Special Topics In Calamity Physics Part 28

Such paranoid What Ifs caused me, on more than a few occasions, to run downstairs into Dad's study and quietly rummage through his legal pads, his unfinished essays and faded notes for The Iron Grip, The Iron Grip, to stare at the photographs: the picture of Natasha at the piano, and the one of her and Dad, standing outside on a lawn in front of a badminton net, holding racquets, arms pretzeled, wearing antique outfits and expressions that made them look as if it was 1946 and they'd survived a World War, rather than the year it to stare at the photographs: the picture of Natasha at the piano, and the one of her and Dad, standing outside on a lawn in front of a badminton net, holding racquets, arms pretzeled, wearing antique outfits and expressions that made them look as if it was 1946 and they'd survived a World War, rather than the year it really really was, 1986, and they were surviving the Brat Pack and Weird Al. was, 1986, and they were surviving the Brat Pack and Weird Al.

These frail photographs cordoned off my past again, made it staunch and impermeable. I did, however, venture asking Dad a few off-hand yet probing questions, and Dad responded with a laugh.

Dad, on Secret b.a.s.t.a.r.d Siblings: "Don't tell me you've been reading Jude theObscure." Jude theObscure."

Milton had no further light to shed on this conundrum-why Hannah had singled me out, why I wasn't with them when Charles, trying to ascend a jutting rock promontory in order to get a sense of direction, perhaps spot an electrical tower or a skysc.r.a.per sign for a Motel 6, "fell down this Grand Canyon sorta thing and started to yell so loud we thought he was bein' stabbed." After I finished telling Milton the remainder of my story, which had drooled a little into my confrontation with Jade in Loomis, he only shook his head in bewilderment and said nothing.

By then we were inching down Hannah's deserted drive.

For lack of a better plan-embarra.s.singly inspired by Jazlyn Bonnoco's Fleet Book Evidence Fleet Book Evidence (1989) -I suggested to Milton, maybe Hannah wanted us to find a clue in her house, a treasure map or old letters of blackmail and fraud-"something to tell us about the camping trip or her death," I explained-we decided to peruse her possessions as discreetly as we could. And Milton read my mind: "Let's start with the garage, huh?" (I suspected we were both afraid to enter the actual house, for fear we'd find some specter version of her.) The wooden one-car garage, standing a decent distance from the house with a flabby roof, crusty windows, looked like a giant matchbox that'd been in someone's pocket too long. (1989) -I suggested to Milton, maybe Hannah wanted us to find a clue in her house, a treasure map or old letters of blackmail and fraud-"something to tell us about the camping trip or her death," I explained-we decided to peruse her possessions as discreetly as we could. And Milton read my mind: "Let's start with the garage, huh?" (I suspected we were both afraid to enter the actual house, for fear we'd find some specter version of her.) The wooden one-car garage, standing a decent distance from the house with a flabby roof, crusty windows, looked like a giant matchbox that'd been in someone's pocket too long.

I'd been worried about what had happened to the animals, but Milton said Jade and Lu, who'd hoped to adopt them, found out they'd gone to live with Richard, one of Hannah's coworkers from the animal shelter. He lived on a llama farm in Berdin Lake, north of Stockton. "It's f.u.c.kin' sad," Milton said, pus.h.i.+ng open the side door to the garage. "Because now they're gonna be like that dog."

"What dog?" I asked, glancing at Hannah's front porch as I followed him inside. There was no POLICE LINE DO NOT CROSS tape on the door, no immediate sign anyone had been there. "Old Yeller?"

He shook his head and switched on the light. Neon light spilled through the hot, rectangular room. There wasn't s.p.a.ce for two tires, much less an entire car, car, which explained why Hannah always parked the Subaru in front of the house. Heaps of furniture-blistered lamps, injured armchairs, carpets, chairs-not to mention a few cardboard boxes and random camping gear- had been brutally tossed on top of each other like bodies in an open grave. which explained why Hannah always parked the Subaru in front of the house. Heaps of furniture-blistered lamps, injured armchairs, carpets, chairs-not to mention a few cardboard boxes and random camping gear- had been brutally tossed on top of each other like bodies in an open grave.

"You know," Milton said, stepping around one of the boxes. "In know," Milton said, stepping around one of the boxes. "In The Odyssey. The Odyssey. The one always waitin' for his master." The one always waitin' for his master."

"Argos?"

"Yeah. Poor old Argos. He dies, doesn't he?"

"You want to stop please? You're making me . . ."

"What?"

"Depressed."

He shrugged. "Hey, don't mind me."

We dug.

And the longer we dug, through backpacks, boxes, armoires and armchairs (Milton was still fixated on his suitcase-full-of-cash idea, though now he figured Hannah could have stuffed the unmarked bills into seat cus.h.i.+ons and goose-down pillows), the more the experience of digging (Milton and I, cast as unlikely Leading Man and Woman) became sort of electrifying.

Scrutinizing those chairs and lamp shades, something began to happen: I started to imagine myself a woman named Slim, Irene or Betty, a dame who wore penciled skirts, a cone bra, had zigzag hair over an eye. Milton was the disillusioned tough-guy with a fedora, b.l.o.o.d.y knuckles and a temper.

"Yep, just makin' sure the old girl didn't leave us somethin'," Milton sang cheerfully as he gutted an orange couch cus.h.i.+on with the Swiss Army knife he'd found an hour ago. "No stone unturned. Because I'd hate her to be an Oliver Stone movie." just makin' sure the old girl didn't leave us somethin'," Milton sang cheerfully as he gutted an orange couch cus.h.i.+on with the Swiss Army knife he'd found an hour ago. "No stone unturned. Because I'd hate her to be an Oliver Stone movie."

I nodded, opening an old cardboard box. "If you end up a well-publicized mystery," I said, "you no longer belong to yourself. Everyone steals you and turns you into anything they want. You become their cause."

"Uh huh." Thoughtfully, he stared down at the cottage-cheesed foam. "I hate open-ended stuff. Like Marilyn Monroe. What the h.e.l.l happened? happened? Was she gettin' too close to somethin' and the president had to shut her up? That seems Was she gettin' too close to somethin' and the president had to shut her up? That seems crazy. crazy. That people can just take a life, like it's-" That people can just take a life, like it's-"

"Free fruit."

He smiled. "Yeah. "Yeah. But then maybe it But then maybe it was was an accident. Stars align a crazy way. Death happens. Could just as well've been the lottery or a broken leg. Or maybe she had a thought that she couldn't go on. We all have thoughts like that, only she decided to act on hers. She forces herself to. Because she thinks that's what she deserves. And maybe seconds later she knows she was wrong. Tries to save herself. But it's too late." an accident. Stars align a crazy way. Death happens. Could just as well've been the lottery or a broken leg. Or maybe she had a thought that she couldn't go on. We all have thoughts like that, only she decided to act on hers. She forces herself to. Because she thinks that's what she deserves. And maybe seconds later she knows she was wrong. Tries to save herself. But it's too late."

I stared at him, unsure if he was talking about Marilyn or Hannah.

"S'how it always is." He was setting aside the seat cus.h.i.+on, picking up an ashtray and turning it over, staring at the bottom of it. "You never know if there's a conspiracy or it's just how things unravel, the -I don't know, one of. . ."

"Life's hairball pincurves."

His mouth was open, but he didn't go on, apparently floored by a Dadism I'd always thought kind of irritating (it was a sentence you could find in his Iron Grip Iron Grip notes if you were patient enough to sit through his handwriting). He pointed at me. notes if you were patient enough to sit through his handwriting). He pointed at me.

"That's good, Olives. Very Very good." good."

I criss-crossed, detoured, fell out of the past.

After two hours of searching, although we'd found no direct direct clue, Milton and I had managed to dig up all kinds of different Hannahs-sisters, cousins, fraternal twins, stepchildren to the one we'd known. There was Haight-Asbury Hannah (old records of Carole King, Bob Dylan, a bong, tai chi books, a faded ticket to some peace rally at Golden Gate Park on June 3, 1980), Stripper Hannah (I didn't feel comfortable going through clue, Milton and I had managed to dig up all kinds of different Hannahs-sisters, cousins, fraternal twins, stepchildren to the one we'd known. There was Haight-Asbury Hannah (old records of Carole King, Bob Dylan, a bong, tai chi books, a faded ticket to some peace rally at Golden Gate Park on June 3, 1980), Stripper Hannah (I didn't feel comfortable going through that that box, but Milton exhumed bras, bikinis, a zebra-striped slip, a few more complicated items requiring directions for a.s.sembly), also Hand Grenade Hannah (combat boots, more knives), also Hannah, Missing Person Possessed (the same folder full of Xeroxed newspaper articles Nigel had found, though he'd lied about there being "fifty pages at box, but Milton exhumed bras, bikinis, a zebra-striped slip, a few more complicated items requiring directions for a.s.sembly), also Hand Grenade Hannah (combat boots, more knives), also Hannah, Missing Person Possessed (the same folder full of Xeroxed newspaper articles Nigel had found, though he'd lied about there being "fifty pages at least"; least"; there were only nine). My favorite, however, was Madonna Hannah who material-girled out of a sagging cardboard box. there were only nine). My favorite, however, was Madonna Hannah who material-girled out of a sagging cardboard box.

Beneath a raisined basketball, among nail polish, dead spiders and other junk, I found a faded photograph of Hannah with cropped, spiky red hair and brilliant purple eye shadow painted all the way to her eyebrows. She was singing onstage, a microphone in hand, wearing a yellow plastic miniskirt, beetle-green-and-white striped tights and a black corset made from either garbage bags or used tires. She was midnote, so her mouth was wide wide open- you could possibly pop a chicken egg in there and it'd disappear. open- you could possibly pop a chicken egg in there and it'd disappear.

"Holy f.u.c.k," Milton said, staring down at the photograph.

I turned it over, but there was nothing written on it, no date.

"It's her isn't it?" I asked.

"h.e.l.l yeah, it's her. s.h.i.+t."

"How old do you think she is?"

"Eighteen? Twenty?"

Even with boy-short red hair, clown-like makeup, eyes wincing due to the angry look cras.h.i.+ng through her face, she was still gorgeous. (Guess that's absolute beauty for you: like Teflon, impossible to deface.) After I found the photograph and looked through the last cardboard box, Milton said it was time for the house.

"Feelin' good, Olives? On your game?"

He knew about an extra set of keys under the geranium pot on the porch, and jamming the key into the dead bolt, suddenly his left hand reached back and found my wrist, squeezing it, letting go (a bland gesture one did with a stress ball; still, my heart leapt, did an agitated "Ahh," then fainted).

We crept inside.

Surprisingly, it wasn't frightening-not in the least. In fact, in Hannah's absence, the house had taken on the solemn properties of a lost civilization. It was Machu Picchu, a piece of ancient Parthian Empire. As Sir Blake Simbel writes in Beneath the Blue Beneath the Blue (1989), his memoir detailing the (1989), his memoir detailing the Mary Rose Mary Rose excavation, lost civilizations were never frightening, but fascinating, "reserved and riddle-filled, a gentle testament to the endurance of earth and objects over human life" (p. 92). excavation, lost civilizations were never frightening, but fascinating, "reserved and riddle-filled, a gentle testament to the endurance of earth and objects over human life" (p. 92).

After I left a message for Dad telling him I had a ride home, we excavated the living room. In some ways, it was like seeing it for the first time, because without the distractions of Nina Simone or Mel Torme, without Hannah herself gliding around in her worn-out clothing, I was able to really see things: in the kitchen, the blank notepad and ballpoint pen (BOCA RATON it read in fading gold) positioned under the 1960s phone (the same spot and type of notepad on which Hannah supposedly had scrawled Valerio, Valerio, though there were no exciting indentations on the page I could shade over with light pencil-as TV detectives do so effectively). In the dining room, the room where we'd eaten a hundred times, there were actually objects Milton and I had never seen before: in the big wooden and gla.s.s display case behind Nigel and Jade's chairs, two hideous porcelain mermaids and a h.e.l.lenistic Terracotta female figure, approximately six inches tall. I wondered if Hannah had just received them as gifts a few days prior to the camping trip, but judging by the thick dust, they'd been there for months. though there were no exciting indentations on the page I could shade over with light pencil-as TV detectives do so effectively). In the dining room, the room where we'd eaten a hundred times, there were actually objects Milton and I had never seen before: in the big wooden and gla.s.s display case behind Nigel and Jade's chairs, two hideous porcelain mermaids and a h.e.l.lenistic Terracotta female figure, approximately six inches tall. I wondered if Hannah had just received them as gifts a few days prior to the camping trip, but judging by the thick dust, they'd been there for months.

And then, from the VCR in the living room, I ejected a movie, L'Avventura. L'Avventura. It was fully rewound. It was fully rewound.

"What's that?" Milton asked.

"An Italian movie," I said. "Hannah was teaching it in her film cla.s.s." I handed it to him and picked up the video box, alone on the coffee table. I scanned the back. "Laventure?" Milton asked uncertainly, staring down at the tape with his mouth pushed to the side. "What's it about?"

"A woman who goes missing," I said. My words made me s.h.i.+ver a little.

Milton nodded and then, with a frustrated sigh, tossed the videotape onto the couch.

We combed the remaining rooms downstairs, but found no revolutionary relics -no drawings of bison, aurochs or stags from flint, wood or bone, no carving of Buddha, no crystal reliquary or steat.i.te casket from the Mauryan Empire. Milton suggested Hannah might have kept a diary, so we made our way upstairs.

Her bedroom was unchanged from the last time I'd seen it. Milton checked her bedside and vanity table (he found my copy of Love in the Time of Cholera, Love in the Time of Cholera, which Hannah had borrowed and never returned) and I did a quick tour of the bathroom and closet, finding those things Nigel and I had exhumed: the nineteen bottles of pills, the framed childhood photos, even the knife collection. The only thing I which Hannah had borrowed and never returned) and I did a quick tour of the bathroom and closet, finding those things Nigel and I had exhumed: the nineteen bottles of pills, the framed childhood photos, even the knife collection. The only thing I didn't didn't find was that other schoolgirl picture, the one of Hannah with the other girl in uniforms. It wasn't where I thought Nigel had put it-in the Evan Picone shoe box. I looked for it in some of the other boxes along the shelf, but after the fifth one, I gave up. Either Nigel had put it back somewhere else, or Hannah had moved it. find was that other schoolgirl picture, the one of Hannah with the other girl in uniforms. It wasn't where I thought Nigel had put it-in the Evan Picone shoe box. I looked for it in some of the other boxes along the shelf, but after the fifth one, I gave up. Either Nigel had put it back somewhere else, or Hannah had moved it.

"I've lost steam," Milton said, leaning against the part of Hannah's bed where I was sitting. He tilted his head back so it was less than an inch from my bare knee. A strand of his black hair actually slipped off his sticky forehead and touched touched my bare knee. "I can smell her. That perfume she wore." my bare knee. "I can smell her. That perfume she wore."

I looked down at him. He looked like Hamlet. And I'm not talking about the Hamlets enamored with the language, the ones always thinking ahead to the upcoming sword fight or where to stress the line (Get thee thee to a nunnery, Get thee to a to a nunnery, Get thee to a nunnery), nunnery), not the Hamlet worried about how well his tunic fits or whether he can be heard in the back. I'm talking about the Hamlets who actually start to wonder if they should be, or not the Hamlet worried about how well his tunic fits or whether he can be heard in the back. I'm talking about the Hamlets who actually start to wonder if they should be, or not not be, the ones who are bruised by Life's Elbows, Kidney Punches, Head b.u.t.ts and Bites on the Ear, the ones who, after the final curtain, can barely speak, eat or take off their stage makeup with cold cream and cotton b.a.l.l.s. They go home and do a lot of staring at walls. be, the ones who are bruised by Life's Elbows, Kidney Punches, Head b.u.t.ts and Bites on the Ear, the ones who, after the final curtain, can barely speak, eat or take off their stage makeup with cold cream and cotton b.a.l.l.s. They go home and do a lot of staring at walls.

"G.o.dd.a.m.n miserable," he said almost inaudibly to the overhead light. "Guess we should go home. Forget this stuff. Call it a day."

I let my left hand fall off my bare knee so it touched the side of his face. It had a dampness to it, a humidity of bas.e.m.e.nts. Immediately, his eyes slipped onto me and I must have had an Open Sesame look on my face because he grabbed me and pulled me down onto his lap. His big sticky hands covered both sides of my head like earphones. He kissed me as if biting into fruit. I kissed him back, pretending to bite into peaches and plums-nectarines, I didn't know. I think I also made funny noises (egret, loon). He gripped my shoulders, as if I was the sides of a carnival ride and he didn't want to fall out.

I'd imagine it occurred a great deal during excavations.

Yes, I'd wager quite a bit of money that more than a few hips, knees, feet, and bottoms have rubbed up against royal sepulchres in the Valley of the Kings, hearth remains in the Nile Valley, Aztec portrait beakers on an island in Lake Texcoco, that a lot of fast, rabbity s.e.x transpires on Babylonian-dig cigarette breaks and Bog Mummy examination tables.

Because, after a strenuous dig with your trowel, your pick-ax, you've seen that sweaty compatriot of yours from every critical angle (90, 60, 30,1), also in a variety of lights (flashlight, sun, moon, halogen, firefly) and all of a sudden you're overwhelmed with the feeling that you understand the person, the way you understand stumbling upon the lower jaw and all the teeth of Proconsul Africa.n.u.s Proconsul Africa.n.u.s meant not only that the History of Human Evolution would be transformed, forever afterward mapped with a little more detail, but also that your name would be up there with Mary Leakey's. You, too, would be world renowned. You, too, would be entreated to write lengthy articles in meant not only that the History of Human Evolution would be transformed, forever afterward mapped with a little more detail, but also that your name would be up there with Mary Leakey's. You, too, would be world renowned. You, too, would be entreated to write lengthy articles in Archaeological Britain. Archaeological Britain. You feel as if this person next to you was a glove you'd managed to turn inside out, and you could see all the little strings and the torn lining, the hole in the thumb. You feel as if this person next to you was a glove you'd managed to turn inside out, and you could see all the little strings and the torn lining, the hole in the thumb.

Not that we did It, mind you, not that we had blank-faced handshake s.e.x rampant among America's twitchy youths (see "Is Your Twelve-Year-Old a s.e.x Fiend?", Newsweek, Newsweek, August 14, 2000). We did take off our clothes, however, and roll around like logs. His angel tattoo said h.e.l.lo to more than a few freckles on my arm and back and side. We scratched each other accidentally, our bodies blunt and mismatched. (No one tells you about the frank lighting or lack of mood music.) When he was on top of me, he looked calm and inquisitive, as if he were lying at the edge of a swimming pool, staring at something s.h.i.+ny at the bottom, contemplating diving in. August 14, 2000). We did take off our clothes, however, and roll around like logs. His angel tattoo said h.e.l.lo to more than a few freckles on my arm and back and side. We scratched each other accidentally, our bodies blunt and mismatched. (No one tells you about the frank lighting or lack of mood music.) When he was on top of me, he looked calm and inquisitive, as if he were lying at the edge of a swimming pool, staring at something s.h.i.+ny at the bottom, contemplating diving in.

I will thus confess a stupid truth regarding this encounter. For a minute afterward, lying on Hannah's bed with him, my head on his shoulder, my skinny white arm garlanding his neck, when he said, wiping his drenched forehead, "Is it f.u.c.kin' hot in here or is it me?" and I said without thinking, "It's me," I sort of felt-well, fantastic. I felt as if he was my American in Paris, my Brigadoon. ("Young love come like roseth petals," writes Georgie Lawrence in his last collection, So Poemesque So Poemesque [1962], "and like lightning boltheth flees.") [1962], "and like lightning boltheth flees.") "Tell me about the streets," I said softly, staring at Hannah's ceiling, square and white. Then I was horrified: without thought, the sentence had drifted out of my mouth like a boat Victorian people float around on with parasols, and he hadn't immediately answered so obviously I'd blown things. That was the problem with the Van Meers; they always wanted more, had to dig deeper, get dirtier, doggedly cast their fis.h.i.+ng line in the river over and over again, even if they only caught dead fish.

But then he answered, yawning: "Streets?"

He didn't continue, so I swallowed, my heart on the edge of its seat.

"I just meant. . . when you were involved with your . . . gang- gang-you don't have to talk about it if you don't want to."

"I'll talk about anythin' with you," he said.

"Oh. Well. . . you ran away from home?"

"No. You?"

"No."

"Wanted to on plenty of occasions, but I never did." to on plenty of occasions, but I never did."

I was confused. I'd been expecting s.h.i.+fty eyes, words jamming in his throat like coins in a faulty pay phone.

"But then how did you get your tattoo?" I asked.

He turned his right shoulder around and stared at it, the corners of his mouth plunging down. "My older bro, f.u.c.kin' John. His eighteenth birthday. He and his friends took me to a tattoo parlor. Total s.h.i.+thole. We both got tattoos, only he royally f.u.c.ked me, because his, his, freakin' salamander, is freakin' salamander, is this big"-he this big"-he displayed the width of a blueberry in his fingers -"an' he talked me into getting displayed the width of a blueberry in his fingers -"an' he talked me into getting this monster this monster motherf.u.c.kin' can of worms. You shoulda seen my mom's face." He chuckled, remembering. "Never seen her so p.i.s.sed. It was motherf.u.c.kin' can of worms. You shoulda seen my mom's face." He chuckled, remembering. "Never seen her so p.i.s.sed. It was cla.s.sic." cla.s.sic."

"But how old are you?"

"Seventeen."

"Not twenty-one?"

"Uh, not unless I fell into a coma."

"You never lived on the streets?"

"What?" He scrunched up his face like he had sun in his eyes. "I can't even sleep on those f.u.c.kin' couches at Jade's. I like my own bed, Sealy Posturepedic or whatever-hey, what's with the questions?"

"But Leulah," I persisted, my voice cras.h.i.+ng out of my mouth now, determined to hit something. "When she was thirteen she ran away with a-a Turkish math teacher and he was arrested in Florida and he went to jail."

"What?"

"And Nigel's parents are in prison. That's why he has a preoccupation with suspense novels and is vaguely pathological -he doesn't feel guilt and Charles was adopted - "

"You can't be serious." He sat up, looking down at me like I was loco. loco. "Nigel feels stuff. He still feels bad for ditchin' that kid last year, what's his name, sits next to you in Mornin' Announcements and second of all, Charles is "Nigel feels stuff. He still feels bad for ditchin' that kid last year, what's his name, sits next to you in Mornin' Announcements and second of all, Charles is not not adopted." adopted."

I frowned, feeling that vague sense of irritation when tabloid stories turned out not to be true. "How do you know? Maybe he just never said anything."

"Ever met his mom?"

I shook my head.

"They could be brother and sister. And Nigel's parents aren't in prison. prison. Jesus. Who told you that?" Jesus. Who told you that?"

"But what about his real real parents?" parents?"

"His real real parents own that pottery place-Diana and Ed-" parents own that pottery place-Diana and Ed-"

"They didn't serve time for shooting a police officer?"

That particular claim made Milton guffaw (I'd never heard a real guffaw, but what he did was definitely one) and then, seeing I was serious and more than a little worked up-blood was rus.h.i.+ng into my cheeks; I'm sure I was red as a carnation-he lay back and rolled toward me so the bed went ugh, ugh, and his puffy lips and eyebrows and the tip of his nose (on which stood, rather heroically, a freckle) were inches from my own. and his puffy lips and eyebrows and the tip of his nose (on which stood, rather heroically, a freckle) were inches from my own.

"Who told you this stuff?"

When I didn't answer, he whistled.

"Whoever he is, he's a nut case."

28.

Quer pasticciaccio Brutto de via Merulana.

'I do not believe in madness," Lord Brummel notes dryly at the end of Act IV in Wilden Benedict's charming play about the s.e.xual depravity of the British upper cla.s.s, A Bev'y of Ladies Bev'y of Ladies (1898). "It's too uncouth." (1898). "It's too uncouth."

I agreed.

I believed in the madness of dest.i.tution, drug-induced madness, also Dictator Dementia and Wartime Whacked (with its tragic subsets, Frontline Fever, Napalm Non Compos Mentis). I could even confirm the existence of Checkout-Aisle Crackers, which abruptly afflicts an ordinary, una.s.suming person standing behind a man with seventy-five exotic grocery items, none of which sport price tags, but I did not not buy Hannah's madness, even though she had the hair for it, had killed or hadn't killed herself, had slept or hadn't slept with Charles, had picked up strange men and shamelessly fas.h.i.+oned lavish lies out of the plain cotton histories of the Bluebloods. buy Hannah's madness, even though she had the hair for it, had killed or hadn't killed herself, had slept or hadn't slept with Charles, had picked up strange men and shamelessly fas.h.i.+oned lavish lies out of the plain cotton histories of the Bluebloods.