Special Topics in Calamity Physics (40 page)

There were gestures too, like the Just-Whistlin'-Dixie Wave (performed after school in car windows as students drove away with their parents and noticed Wilson still waiting for his mother, who had stringy hair, a goat laugh and wore beads, a gesture always accompanied by one of three remarks: "So sad, what happened," "Cain't imagine what he's goin' through" or the bluntly paranoid, "Dad's not goin' kill himself anytime soon. Is he?"). There was also the That's-Him-Thar Point, the That's-Him-Thar Point in the Opposite Direction of Wilson Gnut (a Texan's attempt at subtlety) and worst of all, the Quick Conniption (performed by students when Wilson Gnut's hands accidentally touched theirs, on door handles, for example, or passing Unit Tests around class, as if Wilson Gnut's misfortune was an illness transmitted via hands, elbows or fingertips).

In the end—and this was the tragedy—Wilson Gnut ended up agreeing with everyone. He, too, began to believe a Secret Door had been opened just for him and awaited something dark and deviant, which, any moment now, would come flying out. It wasn't his fault, of course; if the world insinuates you're a Dog That Don't Hunt, a Cowboy With No Shit Kickers, In Low Cotton, you tend to believe it's true. Wilson stopped spearheading basketball games at break, disappeared from Olympics of the Mind. And even though, on multiple occasions, I overheard a few well-meaning kids asking him if he wanted to accompany them after school to KFC, Wilson avoided eye contact, mumbled, "No, thanks," and disappeared down the hall.

I thus concluded, with the same awe of Jane Goodall discovering the chimpanzees' nimble use of tools to extract termites, it really wasn't so much the tragic event itself, but others having knowledge of it that prevented recovery. Individuals could live through almost anything (see
Das unglaubliche Leben der Wolfgang Becker,
Becker, 1953). Even Dad was in awe of the human body and Dad was never in awe of anything. "It really is staggering, what the corpus can withstand."

After this observation, if he was in a Bourbon Mood and feeling theatrical, Dad did Brando as Colonel Kurtz.

" 'You have to have men who are moral,' " droned Dad, slowly turning his head toward me, widening his eyes in an attempt to portray Genius and Insanity simultaneously, " 'and at the same time, able to use their primordial instincts to kill without feeling, without passion, without judgment . . .' " (Dad always raised his eyebrows and stared at me pointedly on "judgment.") " 'Because it's judgment that defeats us.' "

Of course, I had to question the soundness of what Hannah had told me, of Hannah herself. There had been an undeniable sound-staginess to her words, evidence of fake palms (vagueness over exact locations), a prop warehouse (wineglass, endless cigarettes), wind machines (tendency to romanticize), publicity stills (heavy gazes at the ceiling, the floor)—theatrical flairs that brought to mind the lovelorn posters caking her classroom. It was
also
true, plenty of confidence men were capable of spinning grim fairy tales under pressure, replete with backstory, artful cross-reference, dashes of irony and twists of fate without a single flick of the eyes. And yet, while such villainous scheming was
remotely
plausible, it didn't exactly seem feasible for Hannah Schneider. Sharpies and short-changers concocted such elaborate fictions to escape the slammer; what was Hannah's motivation for making up forlorn pasts for each of the Bluebloods, brutally pushing them outside, locking the door, making them stand in the rain? No, I felt certain there was a basic truth to what she'd told me, even if it had Hannified studio lighting and white people in pancake makeup playing savages.

With these thoughts, morning sneaking toward the windows, flimsy curtains whispering to a draft, I fell asleep.

There's nothing like a bright and chipper morning to briskly send running all demons of the night before. (Contrary to popular belief, Unease, Inner Demons and Guilt Complexes were remarkably unsure of themselves and usually fled in the strong presence of Ease and Squeaky-Clean Conscience.)

I woke up in Hannah's tiny guest room—walls the color of bluebells — and slumped out of bed. I pulled back the thin white curtain. The front lawn shivered excitedly. Blue sky ballooned overhead. Crisp brown leaves,
en pointe,
were busy practicing
glissades
and
grand jetés
down the driveway. On Hannah's moldy bird feeder (usually as forsaken as a house with asbestos insulation and lead paint) two fat cardinals lunched with a chickadee.

I made my way downstairs and found Hannah dressed, reading the newspaper.

"There you are," she said cheerfully. "Sleep well?"

She gave me clothes, old gray corduroy pants she said had shrunk in the wash, black shoes and a pale pink cardigan with tiny beads around the neck.

"Keep this stuff," she said, smiling. "It looks adorable on you."

Twenty minutes later, she drove behind me in her Subaru all the way to the BP gas station, where I left Larson's truck and keys with Big Red who had raw-carrot fingers and worked mornings.

Hannah suggested we grab a bite to eat before she drove me home, so we stopped at Pancake Haven on Orlando. A waitress took our order. The restaurant had an uncomplicated frankness: square windows, worn brown carpet that stuttered Pancake Haven Pancake Haven all the way to the bathrooms, people sitting quietly with their food. If there was Darkness or Doom in the world, it was remarkably courteous, waiting for everyone to finish breakfast.

"Is Charles .. . in love with you?" I asked suddenly. It shocked me, how easy it was to ask the question.

Her reaction wasn't outrage, but amusement. "Who told you that—Jade? I thought I explained it last night—her need to exaggerate everything, pit people against each other, make everything more exotic than it is. They all do it. I have no idea why." She sighed. "They also have me pining after some person—what's the name . . .
Victor.
Or Venezia, something out of
Brave-heart.
It begins with V—"

"Valerio?" I suggested quietly.

"Is
that
it?" She laughed, a loud flirty sound, and a man in orange flannel sitting at the table next to us looked over at her, hopeful. "Believe me, if my knight in shining armor was wandering around out there—Valerio, right? — I'd be hightailing it after him. And when I found him, I'd hit him over the head with my club, toss him over my shoulder, bring him back to my
lair
and have my way with him." Still sort of giggling to herself, she unzipped her leather purse and handed me three quarters. "Now call your father."

I used the payphone by the cigarette machine. Dad answered after the first ring. "Hi-"

"Where in God's name are you?"

"At a diner with Hannah Schneider."

"Are you all right?"

(I have to admit, it was thrilling to hear the tremendous anxiety in Dad's voice.) "Of course. I'm having french toast." "Oh? We'll I'm having a Missing Person's Report for breakfast. Last Seen.

Approximately two-thirty. Wearing. I'm not sure. Glad you called. Was that a dress you were wearing last night or a Hefty-Hefty Cinch Sak?"

"I'll be home in an hour."

"Delighted you've decided to again grace me with your presence."

"Well, I'm not going to Fort Peck."

"Eh—we can discuss it."

And then it came to me, like Alfred Nobel his idea of a weapon to end all war (see Chapter 1, "Dynamite,"
History's Missteps,
June, 1992). " 'In fear, one flees,' " I said. He hesitated, but only for a second. "A valid point. But we'll have to see.

On the other hand, I am in dire need of your assistance with these piteous student essays. If it meant putting myself at your disposal, say, trading Fort Peck for three or four hours of your time, I suppose I'd be willing to do so."

"Dad?"

"Yes?"

I don't know why, but I couldn't say anything.

"Don't tell me you've gotten a tattoo across your chest that reads, 'Raised in Hell,' " he said. "No." "You've obtained a piercing." "No." "You wish to join a cult. A division of extremists who practice polygamy and call themselves Man's Agony."

"No."

"You're a lesbian and you'd like my blessing before asking out a field hockey coach." "No, Dad." "Thank God. Sapphic love, while natural and as old as the seas, is, regrettably, still considered by Middle America something of a fad, akin to the Melon Diet or Pantsuits. It wouldn't be an easy way of life. And as we both know, having me for a father is no cakewalk. It'd be strenuous, I think, to shoulder both loads."

"I love you, Dad."

There was silence.

I felt ludicrous, of course, not only because when one throws out those particular words, one needs them to boomerang back without delay, not even because I realized the previous evening had turned me into a sap, a cuckoo, a walking
For the Love of Benji
and a living
Lassie Come Home,
but because I knew full well Dad couldn't stomach those words, just as he couldn't stomach American politicians, corporate executives who were quoted in
The Wall Street Journal
saying either "synergy" or "out of the box," third-world poverty, genocide, game shows, movie stars, E.T.,
or
for that matter, Reese's Pieces.

"I love you too, my dear," he said at last. "Really though, I thought you'd have figured that out by now. Yet I suppose it's to be expected. The clearest, most palpable things in life, the elephants and white rhinos if you will, standing around quite plainly in their watering holes, chewing on leaves and twigs, they often go unnoticed. And why is that?"

It was a Van Meer Rhetorical Question followed by the Van Meer Pregnant Pause, so I simply waited, pressing the receiver against the bottom of my chin. I'd heard him use such oratorical devices before, the few times I'd come to watch him lecture in one of the big amphitheaters with carpeted walls and buzzing light. The last time I'd heard him speak, on Civil Warfare at Cheswick College, I remember, quite distinctly, I was horrified. Without a doubt, I thought to myself, as Dad went on frowning center stage (occasionally breaking into a variety of showy gestures, as if he was a deranged Mark Antony or manic King Henry VIII), everyone could see, plain as day, Dad's embarrassing truth: he wanted to be Richard Burton. But then I really looked around, and noticed every student (even the one on the third row who'd shaved an anarchy symbol into the back of his head) was behaving like a feeble white moth spiraling through Dad's light.

"America is asleep," Dad boomed. "You've heard it before—perhaps by a homeless man you passed on the street and he smelled like a Porta-John so you held your breath and pretended he was a mailbox. Well, is it
true? Is
America hibernating? Getting forty winks, a bit of shut-eye? We're a country of boundless opportunity. Aren't we? Well, I know the answer's 'yes' if you happen to be a CEO. Last year, the average compensation for a Chief Executive Officer soared 26 percent, compared to blue-collar salaries inching up a pitiable 3 percent. And the fattest paycheck of all? Mr. Stuart Burnes, CEO of Remco Integrated Technologies. Tell him what he's won, Bob! One-hundred sixteen-point-four million dollars for a year's labor."

Here Dad crossed his arms and looked fascinated.

"What's Stu
doing
to warrant such a windfall, a salary that would feed all of Sudan? Sadly, not much. Integrated missed fourth-quarter earnings. Stock prices fell 19 percent. Yet board members picked up the tab for the crew on Stu's hundred-foot yacht, also paid the Christie's curator fees for his fourteen-hundred-piece Impressionist art collection."

Here Dad inclined his head as if hearing faint, far-off music.

"So this is greed. And is it
good?
Should we listen to a man wearing suspenders? With many of you, when you come and chat with me during office hours, I sense an air of inevitability, not of
defeat,
but resignation, that such iniquities are simply the way it is and they can't be changed. This is America and what we do is grab as much
cash
as we can before we all die of heart disease. But do we want our lives to be a bonus round, a Money Grab? Call me an optimist, but I don't think so. I think we hope for something more meaningful. But what do we
do?
Start a revolution?"

Dad asked this of a small brown-haired girl wearing a pink T-shirt in the front row. She nodded apprehensively.

"Are you out of your
mind?"

Instantly, she turned six shades pinker than the T-shirt.

"You might have heard of various imbeciles who waged war on the U.S. government in the sixties and seventies. The New Communist Left. The Weather Underground. The Students for the Blah-Blah-No-One-Takes-You-Seriously. In fact, I think they were worse than Stu, because they smashed, not monogamy, but hope for productive protest and objection in this country. With their delusional self-importance, ad hoc violence, it became easy to dismiss anyone voicing dissatisfaction with the way things are as freaky flower chiles.

"No.
I contend we should take a cue from one of the greatest American movements of our time—a revolution in itself really, nobly warring as it does against time and gravity, also accountable for the most widespread perpetuation of alien-looking life forms on Earth. Cosmetic surgery. That's right, ladies and gentlemen. America is in dire need of a nip-tuck. No mass uprising, no widespread revolution. Rather, an eye lift here. A boob job there. Some well-placed liposuction. A minuscule cut behind the ears, tug it up, staple it into place—confidentiality is key—and
voilà,
everyone will be saying we look mahvelous. Greater elasticity. No sags. For those of you who are laughing, you'll see precisely what I mean when you do the reading for Tuesday, the treatise in Littleton's
Anatomy of Materialism,
'The Nightwatchmen and Mythical Principles of Practical Change.' And Eidelstein's 'Repressions of Imperialist Powers.' And my own meager piece, 'Blind Dates: Advantages of Silent Civil War.' Do not forget. You will be pop quizzed."