Part 10 (1/2)

And yet, Hannah gave no reaction.

She didn't even seem to notice notice the invitation, concentrating instead on her veal chop, cutting it into identically sized pieces with an elegant handbag of a smile on her face. Her blouse, satin and sea-green (one of her few articles of clothing that didn't carry itself like a refugee), clung to her as a languid, iridescent skin, moving when she moved, breathing when she breathed. the invitation, concentrating instead on her veal chop, cutting it into identically sized pieces with an elegant handbag of a smile on her face. Her blouse, satin and sea-green (one of her few articles of clothing that didn't carry itself like a refugee), clung to her as a languid, iridescent skin, moving when she moved, breathing when she breathed.

This uneasiness continued for what felt like an hour. I toyed with the idea of stretching my arms over my veal chop in the direction of the sauteed spinach, grabbing the thing, stealthily slipping it under my leg, but, to be honest, I didn't have the moral aplomb to perform such things as The Sir Thomas More or The Jeanne d'Arc. Nigel was sitting in his chair staring at Hannah, and the way his eyes were buried behind his gla.s.ses, reflecting the candles, until he turned his head and they emerged for a moment like beetles in sand, the way he sat so straight, so small yet so substantial, he looked like Napoleon, especially the unappealing oil rendering of the diminutive French Emperor on the cover of Dad's foundational seminar textbook, Mastering Mankind Mastering Mankind (Howards & Path, 1994). (He looked as if he could perform a coup d'etat in his sleep and had no qualms being at war with every major European power.) (Howards & Path, 1994). (He looked as if he could perform a coup d'etat in his sleep and had no qualms being at war with every major European power.) ”I didn't tell you,” Hannah said suddenly, ”because if I did, you'd want to come. And you can't. I'm inviting Eva Brewster, which makes your attendance out of the question if I'm to keep my job.”

Not only was her reaction surprising (also a bit of a let-down; I suppose I was in the stands, drinking Anis del Toro, awaiting the matador), but also remarkable and slick was the way she'd seen seen the invitation but appeared the invitation but appeared not not to have seen it. to have seen it.

”Why'd you invite Eva Brewster?” asked Leulah.

”She heard I was planning the fund-raiser and asked if she could come. I couldn't say no. Nigel, I don't appreciate your going through my things. Please give me the courtesy of privacy.”

No one said anything. It was Nigel's cue to explain himself, to give some semblance of an apology, attempt some flea-bitten joke about his sticky fingers or refer to Cool Parenting s Cool Parenting s Chapter 21, ”Teenagers and the Joy of Kleptomania,” quoting one of the surprising statistics, that it was common for teenagers to go through a period of ”appropriation” and ”embezzlement” (Mill, 2000). Sixty percent of the time it was something ”the youngster eventually grew out of, like Gothic eye makeup and skateboarding” (p. 183). Chapter 21, ”Teenagers and the Joy of Kleptomania,” quoting one of the surprising statistics, that it was common for teenagers to go through a period of ”appropriation” and ”embezzlement” (Mill, 2000). Sixty percent of the time it was something ”the youngster eventually grew out of, like Gothic eye makeup and skateboarding” (p. 183).

But Nigel wasn't paying attention. He was cheerfully helping himself to the last veal chop.

Soon the food was cold. We cleared the plates, collected our books, said weak good-byes into the monstrous night. Hannah leaned against the doorway, saying what she always did -”Drive home safely!”-but something in the timbre of her voice, that certain campfire quality, was gone. As Jade and I drove down the driveway, I looked back and saw her still standing on the porch, watching us, her green blouse in the gold light s.h.i.+vering like a swimming pool.

”I feel sick,” I said.

Jade nodded. ”Utterly wretched.”

”Wonder if she'll forgive him.”

”Of course she will. She knows him like the back of her hand. Nigel was born without the feeling gene. Other people have no appendix, not enough white blood cells. He doesn't have enough feeling. I guess they did a scan of his brain when he was kid and where other people have emotion, he has a vacuum of total s.p.a.ce, poor kid. And he's gay, too. And sure, everyone's open-minded and accepting-all that jazz-but it still still can't be easy in high school.” can't be easy in high school.”

”He's gay?” I asked in amazement.

”Earth to Retch? h.e.l.lo?” h.e.l.lo?” She looked at me as if I were a snag in tights. ”You know, sometimes I wonder if you're all there, if you know what I mean. Have you ever gone to a doctor to make sure you have all your furniture upstairs? Because I have serious doubts about it, Gag. I really do.” She looked at me as if I were a snag in tights. ”You know, sometimes I wonder if you're all there, if you know what I mean. Have you ever gone to a doctor to make sure you have all your furniture upstairs? Because I have serious doubts about it, Gag. I really do.”

Such things as anguish, woe, affliction, guilt, feelings of awfulness and utter wretchedness, the bread and b.u.t.ter of Days of Yore and Russians, sadly have very little staying power in these lickety-split Modern Times.

One has only to consult the 2002 edition of R. Stanbury's Illuminating Statistics and Cross-Century Comparisons, Illuminating Statistics and Cross-Century Comparisons, under ”Grieving,” to learn that the very idea of being Broken-hearted, Wretched, Desolate and Despairing is a thing of the past, soon to take on the amusing novelty of such archaic things as the Jalopy, the Jitterbug and Jams. The average American widower in 1802 waited an average of 18.9 years before remarrying, while in 2001 he holds out for an average 8.24 months. (In the ”By State” snapshot, you will see in California he holds out for a horrifying 3.6 months.) under ”Grieving,” to learn that the very idea of being Broken-hearted, Wretched, Desolate and Despairing is a thing of the past, soon to take on the amusing novelty of such archaic things as the Jalopy, the Jitterbug and Jams. The average American widower in 1802 waited an average of 18.9 years before remarrying, while in 2001 he holds out for an average 8.24 months. (In the ”By State” snapshot, you will see in California he holds out for a horrifying 3.6 months.) Of course, Dad made it his business to rage against this ”cultural anesthetizing,” this ”ironing out of deep human sentiment, leaving only a flat, unwrinkled vacuity,” and thus he'd deliberately raised me to be an insightful, sensitive sort of person, someone aware, beneath even the most tedious surfaces, of good, evil and the smoky shades in between. He made sure I took the time between Muders, Ohio, and Paducah, Was.h.i.+ngton, to commit to memory not one or two, but all all of Blake's ”Songs of Innocence and Experience,” and thus I couldn't look at a fly buzzing around a hamburger without fretting, ”Am not I / A fly like thee? / Or art not thou / A man like me?” of Blake's ”Songs of Innocence and Experience,” and thus I couldn't look at a fly buzzing around a hamburger without fretting, ”Am not I / A fly like thee? / Or art not thou / A man like me?”

When I was with the Bluebloods though, it was easy to pretend I hadn't committed anything to memory except the lyrics of a thousand corn syrup R&B songs, that I'd never heard of anyone named Blake except that junior who always had his hands in his pockets and looked like he wanted to hit someone, that I could simply notice a fly and not think anything but shrill girlish expressions (Ew). Naturally, if Dad knew about my att.i.tude, he would've called it ”stomach-turning conformity,” maybe even ”a disgrace to the Van Meers.” (It often slipped his mind he was an orphan.) Yet I saw it as thrilling, Romantic, if I allowed the current to take me along the ”willowy hills and fields,” or wherever it wanted, regardless of the consequences (see ”The Lady of Shalott,” Tennyson, 1842).

This was why I had no objections the following slattern Sat.u.r.day night, November 22, when Jade made an entrance in the Purple Room wearing a black wig and a billowing white pantsuit. Colossal shoulder pads jutted off of her like the White Cliffs of Dover and she'd drawn duomo duomo eyebrows over her eyes with what appeared to be a burnt sienna Crayola crayon. eyebrows over her eyes with what appeared to be a burnt sienna Crayola crayon.

”Guess who I am.”

Charles turned to survey her. ”Dame Edna.”

” 'I never go out unless I look like Joan Crawford the movie star. You want The Girl Next Door? Go next door.' ” She threw her head back and villain-laughed, falling onto the leather couch, and putting her feet with their big, dinghy-like, black pumps in the air. ”Guess where I'm headed.”

”h.e.l.l,” said Charles.

She rolled over, sitting up. A clump of wig stuck to her lipstick.

”The Burns County Animal Shelter cordially invites you to our annual-”

”Not a chance.”

”-charity soiray-”

”We can't.”

”-RSVP-”.

”Absolutely not.”

”Rowdy s.e.x very very possible.” possible.”

”No.”

”I'll go,” said Leulah.

In the end, we couldn't agree on a group costume, so Charles was Jack the Ripper (for blood, Leulah and I doused him with A.1. Steak Sauce), Leulah was a French maid (helping herself to the array of Hermes silk scarves in various equestrian motifs, folded into neat squares in Jefferson's bureau), Milton, refusing to dress up, was Plan B (the ambiguous sense of humor that bubbled up whenever he smoked pot), Nigel was Antonio Banderas as Zorro (he used Jeff's toenail scissors to cut small holes around the rhinestone zzzzzs of her black sleeping mask), Jade was Anita Ekberg of La Dolce Vita La Dolce Vita replete with stuffed kitten (she duct-taped it to a headband). I was one very unlikely p.u.s.s.y Galore in shrublike red wig and baggy, teal nylon bodysuit (see ”Martian 14,” replete with stuffed kitten (she duct-taped it to a headband). I was one very unlikely p.u.s.s.y Galore in shrublike red wig and baggy, teal nylon bodysuit (see ”Martian 14,” Profiling Little Green Men: Sketches of Aliens from EyewitnessAccounts, Profiling Little Green Men: Sketches of Aliens from EyewitnessAccounts, Diller, 1989, p. 115). Diller, 1989, p. 115).

We were drunk. Outside, the air was supple and warm as a dance hall girl after her opening number; and in our costumes, we sprinted sloppily across the nighted lawn, laughing at nothing.

Jade, in her giant conch-sh.e.l.l gown, crunchy with crinolines, ruffles and ribbons, screamed and threw herself against the gra.s.s, rolling down the hill. ”Where are you going?” shouted Charles. ”It started at eight! It's nine-thirty!”

”Come on, Retch!” shouted Jade.

I crossed my arms over my chest and hurled myself forward.

”Where are are you?” you?”

I rolled. Gra.s.s needled me and my wig ripped off. Stars catapulted between dull pauses of ground, and at the bottom, the quiet hit me. Jade was lying a few feet away, her face serious and blue. Staring at the stars naturally encouraged one's face to appear serious and blue, and Dad had a variety of theories explaining this phenomenon, the majority of which centered on human insecurity and sobering realizations of absolute smallness when measured against such unfathomable things as the Spiral, the Barred Spiral, the Elliptical and the Irregular Galaxy.

But I remember, I couldn't recall a single one of Dad's theories at that moment. The black sky, pinp.r.i.c.ked with light, couldn't help but show off like Mozart at five. Voices scratched the air, words wobbly and unsure of themselves, and soon Milton was hurtling through the darkness, and Nigel's loafers rocketed past my head, and Leulah fell right next to me with a teacup sound (”Ahh!”). The silk scarf escaped her hair and settled over my neck and chin. When I breathed, it bubbled like a pond when something drowns in it.

”You b.a.s.t.a.r.ds!” screamed Charles. ”By the time we get there, it'll be over! We need to leave now!” now!”

”Shut up, n.a.z.i,” Jade said.

”Think Hannah will be mad?” asked Leulah.

”Probably.”

”She'll kill us,” said Milton. He was only a few feet away. When he breathed it was dragon breaths. ”Hannah shmanna,” Jade said. Somehow, we peeled ourselves off the ground and trekked up the hill to the Mercedes, where Charles was waiting in a bad mood wearing Jade's eighth-grade clear plastic raincoat so he didn't get A.1. Steak Sauce all over the driver's seat. I was the smallest, and Jade said it was necessary to take one car, so I acted as the human seat belt across Nigel, Jade and Leulah, who was making babies' feet with her fist in the fogged window. I concentrated on the car light, my big white high heels touching the door handle, the cloud of smoke loitering around Milton's head in the front seat where he smoked one of his joints thick as lipstick.

”Gonna be messy,” he said, ”showin' up there unannounced. Not too late to change the plan, friends.” ”Stop being mind-numbing,” Jade said, plucking the joint from his fingers. ”We see Evita, we hide. Make like rugs. It'll be fun.”

”Peron won't be there,” said Nigel.

”Why not?”

”Hannah didn't really invite her. She was lying. She said it just to have a valid reason why we couldn't come.” ”You're paranoid.” Nigel shrugged. ”She showed the cla.s.sic signs of lying. I'd bet my life Eva Brewster will not be at the party. And if anyone asks her about it on Monday, she wouldn't have a clue what you're talking about.” ”You ”You are the sp.a.w.n of Satan,” Jade p.r.o.nounced, then accidentally b.u.mped her head against the window. ”Ow.” are the sp.a.w.n of Satan,” Jade p.r.o.nounced, then accidentally b.u.mped her head against the window. ”Ow.”

”Want some?” asked Leulah, handing me the joint.