and caught the biggest, most unlikely of fishes. This was Dad's deep-sea secret, never before photographed or scientifically cla.s.sified: he wished to be a hero, a poster boy for freedom, silk-screened, reduced to bright colors and printed on a hundred thousand T-s.h.i.+rts, Dad with Marxist beret, martyr-ready eyes, and a threadbare mustache (see The Iconography of Heroes, The Iconography of Heroes, Gorky, 1978). Gorky, 1978).

There was too a certain uncharacteristic, boyish gusto he reserved solely for sticking another pushpin through the Rand-McNally map and briefing me on our next location in a show-offy factoid riff, his version of Gangsta Rap: "Next stop Speers, South Dakota, homeland of the Ring-necked Pheasant, the Black-footed Ferret, the Badlands, Black Hills Forest, Crazy Horse Memorial, capital, Pierre, largest city, Sioux Falls, rivers, Moreau, Cheyenne, White, James. . ."

"You take the large bedroom at the top of the stairs," he said now, watching Percussion and Woodwinds as they carried a heavy box across the yard toward the separate gabled entrance of the EXPANSIVE MASTER SUITE, "h.e.l.l, have the upstairs wing to yourself. Isn't it nice, sweet, to have a wing? wing? Why shouldn't we live it up like Kubla Khan for a change? If you go up there, you'll find a surprise. I think you'll be pleased. I had to bribe a housewife, a real estate agent, two furniture salesmen, a UPS Head of Operations -now Why shouldn't we live it up like Kubla Khan for a change? If you go up there, you'll find a surprise. I think you'll be pleased. I had to bribe a housewife, a real estate agent, two furniture salesmen, a UPS Head of Operations -now listen, listen, yes, I'm talking to you - if you could go downstairs and aid your compatriot in unpacking the materials for my study, it would be most effective. He seems to have fallen down a rabbit hole." yes, I'm talking to you - if you could go downstairs and aid your compatriot in unpacking the materials for my study, it would be most effective. He seems to have fallen down a rabbit hole."

Over the years, Dad's surprises, large and small, had been scholarly in nature, a set of 1999 Lamure-France Encyclopedias of the Physical World Encyclopedias of the Physical World translated from the French and unavailable for purchase in the United States. ("All n.o.bel Prize-winners have a set of these," Dad said.) translated from the French and unavailable for purchase in the United States. ("All n.o.bel Prize-winners have a set of these," Dad said.) But as I pushed open the bedroom door at the top of the stairs and walked into the large blue-walled room covered in pastoral oil paintings, giant arc windows along the far wall blistered with bubble curtains, I discovered not a rare, underground edition of Wie schafft man ein Meisterwerk, Wie schafft man ein Meisterwerk, or or The Step-by-Step Manual for Crafting Your Magnum Opus The Step-by-Step Manual for Crafting Your Magnum Opus (Lint, Steggertt, Cue, 1993), but astonis.h.i.+ngly, my old Citizen Kane desk pushed into the corner by the window. It was the real thing: the elephantine, walnut, Renaissance Revival library table I'd had eight years ago at 142 Tellwood Street in Wayne, Oklahoma. (Lint, Steggertt, Cue, 1993), but astonis.h.i.+ngly, my old Citizen Kane desk pushed into the corner by the window. It was the real thing: the elephantine, walnut, Renaissance Revival library table I'd had eight years ago at 142 Tellwood Street in Wayne, Oklahoma.

Dad had found the desk at the Lord and Lady Hillier Estate Sale just outside of Tulsa, to which antiques wheeler-and-dealer June Bug, Partie "Let's Make a Deal" Lupine, had dragged Dad one stuffy Sunday afternoon. For some reason, when Dad saw the desk (and the five struggling Arnies it took to get it on the auction platform), he saw me and only me presiding over it (though I was only eight with a wingspan less than half its length). He paid a huge, undisclosed amount for it and announced with great flourish that this was "Blue's Desk," a desk "worthy of my little Eve of St. Agnes, upon which she will unmask all the Great Ideas." A week later, two of Dad's checks bounced, one at a grocery store, another at the university bookstore. I secretly believed it was because he'd paid "way above treasure price" for the desk, according to Let's Make a Deal, though Dad claimed he'd simply been slapdash with his bookkeeping. "Snubbed a decimal point," he'd said.

And then, rather anticlimactically, I was only able to unmask Great Ideas in Wayne, because we weren't able to take the desk with us to Sluder, Florida-something to do with the movers (the falsely advertised You Can Can Take It With You Moving Co.) being unable to fit it in the van. I shed ferocious tears and called Dad a reptile when we had to leave it, as if it wasn't just an oversized table with elaborate talon legs and seven drawers requiring seven individual keys, but a black pony I was abandoning in a barn. Take It With You Moving Co.) being unable to fit it in the van. I shed ferocious tears and called Dad a reptile when we had to leave it, as if it wasn't just an oversized table with elaborate talon legs and seven drawers requiring seven individual keys, but a black pony I was abandoning in a barn.

Now I hurried back down the TWELVE OAKS STAIRCASE, finding Dad in the bas.e.m.e.nt carefully opening the b.u.t.tERFLIES FRAGILE box containing my mother's specimen-the six gla.s.s display cases she'd been working on when she'd died. When we arrived at a new house, he took hours to mount them, always in his office, always on the wall opposite his desk: thirty-two lined up girls in a petrified beauty pageant. It was why he didn't like June Bugs-or anyone, for that matter-nosing around his study, because the most devastating aspect of the Lepidoptera was not their color, or the unexpected furriness of the Polyphemus Moth antennae, not even the gloomy feeling you felt whenever you stood in front of something that had once zigzagged madly through the air, now still, wings uncouthly spread, body pinned to a piece of paper in a gla.s.s case. It was the presence of my mother within them. As Dad said once, they allowed you to see her face in greater close-up than any photographic likeness (Visual Aid 4.0). I'd always felt too that they held a strange adhesive power, so when a person looked at them, it was difficult to yank his/her gaze away.

"So how do you like it?" he asked cheerfully, lifting out one of the cases, frowning as he inspected the corners.

"It's perfect," I said.

"Isn't it? The perfect surface on which to draft an admissions essay to make any Harvard graybeard s.h.i.+ver in his dress slacks." "But how much did it cost for you to buy it again-and then the s.h.i.+pping!" He glanced at me. "Hasn't anyone told you it's blasphemous to ask the price of a gift?"

"How much? In total." In total."

He stared at me. "Six hundred dollars," he said with a resigned sigh, and then, returning the case to the box, squeezed my shoulder and moved past me, back up the stairs, shouting at Bra.s.s and Woodwinds to speed up the tempo of their last movement.

He was lying. I knew this, not only because his eyes had flicked to the side when he'd said "six hundred" and Fritz Rudolph Scheizer, MD, had written in The Conduct of Rational Creatures The Conduct of Rational Creatures (1998) that the cliche of a person's eyes flicking to the side when he or she lies is "utterly true," but also because, while surveying the underside of the desk, I'd spotted the tiny red price tag still knotted around the leg in the far corner ($17,000). (1998) that the cliche of a person's eyes flicking to the side when he or she lies is "utterly true," but also because, while surveying the underside of the desk, I'd spotted the tiny red price tag still knotted around the leg in the far corner ($17,000).

I hurried back upstairs, into the foyer where Dad was looking through another box, BOOKS LIBRARY. I felt bewildered-a little upset, too. Dad and I had long put into effect the Sojourner Agreement, the understanding we'd always give each other The Truth "even if she was a beast, frightening and foul smelling." Over the years, there'd been countless occasions when the average dad would've cooked up an elaborate story, just to preserve the Parental Ruse, that they were s.e.xless and morally flawless as Cookie Monsters-like the time Dad disappeared for twenty-four hours and when home, sported the tired yet satisfied look of a ranch hand who'd successfully horse whispered a touchy Palomino. If I asked for The Truth (and sometimes I chose not to ask), he never let me down -not even when it let me hold his character up to the light and I could see him for what he sometimes was: harsh, scratchy, a few unexpected holes.

I had to confront him. Otherwise, the lie could wear me away (see "Acid Rain on Gargoyles/' Conditions, Conditions, Eliot, 1999, p. 513). I ran upstairs, removed the price tag and kept it in my pocket for the rest of the day, waiting for the perfect checkmate moment to fling it at him. Eliot, 1999, p. 513). I ran upstairs, removed the price tag and kept it in my pocket for the rest of the day, waiting for the perfect checkmate moment to fling it at him.

But then, just before we left for dinner at Outback Steakhouse, he was in my room examining the desk, and he looked so absurdly cheerful and proud of himself ("I'm good" good" he said, animatedly rubbing his hands together like d.i.c.k Van d.y.k.e. "Fit for St. Peter, hmm, sweet?"). I couldn't help but feel to call him out on this well-intentioned extravagance, to embarra.s.s him, was sort of unnecessary and cruel -not unlike informing Blanche Dubois that her arms looked flabby, her hair dry and that she was dancing the polka dangerously close to the lamplight. he said, animatedly rubbing his hands together like d.i.c.k Van d.y.k.e. "Fit for St. Peter, hmm, sweet?"). I couldn't help but feel to call him out on this well-intentioned extravagance, to embarra.s.s him, was sort of unnecessary and cruel -not unlike informing Blanche Dubois that her arms looked flabby, her hair dry and that she was dancing the polka dangerously close to the lamplight.

It was better not to say anything.

V.

The Woman in White

We were in the Frozen section of Fat Kat Foods when I first saw Hannah Schneider, two days after our arrival in Stockton. I was standing by our shopping cart, waiting for Dad to choose which flavor of ice cream he preferred.

"America's greatest revelation was not the atom bomb, not Fundamentalism, not fat farms, not Elvis, not even the quite astute observation that gentlemen prefer blondes, but the great heights to which she has propelled ice cream," Dad was fond of commenting while standing with the freezer door open and inspecting every flavor of Ben and Jerry's, oblivious to the customers swarming around him, waiting for him to move.

As he scrutinized the cartons on the shelves like a scientist engaged in creating an accurate DNA profile from a hair root, I became aware of a woman standing at the far end of the aisle.

She was dark haired, thin as a riding crop. Dressed in funeral attire, a black suit with black 1980s stilettos (more dagger than shoe), she looked incongruous, bleached in the neon lights and achey tunes of Fat Kat Foods. It was obvious, however, in the way she examined the back of the box of frozen peas that she liked being incongruous, the lone Bombsh.e.l.l slinking into a Norman Rockwell, the ostrich amongst buffalo. She exuded that mix of satisfaction and self-consciousness of beautiful women used to being looked at, which made me sort of hate her.

I'd long decided to hold in contempt all people who believed themselves to be the subject of everyone else's ESTABLIs.h.i.+NG SHOT, BOOM SHOT, REACTION SHOT, CLOSE-UP or CHOKER, probably because I couldn't imagine myself turning up on anyone's storyboard, not even my own. At the same time, I (and the man staring at her with his mouth in an O holding a Lean Cuisine) couldn't help but shout, "Quiet on the set!" and "Roll 'em!" because, even at this distance, she was unbelievably stunning and strange, and as Dad was famous for quoting in one of his Bourbon Moods, 'Beauty is truth, truth beauty,-that is all /Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.' "

She returned the peas to the freezer and began to walk toward us.

"New York Super Fudge or Phish Food?" asked Dad.

Her heels stabbed the floor. I didn't want to stare, so I made an unconvincing attempt to examine the nutritional content of various popsicles.

Dad didn't see her. "There's always Half Baked, I suppose," he was saying. "Oh, look. Makin' Whoopie Pie. I believe that's a new one, though I'm not sure how I feel about marshmallow with what, devil's food. Seems a bit overwrought."

As she pa.s.sed, she glanced at Dad gazing into the freezer. When she looked at me, she smiled.

She had an elegant sort of romantic, bone-sculpted face, one that took well to both shadows and light, even at their extremes. And she was older than I'd realized, somewhere in her late thirties. Most extraordinary though was the air of a Chateau Marmont bungalow about her, a sense of RKO, which I'd never before witnessed in person, only while Dad and I watched Jezebel Jezebel into the early hours of the morning. Yes, within her carriage and deliberate steps like a metronome (now retreating behind the display of potato chips) was a little bit of the Paramount lot, a little neat scotch and air kisses at Ciro's. I felt, when she opened her mouth, she wouldn't utter the crumbly speech of modernity, but would use moist words like into the early hours of the morning. Yes, within her carriage and deliberate steps like a metronome (now retreating behind the display of potato chips) was a little bit of the Paramount lot, a little neat scotch and air kisses at Ciro's. I felt, when she opened her mouth, she wouldn't utter the crumbly speech of modernity, but would use moist words like beau, top drawer beau, top drawer and and sound sound (only occasionally (only occasionally ring-a-ding-ding), ring-a-ding-ding), and when she considered a person, took and when she considered a person, took in in him/her, she would place those nearly extinct personality traits- Character, Reputation, Integrity and Cla.s.s-above all others. him/her, she would place those nearly extinct personality traits- Character, Reputation, Integrity and Cla.s.s-above all others.

Not that she wasn't real. real. She was. There were hairs out of place, a quiver of white lint on her skirt. I simply felt somewhere, at some time, she'd been the toast of something. And a confident, even aggressive look in her eyes, made me certain she was planning a comeback. She was. There were hairs out of place, a quiver of white lint on her skirt. I simply felt somewhere, at some time, she'd been the toast of something. And a confident, even aggressive look in her eyes, made me certain she was planning a comeback.

"I'm thinking Heath Bar Crunch. What do you think? Blue?"

If her appearance in my life had amounted only to that single, Hitchc.o.c.k cameo, I still think I would have remembered her, perhaps not in the same detail I remembered the ninety-five-degree summer night I watched Gone with the Wind Gone with the Wind for the first time at the Lancelot Dreamsweep Drive-in and Dad found it necessary to provide ongoing commentary on which constellations were visible ("There's Andromeda"), not only while Scarlett took on Sherman and when she got sick on the carrot but even when Rhett said he didn't give a d.a.m.n. for the first time at the Lancelot Dreamsweep Drive-in and Dad found it necessary to provide ongoing commentary on which constellations were visible ("There's Andromeda"), not only while Scarlett took on Sherman and when she got sick on the carrot but even when Rhett said he didn't give a d.a.m.n.

As the oily hand of Fate would have it, I'd only wait twenty-four hours to see her again, this time in a speaking role.

School began in three days and Dad, in keeping with his recent Open-a-New-Window persona, insisted on spending the afternoon at Blue Crest Mall in the Adolescent Department of Stickley's, urging me to try on various articles of Back-2-School clothing and soliciting the fas.h.i.+on expertise of one Ms. Camille Luthers (see "Curly Coated Retriever," Dictionary of Dogs, Dictionary of Dogs, Vol. 1). Camille was Adolescent Department Manager, who not only had worked in Adolescent for the last eight years but knew which Stickley styles were de rigueur this season due to her own esteemed daughter around my age named Cinnamon. Vol. 1). Camille was Adolescent Department Manager, who not only had worked in Adolescent for the last eight years but knew which Stickley styles were de rigueur this season due to her own esteemed daughter around my age named Cinnamon.

Ms. Luthers, on a pair of green pants, which resembled those worn by Mao's Liberation Army, size 2: "These look like they'd suit you perfectly." She eagerly pressed the hanger against my waist and stared at me in the mirror with her head tilted, as if hearing a high-pitched noise. "They suit Cinnamon perfectly too. I just got her a pair and she lives in them. Can't get her to take them off."

Ms. Luthers, on a boxy white b.u.t.ton-down s.h.i.+rt, which resembled those worn by the Bolsheviks when they stormed the Winter Palace, size o: "Now this is you, too. Cinnamon has one of these in every color. She's around your size. Bird boned. Everyone thinks she's anorexic, but she's not and a lot of her peers get jealous living on fruit and bagels just to squeeze into a size 12."

After Dad and I left the Adolescent Department of Stickley's with most of Cinnamon's rebel wardrobe, we made our way to Surely Shoos on Mercy Avenue in North Stockton, per Ms. Luthers' helpful tip-off.

"I believe these are right up Cinnamon's alley," said Dad, holding up a large black platform shoe.

"No," I said.

"Thank G.o.d. I can safely say Chanel's rolling in her grave."

"Humphrey Bogart wore platform shoes throughout the filming of Casablanca" Casablanca" someone said. I turned, expecting to see a mother circling Dad like a Hooded Vulture eyeing carrion, but it wasn't. someone said. I turned, expecting to see a mother circling Dad like a Hooded Vulture eyeing carrion, but it wasn't.

It was she, she, the woman from Fat Kat Foods. the woman from Fat Kat Foods.

She was tall, wearing skintight jeans, a tailored tweed jacket, and large black sungla.s.ses on her head. Her dark brown hair hung idly around her face.

"Though he wasn't Einstein or Truman," she said, "I don't think history would be the same without him. Especially if he had to look up up at Ingrid Bergman and say, 'Here's looking at you, kid.' " at Ingrid Bergman and say, 'Here's looking at you, kid.' "

Her voice was wonderful, a flu voice.

"You aren't from around here, are you?" she asked Dad.

He stared at her blankly.

The phenomenon of Dad interacting with a beautiful woman was always an odd, sort of uninspired chemical experiment. Most of the time there was no reaction. Other times, Dad and the woman might appear appear to react vigorously, producing heat, light, and gas. But at the end, there was never a functional product like plastics or gla.s.sware, only a foul stench. to react vigorously, producing heat, light, and gas. But at the end, there was never a functional product like plastics or gla.s.sware, only a foul stench.

"No," said Dad. "We're not."

"You've just moved down here?"

"Yes." He smiled, though it didn't do a fig leaf's job of hiding his desire to end the conversation.

"How do you like it?"

"Magnificent."

I didn't know why he wasn't friendlier. Usually, Dad didn't mind the odd June Bug spiraling over to him. And he certainly wasn't above encouraging them, opening all the curtains, turning on all the lights by launching into certain extemporaneous lectures on Gorbachev, Arms Control, the 1-2-3S of Civil War (the gist of which the June Bug missed like a rare raindrop), often dropping hints about the impressive tome he was authoring, The Iron Grip. The Iron Grip.