Part 28 (1/2)

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.