Special Topics In Calamity Physics Part 35

After the initial sting, my life -jam packed with highways, Sonnetathons, Bourbon Moods, notable quotations by people who were dead-it peeled away with remarkable ease.

Frankly, I was astonished how unfazed I felt, how unflappable. After all, if Vivien Leigh suffered from hallucinations and hysteria, requiring shock treatment, ice packing and a diet of raw eggs simply by working on the set of Elephant Walk Elephant Walk (a film no one had ever heard of except descendants of Peter Finch), surely it'd be conceivable, maybe even mandatory for me to develop (a film no one had ever heard of except descendants of Peter Finch), surely it'd be conceivable, maybe even mandatory for me to develop some some form of dementia over the fact my life had been a Trompe l'Oeil, Gonzo Journalism, form of dementia over the fact my life had been a Trompe l'Oeil, Gonzo Journalism, The The $64,000 $64,000 Question, Question, the Feejee Mermaid, a Hitler Diary, Milli Vanilli (see Chapter 3, "Miss O'Hara," the Feejee Mermaid, a Hitler Diary, Milli Vanilli (see Chapter 3, "Miss O'Hara," Birds of Torment: Luscious Ladies of the Screen and Their Living Demons, Birds of Torment: Luscious Ladies of the Screen and Their Living Demons, Lee, 1973). Lee, 1973).

After my Socratic revelation, however, the subsequent truths I unearthed weren't nearly so jaw dropping. (One can only be so hoodzonked before one's hoodzonk maxes out like a credit card.) In the ten years we'd traveled the country, Dad appeared to have been concerned, not so much with my education, but with a rigorous Night.w.a.tchmen staffing exercise. Dad had been their powerful Head of HR, his voice intoxicating as the Sirens, most likely directly responsible for that "inspirational recruitment," detailed by Guillaume on www.hautain.fr. It was the only logical explanation: every professor who'd come to dinner over the years, the quiet young men who listened with such intensity while Dad delivered his Sermon on the Mount, his story of Tobias Jones the d.a.m.ned, his Determination Theory-"There are wolves and there are brine shrimp," he'd said, going for the Hard Sell -not only were they he'd said, going for the Hard Sell -not only were they not not professors, they didn't exist. professors, they didn't exist.

There was no hearing-impaired Dr. Luke Ordinote spearheading the History Department at the University of Missouri at Archer. There was no fig-eyed Professor of Linguistics Mark Hill. There was was a Professor of Zoology Mark Hubbard but I couldn't speak to him because he'd been on sabbatical in Israel for the last twelve years studying the endangered Little Bustard, a Professor of Zoology Mark Hubbard but I couldn't speak to him because he'd been on sabbatical in Israel for the last twelve years studying the endangered Little Bustard, Tetrax tetrax. Tetrax tetrax. Most chillingly, there was no Professor Arnie Sanderson who taught Intro to Drama and History of the World Theater, with whom Dad had had a riotous dinner the night Eva Brewster destroyed my mother's b.u.t.terflies, also at Piazza Pitti the night he'd disappeared. Most chillingly, there was no Professor Arnie Sanderson who taught Intro to Drama and History of the World Theater, with whom Dad had had a riotous dinner the night Eva Brewster destroyed my mother's b.u.t.terflies, also at Piazza Pitti the night he'd disappeared.

"h.e.l.lo?"

"h.e.l.lo. I was trying to get in touch with an a.s.sociate Professor who taught in your English Department in the fall of 2001. His name is Lee San-jay Song."

"What's the name?"

"Song."

There was a brief pause.

"No one by that name here."

"I'm not sure if he was full- or part-time."

"I understand, but no one by that-"

"Perhaps he's left? Moved to Calcutta? Timbuktu? Maybe he was flattened by a bus." "Excuse me?" "I'm sorry. It's just-if anyone knows anything, if there's someone else I could talk to I'd be grateful - "

"I have supervised this English Department for twenty-nine years years and I a.s.sure you, and I a.s.sure you, no no one with the last name of Song has ever taught here. I'm sorry I can't be of better a.s.sistance, miss-" one with the last name of Song has ever taught here. I'm sorry I can't be of better a.s.sistance, miss-"

Naturally, I wondered if Dad too had been an imposter professor. I'd witnessed him speaking in lecture halls on a handful of occasions, but there were more than a few colleges I hadn't hadn't visited. And if I hadn't seen with my own eyes the closet-office Dad referred to as his "cage," his "crypt," his "and they think I can sit in this catacomb and come up with novel ideas to inspire the featureless youths of this country"-perhaps it was similar to that tree falling in a forest. It never happened. visited. And if I hadn't seen with my own eyes the closet-office Dad referred to as his "cage," his "crypt," his "and they think I can sit in this catacomb and come up with novel ideas to inspire the featureless youths of this country"-perhaps it was similar to that tree falling in a forest. It never happened.

I was entirely off the mark on this front. Everyone and their grandmother had heard of Dad, including a few departmental secretaries who'd just been hired. It seemed, wherever Dad went, he'd left a blinding Yellow Brick Road of adulation in his wake.

"How is is the old boy?" inquired Dean Richardson of University of Arkansas at Wilsonville. the old boy?" inquired Dean Richardson of University of Arkansas at Wilsonville.

"He's fantastic."

"I've often wondered what happened to him. Thought of him the other day when I came across a Virginia Summa article saluting Mideast policies in Proposals. Proposals. I could just hear Garry howling with laughter. Come to think of it, I haven't seen an essay of his in a while. Well, I suppose it's tight these days. Mavericks, nonconformists, those who march to the beat of their own drum, speak up, they're not finding the same forums they used to." I could just hear Garry howling with laughter. Come to think of it, I haven't seen an essay of his in a while. Well, I suppose it's tight these days. Mavericks, nonconformists, those who march to the beat of their own drum, speak up, they're not finding the same forums they used to."

"He's managing."

Obviously, if a corner of one's life ended up covertly cultivating a shocking amount of slime mold, one must switch on unflattering fluorescent lights (the cruel kind of chicken coops), get down on one's hands and knees and scrub every every corner. I thus found it necessary to investigate another thrilling possibility: What If June Bugs were not June Bugs, but Spanish Moon Moths corner. I thus found it necessary to investigate another thrilling possibility: What If June Bugs were not June Bugs, but Spanish Moon Moths (Graellsia isabellae), (Graellsia isabellae), the most captivating and well bred of all the European moths? What If they, too, like the bogus professors, were gifted individuals Dad had meticulously handpicked for The Night.w.a.tchmen? What If they only the most captivating and well bred of all the European moths? What If they, too, like the bogus professors, were gifted individuals Dad had meticulously handpicked for The Night.w.a.tchmen? What If they only pretended pretended to bond vigorously to Dad as lithium does to fluorine (see to bond vigorously to Dad as lithium does to fluorine (see The Strange Attractions of Opposite Ions, The Strange Attractions of Opposite Ions, Booley, 1975)? I wanted it to be true; I wanted to pull my boat up next to theirs, rescue them from their wasted African violets and quivery-voiced phone calls, from their tepid waters with nothing flouris.h.i.+ng in them, no reefs, parrot or angelfish (and certainly no sea turtles). Dad had left them stranded on that boat, but I'd set them free, send them away on a powerful Trade Wind. They'd disappear to Casablanca, to Bombay, to Rio (everyone wanted to disappear to Rio) -never heard of, never Booley, 1975)? I wanted it to be true; I wanted to pull my boat up next to theirs, rescue them from their wasted African violets and quivery-voiced phone calls, from their tepid waters with nothing flouris.h.i.+ng in them, no reefs, parrot or angelfish (and certainly no sea turtles). Dad had left them stranded on that boat, but I'd set them free, send them away on a powerful Trade Wind. They'd disappear to Casablanca, to Bombay, to Rio (everyone wanted to disappear to Rio) -never heard of, never seen seen again, as poetic a fate as any they could hope for. again, as poetic a fate as any they could hope for.

I began my investigation by calling Information and obtaining the telephone number of June Bug Jessie Rose Rubiman, still still living in Newton, Texas, and living in Newton, Texas, and still still heiress to the Rubiman Carpeting franchise: "Mention his name heiress to the Rubiman Carpeting franchise: "Mention his name one one more time-know what? I'm still considering finding out where he lives, coming into his bedroom while he sleeps and chopping off his doohickey. That's what that son-of-a-b.i.t.c.h's got coming to him." more time-know what? I'm still considering finding out where he lives, coming into his bedroom while he sleeps and chopping off his doohickey. That's what that son-of-a-b.i.t.c.h's got coming to him."

I ended my investigation by calling Information and obtaining the telephone number of June Bug Shelby Hollow: "Night watch? Wait-I won a free Indiglo Timex?"

Unless June Bugs were skilled actresses in the tradition of Davis and Dietrich (suitable for the A movies, not the B or C movies), it seemed evident that the only moth flying through this sticky night, doggedly figure-eighting (like a confused kamikaze pilot) around every porch light and lamppost, refusing to be deterred even if I switched out the lights and ignored her, was Hannah Schneider.

That was the startling thing about this business of abandonment, of finding oneself so without conversation, one's thoughts had the entire world to themselves; they could drift for days without b.u.mping into anyone. I could swallow Dad calling himself Socrates. I could swallow The Night.w.a.tchmen too, hunt down every whisper of their workings like a private detective desperate to find The Missing Dame. I could even swallow Servo and Hannah as lovers (see "African Egg-Eating Snake/' Encyclopedia of Living Things, Encyclopedia of Living Things, 4th ed.). I could a.s.sume Baba au Rhum hadn't always rattled and Mmmmed; back in the stringy-haired summer of 1973, no doubt he'd cut an arresting rebel figure (or resembled Poe just enough that thirteen-year-old Catherine decided to be his Virginia forevermore). 4th ed.). I could a.s.sume Baba au Rhum hadn't always rattled and Mmmmed; back in the stringy-haired summer of 1973, no doubt he'd cut an arresting rebel figure (or resembled Poe just enough that thirteen-year-old Catherine decided to be his Virginia forevermore).

What I couldn't couldn't swallow, couldn't stare at with the naked eye, was swallow, couldn't stare at with the naked eye, was Dad Dad and Hannah. I noticed, as the days drifted past, I kept tucking that thought away, saving it like a grandmother for a Special Occasion that would never come. I attempted and sometimes succeeded diverting my mind and Hannah. I noticed, as the days drifted past, I kept tucking that thought away, saving it like a grandmother for a Special Occasion that would never come. I attempted and sometimes succeeded diverting my mind (not (not with a book or play and, yes, reciting Keats was an idiotic idea, boarding a rowboat for refuge in an earthquake) but with TV, shaving and Gap commercials, prime-time melodramas with tan people named Brett declaring, "It's payback time." with a book or play and, yes, reciting Keats was an idiotic idea, boarding a rowboat for refuge in an earthquake) but with TV, shaving and Gap commercials, prime-time melodramas with tan people named Brett declaring, "It's payback time."

They were gone. They were giant specimens splayed in gla.s.s cases in dim, deserted rooms. I could stare down at them, ridicule my stupidity for never noticing their blatant similarities: their awe-inspiring size (personas larger than life), brightly-colored hind wings (conspicuous in any room), their spined caterpillar beginnings (orphan, poor little rich girl, respectively), taking flight solely at night (their endings swathed in mystery), boundaries of their distribution unknown.

If a man bemoaned a woman as noisily as Dad ("commonplace," "strange and wayward," a "sob story," he'd called her), behind Curtain #1 of such severe dislike there was almost always a brand new Sedona Beige Love parked there, big, bright and impractical (destined to break down within the year). It was the oldest trick in the book, one I never should have fallen for, having read all of Shakespeare, including the late romances, and the definitive biography of Cary Grant, The Reluctant Lover The Reluctant Lover (Murdy, 1999). (Murdy, 1999).

b.u.t.tERFLIES FRAGILE. Why, when I forced myself to consider Dad and Hannah, did that old moving box crash into my head? They were the words Dad almost always used to describe my mother. After the fuss of battement frappes battement frappes and and demi-plies, demi-plies, the Technicolor Dream dress, those words often showed up like unwanted, impoverished guests at a splendid party, embarra.s.sing and sad, as if Dad was talking about her gla.s.s eye or absence of an arm. At Hyacinth Terrace, her black eyes like clogged drains, her mouth stained plum, Hannah Schneider had said the same frilly words, spoken not to the others but to me. With a stare pressing down on me, she'd said: the Technicolor Dream dress, those words often showed up like unwanted, impoverished guests at a splendid party, embarra.s.sing and sad, as if Dad was talking about her gla.s.s eye or absence of an arm. At Hyacinth Terrace, her black eyes like clogged drains, her mouth stained plum, Hannah Schneider had said the same frilly words, spoken not to the others but to me. With a stare pressing down on me, she'd said: "Some people are fragile, as-as b.u.t.terflies." "Some people are fragile, as-as b.u.t.terflies."

They'd used the same delicate words to describe the same delicate person.

Time and again, Dad handpicked a cute slogan for a person and rudely b.u.mper-stuck it to them for all ensuing conversations (Dean Roy at the University of Arkansas at Wilsonville had been the uninspired "sweet as candy"). Hannah must have heard him say it once when describing my mother. And just as she'd blatantly recited Dad's favorite quotation to me at the dinner table (happiness, dog, sun) and planted Dad's favorite foreign film in her VCR (L'Avventura) (L'Avventura) (Hannah was now dusted, cast in ultraviolet light; I could see Dad's fingerprints all over her), she had tantalizingly tossed me that phrase, thereby letting bits of her dark secret, the hot one she'd clutched tightly in her hands, fall through her fingers, so that I might see it, follow it like the barest trail of sand. Not even when I was alone with her in the woods did she have the guts (Hannah was now dusted, cast in ultraviolet light; I could see Dad's fingerprints all over her), she had tantalizingly tossed me that phrase, thereby letting bits of her dark secret, the hot one she'd clutched tightly in her hands, fall through her fingers, so that I might see it, follow it like the barest trail of sand. Not even when I was alone with her in the woods did she have the guts (Mut, (Mut, in German) to let go of it, throw it all into the air so it showered over our heads, got caught in our hair and mouths. in German) to let go of it, throw it all into the air so it showered over our heads, got caught in our hair and mouths.

The truth they'd hidden (Dad with Fifth Symphony ferocity, Hannah messily) that they'd known each other (since 1992, I calculated) in the movie-poster sense of the word (and I'd never know if they were II Caso Thomas Crown II Caso Thomas Crown or or Colazione da Tiffany Colazione da Tiffany or if they'd flossed their teeth next to each other three hundred times), it didn't garner a gasp from me -not a whimper or wheeze. or if they'd flossed their teeth next to each other three hundred times), it didn't garner a gasp from me -not a whimper or wheeze.

I only went back to the moving box and sat on my knees, running my fingers through the velvet splinters, the antennae and forewings and the thoraxes and torn mounting papers and pins, hoping Natasha had left me a code, a suicide letter identifying her traitorous husband just as she'd identified the part of the Red-based Jezebel that indicated it was repugnant to birds-an explanation, a puzzle to pore over, a whisper from the dead, a Visual Aid. (There was nothing.) By then, my CASE NOTES filled an entire legal pad, some fifty pages, and I'd remembered the photograph Nigel had shown me in Hannah's bedroom (which she must have destroyed before the camping trip since I'd been unable to find it in the Evan Picone shoe box), the one of Hannah as a girl with the blonde floating away from the camera lens and on the back, written in blue pen, 1973. And I'd driven the Volvo to the Internet cafe on Orlando, Cyberroast, and matched the gold-lion insignia, which I recalled from the pocket of Hannah's school uniform blazer, to the crest of a private school on East 81st Street, the one Natasha had attended in 1973 after her parents made her quit the Larson Ballet Conservatory (see www.theivyschool.edu). (Salva veritate (Salva veritate was their irksome motto.) And after staring for hours at that other photo of Hannah, the one I'd stolen from her garage, Rockstar Hannah of the Rooster-Red Hair, I'd realized why, back in January, when I'd seen her with the madwoman haircut, I'd felt that persistent itch of deja vu. was their irksome motto.) And after staring for hours at that other photo of Hannah, the one I'd stolen from her garage, Rockstar Hannah of the Rooster-Red Hair, I'd realized why, back in January, when I'd seen her with the madwoman haircut, I'd felt that persistent itch of deja vu.

The woman who'd driven me home from kindergarten after my mother died, the pretty one in jeans with short red porcupine hair, the one Dad had told me was our next-door neighbor-it had been Hannah.

I cut out pieces of evidence from every other conversation I could remember, gluing them together, awed, but also sickened by the resulting graphic collage (see "Splayed Nude Patchwork XI," The UnauthorizedBiography of Indonesia Sotto, The UnauthorizedBiography of Indonesia Sotto, Greyden, 1989, p. 211). Greyden, 1989, p. 211). "She had a best friend growing up," "She had a best friend growing up," Hannah had said to me, cigarette smoke pirouetteing off her fingers, "a beautiful girl, fragile; they were like sisters. She could confide in her, tell her everything under the sun-for the life of me, I can't remember her name." "There are people. Fragile people, that you love and you hurt them, and I-I'm pathetic, aren't I?" she'd said to me in the woods. "Something awful happened in her twenties, a man was involved," Eva Brewster had said, "her friend-she didn't go into details, but not a day went by when she didn't feel guilt over what she'd done-whatever it was." Hannah had said to me, cigarette smoke pirouetteing off her fingers, "a beautiful girl, fragile; they were like sisters. She could confide in her, tell her everything under the sun-for the life of me, I can't remember her name." "There are people. Fragile people, that you love and you hurt them, and I-I'm pathetic, aren't I?" she'd said to me in the woods. "Something awful happened in her twenties, a man was involved," Eva Brewster had said, "her friend-she didn't go into details, but not a day went by when she didn't feel guilt over what she'd done-whatever it was."

Was Hannah the reason Servo and Dad (in spite of their dynamic working relations.h.i.+p) warred with each other-they'd loved (or perhaps it was never anything so grand, simply a case of poorly wired electricity) the same woman? Was Hannah why we moved to Stockton, remorse over her dead best friend who committed suicide from a broken heart, the reason she'd showered me with breathy compliments and squeezed me against her bony shoulder? How was it possible scientists were able to locate the edge of the observable universe, the Cosmic Light Horizon ("Our universe is 13.7 billion light years long," wrote Harry Mills Cornblow, Ph.D., with astounding confidence in The ABCs of the Cosmos The ABCs of the Cosmos [2003]) and yet, mere human beings stayed so fuzzy, beyond all calculation? [2003]) and yet, mere human beings stayed so fuzzy, beyond all calculation?

Yes, Not Sure, Probably, and Who the h.e.l.l Knew were my answers.

Fourteen days after Dad was gone (two days after I received the cordial greeting from Mr. William Baumgartner of the Bank of New York notifying me of my account numbers; in 1993, the year we left Mississippi, it seemed Dad had set up a trust fund in my name) I was downstairs in the storage room off of Dad's former study, weeding through the shelves piled with damaged stuff, stuff, most of it belonging to the owner of 24 Armor Street, though some of it was junk Dad and I had acc.u.mulated over the years: matching lamps in mint green, a marble obelisk paperweight (a gift from one of Dad's wors.h.i.+pful students), a few faded picture books of little consequence (A most of it belonging to the owner of 24 Armor Street, though some of it was junk Dad and I had acc.u.mulated over the years: matching lamps in mint green, a marble obelisk paperweight (a gift from one of Dad's wors.h.i.+pful students), a few faded picture books of little consequence (A Travel Guide to South Africa Travel Guide to South Africa [1968] by J. C. Bulrich). I happened to push aside a small flat cardboard box Dad had marked SILVERWARE and saw, next to it, wedged in the corner behind a crinkled, jaundiced newspaper (the grimly t.i.tled, [1968] by J. C. Bulrich). I happened to push aside a small flat cardboard box Dad had marked SILVERWARE and saw, next to it, wedged in the corner behind a crinkled, jaundiced newspaper (the grimly t.i.tled, Rwandan Standard-Times), Rwandan Standard-Times), Dad's Brigh.e.l.la costume, the black cloak in a ball, the bronze mask with its peeling paint and fishhook nose sneering at the shelves. Dad's Brigh.e.l.la costume, the black cloak in a ball, the bronze mask with its peeling paint and fishhook nose sneering at the shelves.

Without thinking, I picked up the cloak, shook it loose and pressed my face into it, a sort of embarra.s.sing, lost thing to do, and immediately, I noticed a distantly familiar smell, a smell of Howard and Wal-Mart, Hannah's bedroom-that old Tahitian acidic sap, the kind of cologne that barged into a room and held it up for hours.

But then -it was a face in a crowd. You noticed a jaw, eyes or one of those fascinating chins that looked like a needle and knotted thread had been stuck and pulled tightly through the center and you wanted, sometimes were desperate, to glimpse it one last time, but you couldn't, no matter how hard you fought through the elbows, the handbags, the high-heeled shoes. As soon as I recognized the cologne and the name panthered through my head, it slipped out of sight, drowned somewhere, was gone.

36.

Metamorphoses knew something screwballed and romantic would happen on Graduation Day, because the morning sky wouldn't stop blus.h.i.+ng over the house and Jiwhen I opened my bedroom window, the air felt faint. Even the girlish pines, crowded in their tight cliques around the yard, s.h.i.+vered in antic.i.p.ation; and then I sat down at the kitchen table with Dad's Wall Street Journal Wall Street Journal (it still turned up for him in the wee hours of the morning like a John returning to a street corner where his favorite hooker had once strutted her stuff), switched on WQOX News 13 at 6:30 A.M., (it still turned up for him in the wee hours of the morning like a John returning to a street corner where his favorite hooker had once strutted her stuff), switched on WQOX News 13 at 6:30 A.M., The Good Morning Show with Cherry, The Good Morning Show with Cherry, and Cherry Jeffries was missing. and Cherry Jeffries was missing.

In her place sat Norvel Owen wearing a tight sports jacket the blue of Neptune. He wove his chubby fingers together, and with his face glowing, blinking as if someone was s.h.i.+ning a flashlight in his eyes, he began to read the news without a single comment, plea, pa.s.sing remark, or personal aside about the reason for Cherry Jeffries' absence. He didn't even throw out a bland and unconvincing, "Wis.h.i.+ng Cherry the best of luck," or "Wis.h.i.+ng Cherry a speedy recovery." Even more astonis.h.i.+ng was the show's new t.i.tle, which I noticed when the program cut to commercial: The Good Morning Show with Norvel. The Good Morning Show with Norvel. The Executive Producers at WQOX News 13 had erased the very The Executive Producers at WQOX News 13 had erased the very being being of Cherry with the same ease of deleting an eyewitness' "uhs," "ers," and "see heres" out of a top news story in the Editing Room. of Cherry with the same ease of deleting an eyewitness' "uhs," "ers," and "see heres" out of a top news story in the Editing Room.

With his half-a-slice-of-pineapple grin, Norvel turned the floor over to Ashleigh Goldwell who did Weather. She announced Stockton could expect "high humidity with an eighty percent chance of rain."

Despite this dismal forecast, as soon as I arrived at St. Gallway (after running my last few errands, Sherwig Realty, the Salvation Army), Eva Brewster made the announcement over the intercom that proud parents would still still be ushered to their designated metal folding chairs on the field in front of the Bartleby Sports Center be ushered to their designated metal folding chairs on the field in front of the Bartleby Sports Center precisely precisely at the stroke of 11:00 A.M. (Five chairs maximum were allotted per student. Any relative spillover would be relegated to the bleachers.) The ceremony would at the stroke of 11:00 A.M. (Five chairs maximum were allotted per student. Any relative spillover would be relegated to the bleachers.) The ceremony would still still begin at 11:30. Contrary to the circulating rumors, all events and speakers would proceed as scheduled, including the post-ceremony Garden Hour of Hors d'oeuvres (music and entertainment provided by the Jelly Roll Jazz Band and those St. Gallway Fosse Dancers who were not graduating) where parents, faculty and students alike could circle like Pallid Monkey Moths among the whisperings of Who Got in Where and the sparkling cider and the calla lilies. begin at 11:30. Contrary to the circulating rumors, all events and speakers would proceed as scheduled, including the post-ceremony Garden Hour of Hors d'oeuvres (music and entertainment provided by the Jelly Roll Jazz Band and those St. Gallway Fosse Dancers who were not graduating) where parents, faculty and students alike could circle like Pallid Monkey Moths among the whisperings of Who Got in Where and the sparkling cider and the calla lilies.

"I've telephoned a few radio stations and the rain isn't forecast until later this afternoon," Eva Brewster said. "As long as all seniors line up on time we should be fine. Good luck and congratulations."

I was late leaving Ms. Simpson's cla.s.sroom in Hanover (Soggy Ms. Simpson: "Can I just say, your presence in this cla.s.sroom has been an honor. When I find a student who demonstrates such a deep understanding of the material . . .") and Mr. Moats also wished to detain me when I turned in my Final Drawing Portfolio. Even though I'd been meticulous in making sure I looked and behaved exactly as I had before my abrupt hiatus from school, a total of sixteen days-dressing the same, walking the same, having the same hair (these were the clues people bloodhounded when trying to chase down Domestic Apocalypse or a Deteriorating Psyche), it still seemed Dad's desertion had altered me in some way. It had revised me, but only very slightly-a word here, a bit of clarification there. I also felt people's eyes on me all the time, though not in the same envious way as in my Blueblood Heyday. No, it was the adults who noticed me now, always with a brief yet baffled stare, as if they now noticed something old within me, as if they recognized themselves.

"Glad to know things are back on track," Mr. Moats said.

"Thank you," I said.

"We were worried. We didn't know what had happened to you."

"I know. Things became hectic."

"When you finally let Eva know what'd happened, we were relieved. You must be going through a lot. How's your father doing by the way?"

"The prognosis isn't good," I said. It was the scripted sentence I'd sort of relished saying to Ms. Thermopolis (who responded by reminding me they can do wonders "fixing" cancer as if it was just a bad haircut) and Ms. Gershon (who speedily changed the subject back to my Final Essay on String Theory), even Mr. Archer (who stared at the t.i.tian poster on the wall, rendered speechless by the ruffles in the girl's dress), but now I felt bad when it rendered Moats visibly sad and mute. He nodded at the floor. "My father died of throat cancer too," he said softly. "It can be grueling. The loss of the voice, a failure to communicate -not easy for any man. I can't imagine how tough it'd be for a professor. Modigliani was plagued with illness, you know. Degas. Toulouse too. Many of the greatest men and women in history." Moats sighed. "And next year you're at Harvard?"

I nodded.

"It'll be hard, but you must concentrate on your studies. Your father will want it that way. And keep drawing, Blue," he added, a statement that seemed to comfort him more than me. He sighed and touched the collar of his textured magenta s.h.i.+rt. "And I don't say that to just anyone, you know. Many people should stay far, far away from the blank page. But you-you see, the drawing, the carefully considered sketch of a human being, animal, an inanimate object, is not simply a picture but a blueprint of a soul. Photography? A lazy man's art. Drawing? The thinker, the dreamers dreamers medium." medium."

"Thank you," I said.

A few minutes later, I was hurrying across the Commons in my long white dress and flat white shoes. The sky had darkened to the color of bullets and parents in pastels drifted toward Bartleby field, some of them laughing, clutching their handbags or the hand of a small child, some of themfluffing their hair as if it was goose-feather pillows.

Ms. Eugenia St.u.r.ds had mandated that we "load" (we were bulls to be unleashed in a ring) in the Nathan Bly '68 Trophy Room no later than 10:45 AM and when I pushed open the door and made my way into the crowded room, it seemed I was the last senior to arrive. "No disturbances during the ceremony," Mr. b.u.t.ters was saying. "No laughter. No fidgeting-" "No clapping until all names are called-" chimed Ms. St.u.r.ds. "No getting up and going to the bathroom-" "Girls, if you have to pee, go now." Immediately, I spotted Jade and the others in the corner. Jade, wearing a suit in marshmallow white, hair slicked into a mais oui oui twist, reviewed her reflection in a pocket mirror, rubbing lipstick off her teeth and smacking her lips together. Lu was standing quietly with her hands together, looking down, pitching forward and backward on her heels. Charles, Milton and Nigel were discussing beer. "Budweiser tastes like f.u.c.kin' rabbit p.i.s.s," I heard Milton remark loudly, as I skirted to the other side of the room. (I'd often wondered what they talked about now that Hannah was gone and I was sort of relieved to know it was hackneyed and had nothing to do with The Eternal Why; I wasn't missing much.) I pushed past Point Richardson, Donnamara Chase sniffing in distress as she dabbed a wet napkin along a blue pen streak across the front of her blouse, Trucker wearing a green tie with tiny horse heads floating in it and Dee safety-pinning Dum's crimson bra straps to her dress straps so they didn't show. twist, reviewed her reflection in a pocket mirror, rubbing lipstick off her teeth and smacking her lips together. Lu was standing quietly with her hands together, looking down, pitching forward and backward on her heels. Charles, Milton and Nigel were discussing beer. "Budweiser tastes like f.u.c.kin' rabbit p.i.s.s," I heard Milton remark loudly, as I skirted to the other side of the room. (I'd often wondered what they talked about now that Hannah was gone and I was sort of relieved to know it was hackneyed and had nothing to do with The Eternal Why; I wasn't missing much.) I pushed past Point Richardson, Donnamara Chase sniffing in distress as she dabbed a wet napkin along a blue pen streak across the front of her blouse, Trucker wearing a green tie with tiny horse heads floating in it and Dee safety-pinning Dum's crimson bra straps to her dress straps so they didn't show.

"I all can't fathom why you told mom eleven forty-five," Dee said heatedly.

"What's the big deal?"

"The procession's the big deal."

"Why?"

"Mom's all not going to be able to take pictures. Because of your mal a la tete mal a la tete mom's all missing our last day of childhood like a crosstown bus." "She said she was going to be mom's all missing our last day of childhood like a crosstown bus." "She said she was going to beearly-" "Well, I didn't see her and she's wearing that highly visible purple outfit she wears to "Well, I didn't see her and she's wearing that highly visible purple outfit she wears to everything-" everything-"

"I thought you forbade her to wear the highly visible-"

"It's starting!" squawked Little Nose, perched on the radiator at the window. "We have to go! Now!" Now!" "Grab the diploma with the right, shake with the left, or shake with the left, grab with the right?" asked Raging Waters. "Grab the diploma with the right, shake with the left, or shake with the left, grab with the right?" asked Raging Waters.

"Zach, did you see our parents?" asked Lonny Felix.

"I gotta pee," said Krista Jibsen.

"So this is it," Sal Mineo said solemnly behind me. "This is the end."

Even though the Jelly Roll Jazz Band had broken into "Pomp and Circ.u.mstance," Ms. St.u.r.ds callously informed us No One Was Graduating Anywhere until everyone calmed down and formed the alphabetized line. We tapewormed, exactly as we'd practiced all week. Mr. b.u.t.ters gave the signal, opened the door with American Bandstand American Bandstand flourish and Ms. St.u.r.ds, as if unveiling a solid new line of mules, arms raised, her floral skirt jitterbueging around her ankles, stepped out onto the lawn in front of us. flourish and Ms. St.u.r.ds, as if unveiling a solid new line of mules, arms raised, her floral skirt jitterbueging around her ankles, stepped out onto the lawn in front of us.

The sky was a ma.s.sive bruise; someone had punched it in the kisser. There was an uncouth wind, too. It wouldn't stop teasing the long blue St. Gallway banners hanging on either side of the Commencement Stage, and then, growing bored, turned its attention to the music. In spite of Mr. John-son's cries for the Jelly Roll Jazz Band to play louder (for a second I thought he was shouting, "Sing out, Louise!" but I was wrong), the wind intercepted the notes, sprinting away with them across the field and punted them through the goal posts, so all that was audible was a few shabby clangs and honks.

We filed down the aisle. Parents frothed excitedly around us, clapping and grinning, and slow-motion grandmothers tried to take foe-toes foe-toes with cameras they handled like jewelry. A wiry lizard-photographer from Ellis Hills, trying to blend in, scurried ahead of our line, crouching, squinting as he peered through his camera. He stuck out his tongue before snapping a few quick pictures and scuttling away. with cameras they handled like jewelry. A wiry lizard-photographer from Ellis Hills, trying to blend in, scurried ahead of our line, crouching, squinting as he peered through his camera. He stuck out his tongue before snapping a few quick pictures and scuttling away.

The rest of the cla.s.s made their way into the metal folding chairs in the front and Radley Clifton and I continued up the five steps to the commencement stage. We sat down in the chairs to the right of Havermeyer and Havermeyer's wife, Gloria (finally relieved of the boulder she'd been carrying, though now she had an equally disturbing pale, rigid, Plexiglas appearance). Eva Brewster was next to her and she tossed me a comforting smile but then almost immediately took it away, like lending me her handkerchief but not wanting it to get dirty.

Havermeyer sauntered toward the microphone and talked at length about our unparalleled achievements, our great gifts and glowing futures, and then Radley Clifton gave his Salutatorian Speech. He'd just begun to philosophize-"An army marches on its stomach," he said-when the wind, obviously contemptuous of all scholars, truth-seekers, logicians (anyone who tried to address The Eternal Why) I-Spied-With-My-Little-Eye Radley, joking with his red tie, mocking his hair (neatly combed, the color of cardboard), and just when one thought the mischief would subside, it started to rag on the neat white pages of his speech, forcing him to lose his place, repeat himself, stutter and pause so Radley Clifton's Graduation Credo came out jarring, conflicted, confused-a surprisingly resonant life philosophy.

Havermeyer returned to the podium. Strands of sandy hair daddylonglegged across his forehead. "I now introduce to you our cla.s.s Valedictorian, a highly gifted young woman, originally from Ohio, who we were honored to have at St. Gallway this year. Miss Blue van Meer."

He p.r.o.nounced Meer mare, mare, but I tried not to think about it as I stood up, smoothed down the front of my dress and, in the moderate but perfectly respectable burst of applause, made my way across the rubberized stage (supposedly there'd been a bad wipeout a few years prior: Martine Filobeque, cunning pinecone, girdle). I was grateful for the applause, grateful people were generous enough to clap for a kid who wasn't theirs, a kid who, at least academically, had outtangoed their own kid (as decent a reason as any Dad would find to crack "so but I tried not to think about it as I stood up, smoothed down the front of my dress and, in the moderate but perfectly respectable burst of applause, made my way across the rubberized stage (supposedly there'd been a bad wipeout a few years prior: Martine Filobeque, cunning pinecone, girdle). I was grateful for the applause, grateful people were generous enough to clap for a kid who wasn't theirs, a kid who, at least academically, had outtangoed their own kid (as decent a reason as any Dad would find to crack "so this this what they call 'outstanding.' "). I set the papers on the podium, pulled down the microphone and made the mistake of glancing up at the two hundred heads facing me blankly like an expansive field of mature white cabbage. My heart was trying out new moves (The Robot, something called The Lightning Bolt) and for a harrowing second I wasn't sure I'd have the courage to speak. Somewhere in the crowd Jade was smoothing her gold hair back, sighing, "Oh, what they call 'outstanding.' "). I set the papers on the podium, pulled down the microphone and made the mistake of glancing up at the two hundred heads facing me blankly like an expansive field of mature white cabbage. My heart was trying out new moves (The Robot, something called The Lightning Bolt) and for a harrowing second I wasn't sure I'd have the courage to speak. Somewhere in the crowd Jade was smoothing her gold hair back, sighing, "Oh, G.o.d, G.o.d, not the pigeon again," and Milton was thinking, tuna tataki, salade nicoise-but I quarantined these thoughts as best I could. The edges of the pages seemed to panic too, trembling in the wind. not the pigeon again," and Milton was thinking, tuna tataki, salade nicoise-but I quarantined these thoughts as best I could. The edges of the pages seemed to panic too, trembling in the wind.

"In one of the first well-known Valedictorian Speeches," I began; somewhat disconcertingly my voice boomeranged over everyone's coiffed head, presumably reaching the tall man in the blue suit in the very back, a man I'd thought, thought, for a split second, was Dad (it wasn't, unless like a plant without light, Dad without me had withered, lost serious amounts of hair), "transcribed in 1801 at Doverfield Academy in Ma.s.sachusetts, seventeen-year-old Michael Finpost announced to his peers, 'We will look back on these golden days and remember them as the best years of our lives.' Well, for each of you sitting before me, I really hope that's not the case." for a split second, was Dad (it wasn't, unless like a plant without light, Dad without me had withered, lost serious amounts of hair), "transcribed in 1801 at Doverfield Academy in Ma.s.sachusetts, seventeen-year-old Michael Finpost announced to his peers, 'We will look back on these golden days and remember them as the best years of our lives.' Well, for each of you sitting before me, I really hope that's not the case."

A blonde in the front row of the Parents Section wearing a short skirt crossed, uncrossed her legs and did a restless swinging gesture with them, a stretch of some kind, also a movement used at airports to direct planes.

"And I-I'm not going to stand here and tell you, 'To Thine Own Self Be True.' Because the majority of you won't. According to the Crime Census Bureau America is experiencing a marked increase in grand larceny and fraud, not only in cities but rural vicinities as well. For that matter, too, I doubt any of us in four years of high school have managed to locate our self in order to be true to it. Maybe we've found what hemisphere it's in, maybe the ocean-but not the exact coordinates. I'm also"-for a terrifying second my hobo concentration fell off the train, the moment started to speed by, but then to my relief it managed to shake itself off, sprint, hurtle on board again -"I'm also not going to tell you to wear sunscreen. Most of you won't. The New England Journal of Medicine The New England Journal of Medicine reported in June 2002 skin cancer in the under-thirty demographic is on the rise and in the Western World, forty-three out of every fifty people consider even plain-looking people twenty times more attractive when they're tan." I paused. I couldn't believe it; I said reported in June 2002 skin cancer in the under-thirty demographic is on the rise and in the Western World, forty-three out of every fifty people consider even plain-looking people twenty times more attractive when they're tan." I paused. I couldn't believe it; I said tan tan and a little seismic laughter quaked through the crowd. "No. I'm going to try to a.s.sist you with something else. Something practical. Something that might help you when something happens in your life and you're worried you might never recover. When you've been knocked down." and a little seismic laughter quaked through the crowd. "No. I'm going to try to a.s.sist you with something else. Something practical. Something that might help you when something happens in your life and you're worried you might never recover. When you've been knocked down."

I noticed Dee and Dum, front row, fourth from the left. They stared up at me with evenly weirded-out faces, half-smiles caught up in their teeth like skirt hems caught in pantyhose.

"I'm going to ask that you seriously consider modeling your life," I said, "not in the manner of the Dalai Lama or Jesus-though I'm sure they're helpful-but something a bit more hands-on, Cara.s.sius auratus auratus, Cara.s.sius auratus auratus, commonly known as the domestic goldfish." commonly known as the domestic goldfish."

There was party favor laughter, little bits of it strewn here and there for fun, but I pressed on.

"People make fun of the goldfish. People don't think twice about swallowing it. Jonas Ornata III, Princeton cla.s.s of '42, appears in The Guinness Book of World Records The Guinness Book of World Records for swallowing the greatest number of goldfish in a fifteen minute interval, a cruel total of thirty-nine. In his defense though, I don't think Jonas understood the glory of the goldfish, that they have magnificent lessons to teach us." for swallowing the greatest number of goldfish in a fifteen minute interval, a cruel total of thirty-nine. In his defense though, I don't think Jonas understood the glory of the goldfish, that they have magnificent lessons to teach us."

I glanced up and my gaze smacked right into Milton, first row, fourth from the left. He had tilted his chair back and was talking to someone behind him, Jade.

"If you live like a goldfish," I continued, "you can survive the harshest, most thwarting of circ.u.mstances. You can live through hards.h.i.+ps that make your cohorts-the guppy, the neon tetra-go belly up at the first sign of trouble. There was an infamous incident described in a journal published by the Goldfish Society of America-a s.a.d.i.s.tic five-year-old girl threw hers to the carpet, stepped on it, not once but twice-luckily she'd done it on a s.h.a.g carpet and thus her heel didn't quite quite come down fully on the fish. After thirty harrowing seconds she tossed it back into its tank. It went on to live another forty-seven years." I cleared my throat. "They can live in ice-covered ponds in the dead of winter. Bowls that haven't seen soap in a year. And they don't die from neglect, not immediately. They hold on for three, sometimes four months if they're abandoned." come down fully on the fish. After thirty harrowing seconds she tossed it back into its tank. It went on to live another forty-seven years." I cleared my throat. "They can live in ice-covered ponds in the dead of winter. Bowls that haven't seen soap in a year. And they don't die from neglect, not immediately. They hold on for three, sometimes four months if they're abandoned."

One or two restless people were dribbling into the aisles, hoping to escape my notice, a silver-haired man needing to stretch his legs, a woman bouncing a toddler, whispering secrets into its hair.

"If you live like a goldfish, you adapt, not across hundreds of thousands of years like most species, having to go through the red tape of natural selection, but within mere months, weeks even. You give them a little tank? They give you a little body. Big tank? Big body. Indoor. Outdoor. Fish tanks, bowls. Cloudy water, clear water. Social or alone."

The wind taunted the edges of my papers.

"The most incredible thing about goldfish, however, is their memory. Everyone pities them for only remembering their last three seconds, but in fact, to be so forcibly tied to the present-it's a gift. They are free. No moping over missteps, slip-ups, faux pas or disturbing childhoods. No inner demons. Their closets are light filled and skeleton free. And what could be more exhilarating than seeing the world for the very first time, in all of its beauty, almost thirty thousand times a day? How glorious to know that your Golden Age wasn't forty years ago when you still had all your hair, but only three seconds three seconds ago, and thus, very possibly it's ago, and thus, very possibly it's still still going on, this very moment." I counted three Mississippis in my head, though I might have rushed it, being nervous. "And this moment, too." Another three seconds. "And this moment, too." Another. "And this moment, too." going on, this very moment." I counted three Mississippis in my head, though I might have rushed it, being nervous. "And this moment, too." Another three seconds. "And this moment, too." Another. "And this moment, too."

Dad never talked about not moving people during a lecture. He never talked about the funny human need to impart something, anything, to someone, build a tiny bridge to them and help them across, or what to do when the crowd twitched ceaselessly like a horse's back. The endless sniffing, the clearing of throats, fathers' eyes that skate boarded one side of a row to the other side of a row, doing a 180-ollie around the hot mom, sixth from the right-he never said a word. word. Standing around the rim of the football field the hemlocks stood tall, watching protectively. The wind tugged the sleeves of a hundred blouses. I wondered if that kid, far end, third row, red s.h.i.+rt (oddly gnawing his fist and frowning at me with James-Deanian intensity) if Standing around the rim of the football field the hemlocks stood tall, watching protectively. The wind tugged the sleeves of a hundred blouses. I wondered if that kid, far end, third row, red s.h.i.+rt (oddly gnawing his fist and frowning at me with James-Deanian intensity) if he he knew I was an imposter, that I'd secretly cut out only the beautiful part of the truth and discarded the rest. Because, in reality, goldfish were having as rough a time with life as the rest of us; they expired all the time from the shock of new temperatures and the faintest shadow of a heron prompted them to hide under rocks. And yet, maybe it didn't matter so much what I said or didn't say, what I kissed on the cheek or what I gave the cold shoulder. (My G.o.d, Red s.h.i.+rt, hands clamped over his mouth, biting his fingernails, he was now sitting knew I was an imposter, that I'd secretly cut out only the beautiful part of the truth and discarded the rest. Because, in reality, goldfish were having as rough a time with life as the rest of us; they expired all the time from the shock of new temperatures and the faintest shadow of a heron prompted them to hide under rocks. And yet, maybe it didn't matter so much what I said or didn't say, what I kissed on the cheek or what I gave the cold shoulder. (My G.o.d, Red s.h.i.+rt, hands clamped over his mouth, biting his fingernails, he was now sitting so so far forward, his head was nearly a flowerpot on the sill of Sal Mineo's shoulder. I didn't know who he was. I'd never seen him before.) Lectures and Theories, all Tomes of Nonfiction, maybe they deserved the same gentle treatment as works of art; maybe they were human creations trying to shoulder a few terrors and joys of the world, composed at a certain place, at a certain time, to be pondered, frowned at, liked, loathed and then one went to the gift shop and bought the postcard, put it in a shoe box high on a shelf. far forward, his head was nearly a flowerpot on the sill of Sal Mineo's shoulder. I didn't know who he was. I'd never seen him before.) Lectures and Theories, all Tomes of Nonfiction, maybe they deserved the same gentle treatment as works of art; maybe they were human creations trying to shoulder a few terrors and joys of the world, composed at a certain place, at a certain time, to be pondered, frowned at, liked, loathed and then one went to the gift shop and bought the postcard, put it in a shoe box high on a shelf.

The end of my speech was a disaster, the disaster being that nothing happened. Obviously, I'd hoped-as all people do when they stand before an audience, show a bit of leg-for culmination, illumination, a flake of sky to loosen, crash down on everyone's stiff hair like the big chip of plaster on which Michelangelo in the Sistine Chapel had taken a stab at G.o.d's index finger, when, in 1789 it unexpectedly freed itself from the ceiling, hitting Father Cantinolli on the head and sending a bevy of visiting nuns into eye-rolling seizures; when they came to, their prevailing line of defense for all actions, from the sacred to the seedy, was "because G.o.d told me to" (see Lo Spoke Del Dio Di Giomo, Lo Spoke Del Dio Di Giomo, Funachese, 1983). Funachese, 1983).

But if G.o.d existed, today, like most days, He chose to remain mum. There was only wind and faces, yawning sky. To applause that might as well have been laughter on a late, late show (it had the same sense of obligation), I returned to my chair. Havermeyer began to read the list of graduating names, and I didn't pay much attention, until he came to the Bluebloods. I saw their Life Stones flash before my eyes.

"Milton Black."

Milton lumbered up the stairs, his chin held at that deceitfully sweet angle, around 75 degrees. (He was a lethargic coming-of-age novel.) "Nigel Creech." He smiled-that wrist.w.a.tch catching light. (He was an unsentimental comedy in Five Acts, sequined with wit, l.u.s.t and pain. The last scene tended to end on a sour note, but the playwright refused to revise.) "Charles Loren."

Charles hobbled up the stairs with his crutches. (He was a romance.) "Congratulations, son."

The sky had yellowed, performing one of its best magic tricks, overcast yet making people squint.

"Leulah Maloney."

She skipped up the stairs. She'd cut off her hair, not as harshly as Hannah, but the result was just as unhappy; the blunt pieces banged against her jaw. (She was a twelve-line poem of repet.i.tion and rhyme.) Raindrops the size and texture of wasps started to zing off the shoulder pads of Havermeyer's navy blazer, also off some mother wearing a pink sun hat that sun-rose high over her head. Instantly, umbrellas blossomed-a garden of black, red, yellow, a few striped-and the Jelly Roll Jazz Band began to pack up their instruments, evacuating to the gym.