Special Topics In Calamity Physics Part 9

"Sure." Leulah's eyes were hooked to Luke's face; it was like the guy was d.i.c.kens, f.u.c.king Samuel Clemens. I pushed my way into the GIRLS bathroom. "Jade?" It was sticky, murky as unclean aquariums. Girls in tube tops and tight pants swarmed the mirror, applying lipstick, running fingernails through hair stiff as soft-drink straws. Unrolled toilet paper wormed along the floor and the hand dryer shrieked, though no one dried their hands.

"Jade? Jade? h.e.l.lo?"

I crouched down and spotted her green metallic sandals in the handicapped stall. "Jade? Are you okay?" "Oh, forf.u.c.k's sake, what is it? "Oh, forf.u.c.k's sake, what is it? WHAT?.'" She unlatched the door. It bashed against the wall. She marched out. WHAT?.'" She unlatched the door. It bashed against the wall. She marched out.

Behind her, stuffed between the toilet and the toilet-paper dispenser, was a man, approximately forty-five years old with a thick brown beard that cut his face into crude shapes first graders tape to windows during Art Time. He wore a jean jacket too short in the sleeves and looked as if he'd respond to various shouted commands, including, "C'mere boy!" and "Sick 'em!" His belt was undone, hanging like a rattlesnake.

"Oh, I-I-" I stuttered. "I-"

"Are you dying?" Her face was pale green in the light, seal slick. Fine gold hairs stuck to her temples in question marks and exclamation points. "No," I said. "Are you planning to die anytime soon?" "No-" "Then what are you bothering me for? What am I, your f.u.c.king mother?"

She turned on her heel, slammed the door, and locked it.

"What a b.i.t.c.hy s.l.u.t," said a Hispanic woman reapplying liquid eyeliner at the sink, her top lip stretched tight over her teeth like Saran Wrap over leftovers. "That your friend?"

I nodded, somewhat dazed.

"You kick her s.k.a.n.ky a.s.s."

There were times, to my infinite horror, Leulah disappeared, too, for fifteen, sometimes twenty, minutes into GIRLS (Beatrice had come a long way in seven hundred years; so had Annabel Lee) and afterward, she and Jade both sported pleased, even conceited looks on their faces, as if, in that handicapped stall they believed they'd single-handedly come to the last digit of pi, discovered who killed Kennedy, found the Missing Link. (From the looks of some the guys they brought in with them, maybe they had.) "Blue should try it," Leulah said once on the drive home.

"No way" way" Jade said. "You have to be a pro." Jade said. "You have to be a pro."

Obviously, I wanted to ask them what they thought they were doing, but I sensed they didn't care to know what Robard Neverovich, the Russian who'd volunteered in more than 234 American runaway shelters, wrote in Kill Me Kill Me (1999) or his follow-up account of his trip to Thailand to investigate the child p.o.r.n industry, (1999) or his follow-up account of his trip to Thailand to investigate the child p.o.r.n industry, Wanting It All, All At Once Wanting It All, All At Once (2003). It was evident Jade and Leulah were doing just fine, thank you, and certainly didn't need the feedback of a girl who stands "deaf and dumb when some dude wants to buy her a hurricane," who "wouldn't know what to do with a guy if she had a manual with ill.u.s.trations and an interactive CD-rom." But at the same time, as scared as I was every time one of them vanished, afterward, when we were back in the Mercedes; when they were howling over some scab they'd taken into GIRLS together, who'd emerged from that handicapped stall with a sort of madness and, as we walked outside, chased after them shouting, "Cammie! Ashley!" (the names on their fake IDs) before the bouncer threw him down like a sack of potatoes; when Jade was speeding back to her house, crisscrossing between semis and Leulah screamed for no reason, head back, hair tangling around the headrest, her arms reaching out of the sunroof as if grabbing at the tiny stars sticking to the sky and picking them off like lint, I noticed there was something incredible about them, something brave, that no one in my immediate recollection had written about-not really. (2003). It was evident Jade and Leulah were doing just fine, thank you, and certainly didn't need the feedback of a girl who stands "deaf and dumb when some dude wants to buy her a hurricane," who "wouldn't know what to do with a guy if she had a manual with ill.u.s.trations and an interactive CD-rom." But at the same time, as scared as I was every time one of them vanished, afterward, when we were back in the Mercedes; when they were howling over some scab they'd taken into GIRLS together, who'd emerged from that handicapped stall with a sort of madness and, as we walked outside, chased after them shouting, "Cammie! Ashley!" (the names on their fake IDs) before the bouncer threw him down like a sack of potatoes; when Jade was speeding back to her house, crisscrossing between semis and Leulah screamed for no reason, head back, hair tangling around the headrest, her arms reaching out of the sunroof as if grabbing at the tiny stars sticking to the sky and picking them off like lint, I noticed there was something incredible about them, something brave, that no one in my immediate recollection had written about-not really.

I doubted I I could write about it either, being "the total flat tire in any bar or club," except that they seemed to inhabit a completely different world than the one I did -a world that was hilarious, without repercussion or revolting neon light or stickiness or rug b.u.m, a world in which they ruled. could write about it either, being "the total flat tire in any bar or club," except that they seemed to inhabit a completely different world than the one I did -a world that was hilarious, without repercussion or revolting neon light or stickiness or rug b.u.m, a world in which they ruled.

There was one night that wasn't like the others.

"This is it, Hurl," Jade said. "The night that will change your everything."

It was the first Friday of November and Jade had gone to considerable lengths to pick out my outfit: four-inch malevolent gold sandals two sizes too big and a gold lame dress that rippled all over me like a Sharpei (see "Traditional Wife's Bound Feet," History of China, History of China, Ming, 1961, p. 214; "Darcel," Ming, 1961, p. 214; "Darcel," Remembering "Solid Gold " Remembering "Solid Gold "LaVitte, 1989, p. 29).

It was one of the rare occasions someone at the Blind actually approached me-a me-a guy in his thirties named Larry, heavy as a keg of beer. He was attractive only in the way of a seriously unfinished Michelangelo sculpture. There were tiny patches of remarkable detail in his delicate nose, full lips, even in his large, well-molded hands, but the rest of him-shoulders, torso, legs-had not been liberated from the raw slab of marble, nor would they be any time soon. He'd bought me an Amstel Light and stood close to me while he talked about quitting smoking. It had been the most difficult thing he'd ever done in his life. "Patch is the greatest thing medical science's come up with. They should use that technology for everything. Don't know 'bout you, but I got no problem eatin' and drinkin' with the patch. Days you're really busy. 'Stead of fast food, ya stick on the patch. Half hour later? You're full. We could all have guy in his thirties named Larry, heavy as a keg of beer. He was attractive only in the way of a seriously unfinished Michelangelo sculpture. There were tiny patches of remarkable detail in his delicate nose, full lips, even in his large, well-molded hands, but the rest of him-shoulders, torso, legs-had not been liberated from the raw slab of marble, nor would they be any time soon. He'd bought me an Amstel Light and stood close to me while he talked about quitting smoking. It had been the most difficult thing he'd ever done in his life. "Patch is the greatest thing medical science's come up with. They should use that technology for everything. Don't know 'bout you, but I got no problem eatin' and drinkin' with the patch. Days you're really busy. 'Stead of fast food, ya stick on the patch. Half hour later? You're full. We could all have s.e.x s.e.x with the patch too. Sure save everyone a lot of time and energy. What's yer name?" with the patch too. Sure save everyone a lot of time and energy. What's yer name?"

"Roxanne Kaye Loomis." "What do you do, Roxy?" "I attend Clemson University with a major in engineering. I'm from Dukers, N.C. Also an organ donor." Larry nodded and took a long drink of his beer, s.h.i.+fting his heavy body toward me so my leg pressed against his chunky one. I took a tiny step in the only other possible direction, b.u.mping into the back of a girl with th.o.r.n.y blond hair.

" 'Scuse you," she said. I tried stepping back in the other direction but effigy-Larry was there. I was a piece of hard candy stuck in a throat. "Where do you see yourself in, say, twenty years?" I asked. He didn't answer. In fact, he looked as if he didn't speak English any was a piece of hard candy stuck in a throat. "Where do you see yourself in, say, twenty years?" I asked. He didn't answer. In fact, he looked as if he didn't speak English any more. He was losing alt.i.tude, and fast. It was like the afternoon Dad and I parked the Volvo station wagon a few meters from the end of the airport runway in Luton, Texas, and spent an hour sitting on the hood, eating pimento cheese sandwiches and watching the planes land. Watching the planes was like floating in the depths of the ocean and observing a 105-foot Blue Whale drift over you, but unlike the private jets, the airbuses, and the 747s, Larry actually crashed. His lips. .h.i.t my teeth and his tongue darted into my mouth like a tadpole escaping from a jar. He slapped a hand onto my chest, squeezing my right breast like a lemon over dover sole.

"Blue?" I tore myself away. Leulah and Jade stood next to me. "We're blowing this joint," Jade said. Larry shouted (a markedly unenthusiastic "Wait a minute, Roxy!"), but I didn't turn around. I followed them outside to the car. "Where are we going?" "To see Hannah," Jade said flatly. "By the way, Retch, what's up with your taste in men? That guy was fugly." didn't turn around. I followed them outside to the car. "Where are we going?" "To see Hannah," Jade said flatly. "By the way, Retch, what's up with your taste in men? That guy was fugly."

Lu was staring at her apprehensively, her green Bellmondo prom dress sagging open at the neck in a permanent yawn. "I don't think it's a good idea."

Jade made a face. "Why not?"

"I don't want her to see us," Lu said.

Jade yanked on her seatbelt. "We'll take another car. Jefferson's boyfriend's. His heinous Toyota's in our driveway."

"What's going on?" I asked.

"We'll probably b.u.mp into Charles," Jade said, ignoring me, glancing at Lu as she jammed the key in the ignition and started the car. "He'll be wearing camouflage and those night-vision goggle things."

Lu shook her head. "He's with Black on a double date. Soph.o.m.ores."

Jade turned around to see if I'd overheard this (a triumphantly sympathetic look on her face), then accelerated out of the parking lot, merging onto the highway and heading toward Stockton. It was a cold night, with thin, greasy clouds streaking the sky. I pulled the gold lame tight over my knees, staring at the pa.s.sing cars and Lu's fancy parenthesis profile, the taillights signaling her cheekbones. Neither of them spoke. Their silence was one of those tired adult silences, that of a married couple driving home from a dinner party, not wanting to talk about someone's husband getting too drunk or how they secretly didn't want to go home with each other but someone new, someone whose freckles they didn't know.

Forty minutes later, Jade had disappeared inside her house for the car keys-"Only be a sec"-and when she emerged, still in her rickety red sandals and firebird dress (it looked like she'd gone through the garbage at a rich kid's birthday, removed the most exotic sc.r.a.ps of wrapping paper and taped them to herself), she carried a six-pack of Heineken, two giant bags of potato chips and a pack of spaghetti licorice, one piece dangling from her mouth. Looped around her shoulder was a giant pair of binoculars.

"We're going to Hannah's house?" I asked, still confused, but Jade only ignored me again, dumping the food into the backseat of the beat-up white Toyota parked by the garage. Leulah looked furious (her lips were pulled tightly together like a fabric change purse), but without a word, she walked across the driveway, climbed into the front seat and slammed the door.

"f.u.c.k." Jade squinted at her watch. "We don't have much time."

Minutes later, we were in the Toyota, merging onto the highway again, this time heading north, the opposite direction of Hannah's house. I knew it was pointless to ask where we were going; both of them had fallen into that trench-silence again, a silence so deep it was difficult and tiring to heave oneself out. Leulah stared at the road, the sputtering white lines, the drifting red sequins of the cars. Jade was more or less her usual self, though as she chewed a strand of licorice (the girl was chain-licoricing; "Hand me another one/' she demanded three times before I wedged the packet by the emergency brake), she wouldn't stop fiddling with the radio.

We drove a half hour before swerving down Exit 42-"Cottonwood," read the sign-barreling across the deserted two-lane road into a truck stop. A gas station was off to our left, and, in front of the eighteen-wheelers slung across the pavement like dead whales, a wooden A-framed restaurant sat glumly on bald hill. STUCKEY'S, announced the yellow letters over the entrance. Jade was slinking the Toyota between the trucks.

"See her car?" she asked.

Leulah shook her head. "It's already 2:30. Maybe she's not coming."

"She's coming."

We circled the lot until Leulah tapped a fingernail on the window.

"There." She was indicating Hannah's red Subaru; it was sandwiched between a white pickup truck and a van.

Jade swung into the next row and reversed into a spot by a bank of pine needles and the road. Leulah flung off her seatbelt, crossed her arms, and Jade blithely helped herself to another black shoelace, gnawing one end, and wrapping the other fast around her knuckles like a boxer before he puts on his gloves. Hannah's Subaru was in front of us, two lines of cars away. Across the parking lot on the hill slumped the restaurant, legally blind (three windows in the back boarded up) and seriously balding (roofing coming off in clumps). You couldn't see much in the dimmed windows-a few s.h.i.+fts of tired color, a row of green lamps hanging down like moldy showerheads - but one didn't have to go inside to know the menus were sticky, the tables seasoned with pie crumb, the waitresses crabby, the clientele beefy. One definitely had to beat the saltshaker senseless - maggot-like grains of rice visible inside-to coax out a mere speck speck of salt. ("If they can't do salt, I wonder what makes them think they can do chicken cacciatore," Dad would say in such a place, holding the menu at a safe distance from his face in case it sprang to life.) of salt. ("If they can't do salt, I wonder what makes them think they can do chicken cacciatore," Dad would say in such a place, holding the menu at a safe distance from his face in case it sprang to life.) I hunched forward and cleared my throat, a signal for Jade or Lu to explain what we were doing at this awful roadie watering hole (a place Dad and I would go to great distances to avoid; it wasn't unheard for us to take a twenty-mile detour simply to avoid breaking bread with "men and women who, if one squinted, resembled piles of tires") but when they still still said nothing (Lu, too, was stuffing her mouth with licorice now, chewing goatishly) I realized it was one of those things they couldn't put into words. Putting it into words made it real and they'd be guilty of something. said nothing (Lu, too, was stuffing her mouth with licorice now, chewing goatishly) I realized it was one of those things they couldn't put into words. Putting it into words made it real and they'd be guilty of something.

For ten minutes, the only sound was an occasional door slam-some loot-stomached trucker coming, going, starving, stuffed-and the angry hisses of the freeway. Visible through the dark trees edging the parking lot was a bridge with an endless bullet-fire of cars, red-and-white sparks shooting into the night.

"Who'll it be?" Jade asked blandly, looking through the binoculars.

Lu shrugged, chewing her licorice cud. "Don't know."

"Fat or skinny."

"Skinny."

"See, I think pork this time."

"She doesn't like pork."

"Yes, she does. They're her Beluga. Reserved for special occasions. Oh." Oh." Jade jolted forward, banging the binoculars on the winds.h.i.+eld. "Oh, Jade jolted forward, banging the binoculars on the winds.h.i.+eld. "Oh, f.u.c.k me f.u.c.k me . . . s.h.i.+t." . . . s.h.i.+t."

"What-is he a baby?"

Jade's mouth was open. Her lips moved, but there were no words. Then she exhaled heavily: "Ever seen Breakfast at Tiffany's?" Breakfast at Tiffany's?"

"No," Lu said sarcastically, putting her hands on the dashboard and leaning forward to survey the two people who'd just emerged from the restaurant. Lu said sarcastically, putting her hands on the dashboard and leaning forward to survey the two people who'd just emerged from the restaurant.

"Well"-without looking away from the binoculars, Jade's right hand plunged into the bag of chips and stuffed a clump into her mouth -"it's that awful Doc person. Only ancient. Normally, I'd say at least it's not Rusty Trawler, but in this case I'm not so sure." She sat back, swallowed, and, with a grim look, handed Lu the binoculars. "Rusty has teeth."

After a quick glimpse (a revolted expression spilled all over her face), Lu handed me the binoculars. I swallowed and pressed them to my eyes: Hannah Schneider had just left the restaurant. She was walking with a man.

"I always hated Doc," Lu said softly.

Hannah was dolled up as I'd never seen her before ("painted," they'd say at Coventry Academy) wearing a furry black coat-I guessed rabbit, due to its teeny-bopperish look (the zipper graced with a pompom)-gold hoops, dark lipstick charring her mouth. Her hair recoiled from her shoulders and sharp, white high heels peered out of the cuffs of her Saran-tight jeans. When I s.h.i.+fted the binoculars to inspect her companion, I immediately felt sick, because in comparison to Hannah, he was shriveled. Wrinkles Etch A Sketched his face. He was in his late sixties, maybe even early seventies, shorter than she and skinny as a roadside curb. His torso and shoulders were meatless, like thick plaid flannel had been chucked over a picture frame. His hair was pretty thick, his hairline not eroding (his lone, remotely attractive feature). It mopped up whatever light was around, going green as they pa.s.sed under the floodlight, then an oxidized, bicycle-spoke gray. As he moved down the steps after her-Hannah was walking swiftly, unzipping a weird pink fur purse, searching for her car keys-his bony legs jerked out to the sides like a retractable drying rack.

"Retch, you going to let anyone else look or what?"

I handed Jade the binoculars. She peered through them, gnawing her lip. "Hope he brought v.i.a.g.r.a," she muttered. Lu slouched down in her seat and froze as they climbed into Hannah's car.

"Oh, for G.o.d's sake, you idiot, she can't see see us," Jade said irritably, though she, too, sat very still, waiting for the Subaru to move out of its s.p.a.ce, sneaking behind one of the semis, before starting the car. us," Jade said irritably, though she, too, sat very still, waiting for the Subaru to move out of its s.p.a.ce, sneaking behind one of the semis, before starting the car.

"Where are they going?" I asked, though I wasn't sure I wanted to know.

"Fleabag motel," Jade said. "She'll bang the guy for a half-hour to forty-five minutes, then throw him out. I'm always surprised she doesn't bite off his head like a praying mantis."

We followed the Subaru (maintaining a polite distance) for three, maybe four miles, soon entering what I a.s.sumed was Cottonwood. It was one of those skin-and-bone towns Dad and I had driven through a million times, a town wan and malnourished; somehow it managed to survive on nothing but gas stations, motels, and McDonald's. Big scab-like parking lots scarred the sides of the road.

After fifteen minutes, Hannah switched on her blinker and turned left into a motel, the Country Style Motor Lodge, a white flat arc-shaped building sitting in the middle of a barren lot like a lost pair of dentures. A few maple trees sulked close to the road, others slouched suggestively in front of the Registration Office, as if mimicking the clientele. We pulled in thirty seconds after her, but quickly swung to the right, stopping by a gray sedan, while Hannah parked by the office and disappeared inside. Two or three minutes later, when she reappeared, slimy light from the carport splattered her face and her expression scared me. I saw it only for a few seconds (and she wasn't exactly close) but to me, she looked like an off TV-no breathy soap opera or courtroom drama, not even a wan western rerun - just blank. She climbed back into the Subaru, started the car, and slowly pulled past us.

"s.h.i.+t," squeaked Lu, slipping down in the seat.

"Oh please," please," Jade said. "You'd be the crummiest a.s.sa.s.sin." Jade said. "You'd be the crummiest a.s.sa.s.sin."

The car stopped in front of one of the rooms on the far left. Doc emerged with his hands in his pockets, Hannah with a minute grin spearing her face. She unlocked the door and they disappeared inside.

"Room 22," Jade reported from behind the binoculars. Hannah must have immediately pulled the curtains, because when a light flicked on, the drapes, the color of orange cheddar, were completely closed, without a splinter through them.

"Does she know him?" I asked. It was more a far-flung hope than an actual question.

Jade shook her head. "Nope." She turned around in the seat, staring at me. "Charles and Milton found out about it last year. They were out one night, decided to swing by her house but then pa.s.sed her car. They followed her all the way out here. She starts at Stuckey's at 1:45. Eats. Picks one out. The first Friday of every month. It's the one date she keeps."

"What do you mean?"

"You know. She's pretty disorganized. Well, not about this." know. She's pretty disorganized. Well, not about this."

"And she doesn't. . . know you know?"

"No way." way." Her eyes pelted my face. "And don't even think about telling her." Her eyes pelted my face. "And don't even think about telling her."

"I won't," I said, glancing at Lu, but she didn't seem to be listening. She sat in her seat as if strapped to an electric chair. "So what happens now?" I asked. "A taxi pulls up. He'll emerge from the room with half his clothes, some times his s.h.i.+rt balled in his hands or without his socks. And then he'll limp away in the taxi. Probably back to Stuckey's where he'll get into his truck, drive off to who knows where. Hannah leaves in the morning."

"How do you know?"

"Charles usually stays the whole time."

I didn't especially want to ask any more questions, so the three of us lapsed into silence again, a quiet that went on even after Jade moved the car closer so we could make out the 22, the safari leaf pattern on the pulled curtains and the dent in Hannah's car. It was strange, the wartime effect of the parking lot. We were stationed somewhere, oceans from home, afraid of things unseen. Leulah was sh.e.l.l-shocked, back straight as a flagpole, her eyes magnetized to the door. Jade was the senior officer, crabby, worn-out and perfectly aware nothing she said could comfort us so she only reclined her seat, turned on the radio and shoved potato chips into her mouth. I sort of Vietnamed too. I was the cowardly homesick one who ends up dying unheroically from a wound he accidently inflicts upon himself that squirts blood like a grape Capri Sun. I wouldVe given my left hand to be away from this place. My Pie in the Sky was to be next to Dad again, wearing cloud flannel pajamas and grading a few of his student research papers, even the awful ones by the slacker who employed a huge bold font in order to reach Dad's minimum requirement of twenty to twenty-five pages.

I remembered what Dad said when I was seven at the Screamfest Fantasy Circus in Choke, Indiana, after we'd taken the House of Horrors ride and I'd been so terrified I'd ridden the thing with my fingers nailed to my eyes- never peeking, never once glimpsing a single horror. After I pried my hands off my face, rather than chastising my cowardice, Dad had looked down at me and nodded thoughtfully, as if I'd just revealed startling new insights on revolutionizing welfare. 'Yes," he'd said. "Sometimes it takes more courage not to let yourself see. Sometimes knowledge is damaging-not enlightenment but enleadenment. If one recognizes the difference and prepares oneself-it is extraordinarily brave. Because when it comes to certain human miseries, the only eyewitnesses should be the pavement and maybe the trees."

"Promise I won't ever do this," Lu said suddenly in a mousey voice.

"What," said Jade in a monotone, her eyes papercuts.

"When I'm old." Her voice was something frail you could tear right through. "Promise me I'll be married with kids. Or famous. That. . ."

There wasn't an end to her sentence. It just stopped, a grenade that'd been thrown but hadn't exploded.

None of us said anything more, and at 4:03 A.M. someone turned off the lights in Room 22. We watched the man emerge, fully clothed (though his heels, I noticed, were not fully inside his shoes) and he drove away in the rusty Blue Bird Taxicab (I-8OO-BLU-BIRD), purring as it waited for him by the Registration Office.

It was just as Dad said (if he'd been in the car with us he would have tipped up his chin, just a little, raised an eyebrow, his gesture for both Never Doubt Me and I Told You So) because the only eyewitnesses should have been the neon sign shuddering VACANCY, and the thin asthmatic trees seductively trailing their branches down the spine of the roof, and the sky, a big purple bruise fading too slowly over our heads.

We drove home.

PART TWO.

MOBY d.i.c.k.

Two weeks after the night we spied on Hannah ("Observed," ("Observed," Chief Inspector Ranulph Curry clarified in Chief Inspector Ranulph Curry clarified in The Conceit of a Unicom The Conceit of a Unicom [Lavelle, [Lavelle, X 1901]), Nigel found an invitation in the wastepaper basket in her den, the tiny room off the living room filled with world atlases and half-dead hanging plants barely surviving on her version of flora life support (twenty-fourhour plant lights, periodic Miracle-Gro).

It was elegant, printed on a thick, cream, embossed card.

The Burns County Animal Shelter Cordially invites you to Our annual charity event In support of all animals in need At 100 Willows Road On Sat.u.r.day November 22nd At Eight o' clock in the evening Price $40 Per Person RSVP.

Costume Required, Masks Preferred "I think we should go," Nigel announced that Friday at Jade's.

"Me too' said Leulah.

"You can't," Charles said. "She didn't invite you."

"A minor detail," Nigel said.

In spite of Charles' words of warning, the following Sunday, halfway through dinner, Nigel removed the invitation from his back pocket and brazenly placed it next to the platter of veal chops, without saying a word.

In that instant, the dining room became nail-bitingly unbearable (see Midday Face-Off at Sioux Falls: A Mohave Dan Western, Midday Face-Off at Sioux Falls: A Mohave Dan Western, Lone Star Publishers, Bendley, 1992). Dinners had already become a teensy bit unbearable since I'd gone to Cottonwood. I found it impossible to look at Hannah's face, to smile gaily, to shoot the breeze about schoolwork or term papers or Mr. Moats' penchant for textured s.h.i.+rts without envisioning Doc and his accordion legs, his wrinkled face like wood once infested with termites, not to mention the horror of their Hollywood Kiss, which granted, had taken place off-screen, but was still scary. (It was two different movies crudely edited together- Lone Star Publishers, Bendley, 1992). Dinners had already become a teensy bit unbearable since I'd gone to Cottonwood. I found it impossible to look at Hannah's face, to smile gaily, to shoot the breeze about schoolwork or term papers or Mr. Moats' penchant for textured s.h.i.+rts without envisioning Doc and his accordion legs, his wrinkled face like wood once infested with termites, not to mention the horror of their Hollywood Kiss, which granted, had taken place off-screen, but was still scary. (It was two different movies crudely edited together-Gilda with with Coc.o.o.n.) Coc.o.o.n.) Of course, when I considered Jade, Lu, and the handicapped stall, I also felt queasy; but with Hannah it was worse. As Dad said, the difference between a dynamic and a wasted uprising depends upon the point at which it occurs within a country's historic timeline (see Van Meer, "The Fantasy of Industrialization," Federal Forum, Federal Forum, Vol. 23, Issue 9). Jade and Lu were still developing nations. And thus, while it wasn't fantastic, it also wasn't too terrible for them to have a backward infrastructure and a poor human development index. But Hannah-she was much farther along. She should have already established a robust economy, peacefulness, free trade-and as these things weren't yet a.s.sured, frankly, it wasn't looking good for her democracy. She could very well struggle forever, with "corruption and scandal perpetually undermining [her] credibility as a self-ruled state." Vol. 23, Issue 9). Jade and Lu were still developing nations. And thus, while it wasn't fantastic, it also wasn't too terrible for them to have a backward infrastructure and a poor human development index. But Hannah-she was much farther along. She should have already established a robust economy, peacefulness, free trade-and as these things weren't yet a.s.sured, frankly, it wasn't looking good for her democracy. She could very well struggle forever, with "corruption and scandal perpetually undermining [her] credibility as a self-ruled state."

Milton had opened a window. A puppyish draft tore around the dining room, causing my paper napkin to fly off my lap, the flames to dance violently atop the candles like lunatic ballerinas. I couldn't believe what Nigel had done, acted like a jealous husband presenting his wife with an incriminating cufflink.