Part 29 (1/2)

Thinking about it, I felt dizzy, because it'd been such a cla.s.sy con; she'd been Yellow-Kid Nickel, the most acclaimed confidence man in history, and I'd been the easy mark, the fall guy, the unwitting casino.

”If Jade rode a mile mile in some cruddy eighteen-wheeler then I'm Elvis reincarnated,” Milton said as he drove me home. in some cruddy eighteen-wheeler then I'm Elvis reincarnated,” Milton said as he drove me home.

Naturally, I now felt dim for believing her. It was true. Jade wouldn't go fifty feet unless there was fur, silk or fine Italian leather involved. Sure, the girl disappeared into handicapped stalls with men who had faces like busted-up Buicks, but that was simply her brand of thrill, her b.u.mp of cocaine at fifteen minutes a pop. She wouldn't ride out of the parking lot with one of them, much less into a sunset. I'd also completely overlooked how much the girl s.h.i.+rked responsibility. She had trouble dropping a History cla.s.s. ”Can't deal with the paperwork,” she said, the paperwork being a slip of paper requiring three lines to be filled out. When I admitted to Milton Hannah had told me these stories, he declared her certifiable.

”In your defense, I see how you'd believe her,” he said, stopping the Nissan by my front door. ”If she told me that story about myself, that I'd joined a gang-h.e.l.l, that my parents were aliens-I'd probably believe it. She made everythin' real.” He hooked his fingers on the steering wheel. ”So that's it, I guess. Hannah was bojangled. Never woulda guessed it. I mean, why go through the trouble to invent that s.h.i.+t?”

”I don't know,” I said grimly as I climbed from the car.

He blew me a kiss. ”See you Monday? You. Me. A movie.”

I nodded and smiled. He drove away.

And yet, as I made my way upstairs to my room, I realized that in my life, if I'd known someone certifiable, it wouldn't be Hannah Schneider. No, it'd be June Bug Kelsea Stevens whom I caught in Dad's bathroom having a conversation with herself in the mirror (”You look marvelous. No, you you look marvelous. No, look marvelous. No, you you loo-how long have you been standing there?”) or even June Bug Phyllis Mixer who treated her skittish Standard Poodle like a ninety-year old grandmother (”Up-see-daisies. Good girl. That too much sun for you? No? What would you like for lunch, honey? Oh, you want my sandwich.”). And poor June Bug Vera Strauss, whom Dad and I found out later had been manic for years-looking back, she'd had actual signs of lunacy: her eyes were severely depressed (literally, into her face) and when she talked to you, there was something scary about it, as if she were actually addressing a ghost or some sort of poltergeist hovering just behind your left shoulder. loo-how long have you been standing there?”) or even June Bug Phyllis Mixer who treated her skittish Standard Poodle like a ninety-year old grandmother (”Up-see-daisies. Good girl. That too much sun for you? No? What would you like for lunch, honey? Oh, you want my sandwich.”). And poor June Bug Vera Strauss, whom Dad and I found out later had been manic for years-looking back, she'd had actual signs of lunacy: her eyes were severely depressed (literally, into her face) and when she talked to you, there was something scary about it, as if she were actually addressing a ghost or some sort of poltergeist hovering just behind your left shoulder.

No, in spite of mounting evidence to the contrary, I didn't believe that was the trapdoor out of the maze-that Hannah Schneider was simply nutty as a fruitcake. Any professor worth his salt would throw out that sort of essay, if some kid dared to turn in such an ill-considered, hackneyed Thesis. No, I'd read The Return of the Witness The Return of the Witness (Hastings, 1974) (Hastings, 1974) and and its sequel and I'd its sequel and I'd watched watched Hannah; I'd seen how she'd marched so a.s.suredly up that trail (there'd been a discernible jaunt in her step) and she'd shouted off that mountaintop with conviction, Hannah; I'd seen how she'd marched so a.s.suredly up that trail (there'd been a discernible jaunt in her step) and she'd shouted off that mountaintop with conviction, not not despair (there were vast differences in a voice's timbre between those emotions). despair (there were vast differences in a voice's timbre between those emotions).

There had to be another reason.

In my room, I threw down my backpack and removed the materials I'd filched from Hannah's house from the front of my dress and my shoe. I hadn't wanted Milton to know I was swiping things. I'd started to feel more than a little embarra.s.sed by the way my mind was working. He'd said, ”Look who's sleuthin',” ”Olives' got her sleuth on,” ”That's so sleuthy, sleuthy, baby,” six times and it'd sounded less and less cute the more he said it, and so, when we climbed into his Nissan I'd said I'd left my birthstone necklace on the bureau in Hannah's garage (I didn't have, nor had I ever had, a birthstone necklace) and while he waited, I ran inside and grabbed those materials I'd already set aside in the cardboard box in the back corner. I shoved the thin folder of Missing Person articles down my dress so it was pressed around my waist, put the photograph of Hannah with the spiky rockstar hair into my shoe, and when I climbed back into the car and he said, ”Got it?” I grinned, pretending to zip it into the front pocket of my backpack. (He wasn't the most perceptive person; I sat stiffly the entire ride home as if perched on pinecones and he didn't bat an eye.) baby,” six times and it'd sounded less and less cute the more he said it, and so, when we climbed into his Nissan I'd said I'd left my birthstone necklace on the bureau in Hannah's garage (I didn't have, nor had I ever had, a birthstone necklace) and while he waited, I ran inside and grabbed those materials I'd already set aside in the cardboard box in the back corner. I shoved the thin folder of Missing Person articles down my dress so it was pressed around my waist, put the photograph of Hannah with the spiky rockstar hair into my shoe, and when I climbed back into the car and he said, ”Got it?” I grinned, pretending to zip it into the front pocket of my backpack. (He wasn't the most perceptive person; I sat stiffly the entire ride home as if perched on pinecones and he didn't bat an eye.) Now, I switched on the bedside lamp and opened the manila folder.

The shock with which the revelation came to me wasn't because the idea was particularly intricate or inspired, but because it was so excitingly obvious, obvious, I hated myself for not considering it sooner. I read the newspaper articles first (Hannah appeared to have gone to a library and photocopied them from grainy microfiche): two from I hated myself for not considering it sooner. I read the newspaper articles first (Hannah appeared to have gone to a library and photocopied them from grainy microfiche): two from The Stockton Observer The Stockton Observer dated September 19, 1990, and June 2, 1979, ”Search for Missing Backpacker Underway,” ”Roseville Girl, 11, Found Unhurt,” respectively; another from dated September 19, 1990, and June 2, 1979, ”Search for Missing Backpacker Underway,” ”Roseville Girl, 11, Found Unhurt,” respectively; another from The Knoxville Press, The Knoxville Press, ”Missing Girl Reunited with Father, Mother Charged”; one from Tennessee's ”Missing Girl Reunited with Father, Mother Charged”; one from Tennessee's Pineville Herald-Times, Pineville Herald-Times, ”Missing Boy Prost.i.tuted,” and finally ”Missing Woman Found in VT, Using Alias,” from ”Missing Boy Prost.i.tuted,” and finally ”Missing Woman Found in VT, Using Alias,” from The Huntley Sentinel. The Huntley Sentinel.

I then read the last page, the book excerpt, which concluded the story of Violet May Martinez, the day she disappeared from the Great Smoky Mountains on August 29,1985.

97.

the group was one person short. Violet was nowhere to be found. Mike Higgis searched the parking lot and questioned strangers who'd parked there, but no one had seen her. After an hour, he contacted the National Park Service. The Park immediately launched a search, closing the area from Blindmans Bald to Burnt Creek. Violet's father and sister were notified and they brought Violet's clothes so the search dogs could identify her smell. Three German Shepherds tracked Violet to a single spot by a paved road, 1.25 miles from the last place Violet was seen. The road led to U.S. 441 leading out of the Park.

Ranger Bruel told Violet's father, Roy Jr., that could mean Violet made her way there and was picked up by someone in a vehicle. She also could have been abducted against her will.

Roy Jr. rejected the idea Violet had planned her disappearance. She did not have a credit card or identification with her. She had taken no money from her checking or savings accounts prior to the trip. She was also looking forward to her 16th birthday the following week at Roller-Skate America.

Roy Jr. tipped the police off to a potential suspect. Kenny Franks, 24, released January 1985 from a correctional inst.i.tution for violence and theft, had seen Violet at the mall and become infatuated. He'd been spotted at Besters High and hara.s.sed Violet with phone calls. Roy Jr. contacted the police and Kenny left her alone, though his friends reported he still was obsessed with her.

”Violet said she hated him, but she still wore the necklace he gave her,” said her best friend Polly Elms.

Police investigated the possibility of Kenny Franks having a hand in her disappearance, but sources testified on Aug. 25 he'd been working all day as a busboy at Stagg Mill Bar & Grill and was cleared of suspicion. Three weeks later he moved to Myrtle Beach, S.C. Police investigated if he was in contact with Violet, but no evidence to support this claim ever emerged.

A Final Enigma The search for Violet ended September 14, 1985. With 812 searchers, including Park Personnel, Rangers, the National Guard and FBI, no further leads in her disappearance came to light.

On October 21, 1985, at Jonesville Nations Bank in Jonesville, Florida, a black-haired woman tried to cash a check from Violet's checking account, made payable to ”Trixie Peanuts.” When the teller informed the woman she'd have to deposit the check and wait for it to clear, the woman left with it and never returned. The bank teller, when presented with a picture of Violet, was unable to confirm it was she. The woman was never seen in Jonesville again.

Roy Jr. swore his daughter would never have cause to disappear from her life. Her friend Polly thought otherwise.

”She was always talking about how much she hated Besters and hated being a Baptist. She got good grades so I think she could plan it so people thought she was dead. That way they'd stop looking for her and she'd never have to come back.”

Seven years later, Roy Jr. still thinks of Violet every day.

”I put it with G.o.d now. 'Trust in the Lord with all your heart,' ” he quotes from Proverbs 3:5, 6, ” 'and lean not on your own understanding.' ”

All of the articles in the folder were not merely concerning Missing Persons, but disappearances that had appeared to have been staged - definitively, in the case of the Huntley Sentinel Huntley Sentinel article, which detailed the vanis.h.i.+ng of a fifty-two-year-old woman, Ester Sweeney of Huntley, New Mexico, married to her third husband, Milo, and owing over $800,000 in back taxes and credit card bills. Police ultimately concluded she'd ransacked her home, slashed her kitchen screen and her own right arm (her blood was found in the foyer) in order to make it look like a violent break-in. She was found three years later in Winooski, Vermont, living under an a.s.sumed name and married to her fourth husband. article, which detailed the vanis.h.i.+ng of a fifty-two-year-old woman, Ester Sweeney of Huntley, New Mexico, married to her third husband, Milo, and owing over $800,000 in back taxes and credit card bills. Police ultimately concluded she'd ransacked her home, slashed her kitchen screen and her own right arm (her blood was found in the foyer) in order to make it look like a violent break-in. She was found three years later in Winooski, Vermont, living under an a.s.sumed name and married to her fourth husband.

The other articles were more informative, detailing police procedures, a National Park abduction, search methods. The Missing Backpacker article specified the ways the National Guard conducted a search of Yosemite: ”Rangers, after screening search-and-rescue volunteers for physical fitness, employed a grid system, a.s.signing each group sequential areas of the Glacier Point area to sweep.”

I couldn't believe believe it. And yet it wasn't unheard of; according to the it. And yet it wasn't unheard of; according to the Almanac of American Strange Habits, Tics and Behaviors Almanac of American Strange Habits, Tics and Behaviors (1994 ed.) one in every 4,932 United States citizens planned their own kidnapping or death. (1994 ed.) one in every 4,932 United States citizens planned their own kidnapping or death.

Hannah Schneider had not meant to die, but to disappear.

Somewhat sloppily (and it wasn't exactly meticulous work; if she'd been a Doctoral Candidate her advisor would've reprimanded her for lethargy), Hannah had compiled these articles as exploratory research before she made a break for it, took it on the lam, copped a sneak, polished off her former life like a b.u.t.ton-man did a squealer.

Anjelica Soledad de Crespo, a pseudonym for the drug-trafficking heroine of Jorge Torres's stirring nonfiction portrait of the Pan-American narcotics cartel, For the Love of Corinthian Leather For the Love of Corinthian Leather (2003), fed up with (2003), fed up with la vida de las drogas, la vida de las drogas, had designed a similar death for herself, though she'd ventured to La Gran Sabana in Venezuela and appeared to tumble over a thousand-foot falls. Nine months prior to the supposed accident, a boat of nineteen Polish tourists had gone over in the same fas.h.i.+on-three of the corpses were never recovered due to the powerful undercurrents at the waterfall's base, which held the bodies under in a vicious spin cycle until they were ripped to shreds, then devoured by crocodiles. Anjeliea was declared dead within forty-eight hours. The truth was, she'd slipped out of her rowboat, making her way to the scuba gear planted for her on a convenient rock formation, which she'd donned and, fully submerged, swam the four miles to a location upriver where her handsome lover, Carlos, originally from El Silencio in Caracas, awaited her in a tricked-out silver Hummer. They hightailed it to an uninhabited section of the Amazon, somewhere in Guyana, where they still live. had designed a similar death for herself, though she'd ventured to La Gran Sabana in Venezuela and appeared to tumble over a thousand-foot falls. Nine months prior to the supposed accident, a boat of nineteen Polish tourists had gone over in the same fas.h.i.+on-three of the corpses were never recovered due to the powerful undercurrents at the waterfall's base, which held the bodies under in a vicious spin cycle until they were ripped to shreds, then devoured by crocodiles. Anjeliea was declared dead within forty-eight hours. The truth was, she'd slipped out of her rowboat, making her way to the scuba gear planted for her on a convenient rock formation, which she'd donned and, fully submerged, swam the four miles to a location upriver where her handsome lover, Carlos, originally from El Silencio in Caracas, awaited her in a tricked-out silver Hummer. They hightailed it to an uninhabited section of the Amazon, somewhere in Guyana, where they still live.

I stared at the ceiling, racking my brain to recover every detail from that night. Hannah had changed into heavier clothes while we were eating dinner. When she came to find me in the woods, she wore a satchel around her waist. As she led me away, she'd known exactly where she was going because she'd walked resolutely, checking the map and compa.s.s. She'd intended to tell me something, a confession of some kind, then abandon me. Using the compa.s.s, she'd intersect with a predetermined trail, which would lead to one of the minor Park roads, then to U.S. 441 and a campground where a car awaited her (perhaps it was Carlos in a silver Hummer). By the time we were rescued and she was declared missing-a lag time of at least twenty-four hours, most likely longer, given the weather conditions-she'd be states away, maybe even Mexico.

And maybe the stranger who'd come upon us had not been so strange. Maybe he he was Hannah's Carlos (her was Hannah's Carlos (her Valerio) Valerio) and the ambush, the ”Give me five minutes,” the ”I said stay here,” had been a hoax; maybe she'd and the ambush, the ”Give me five minutes,” the ”I said stay here,” had been a hoax; maybe she'd intended intended to go after him all along, and together they'd make their way to the trail, the road, car, Mexico, margaritas, fajitas. In this case, when I was found, I'd report to authorities someone had come upon us, and when no sign of Hannah turned up, when German Shepherds tracked her to a spot on a nearby road, the police would suspect Kidnapping or other Foul Play, or, that she'd to go after him all along, and together they'd make their way to the trail, the road, car, Mexico, margaritas, fajitas. In this case, when I was found, I'd report to authorities someone had come upon us, and when no sign of Hannah turned up, when German Shepherds tracked her to a spot on a nearby road, the police would suspect Kidnapping or other Foul Play, or, that she'd planned planned to vanish, in which case, unless she was WANTED for something, they'd do little. (Detective Harper had not hinted at Hannah having a criminal record. And I could only a.s.sume she wasn't related to the Bonanno, Gambino, Genovese, Lucchese or Colombo crime families.) to vanish, in which case, unless she was WANTED for something, they'd do little. (Detective Harper had not hinted at Hannah having a criminal record. And I could only a.s.sume she wasn't related to the Bonanno, Gambino, Genovese, Lucchese or Colombo crime families.) Sure, it was a brutal thing she'd done, to purposefully abandon me in the dark, but when people were desperate they did, with little conscience, all kinds of brutal things (see How to Survive” The Farm” Louisiana State Prison at Angola, How to Survive” The Farm” Louisiana State Prison at Angola, Glibb, 1979). Yet, she hadn't been totally without concern; before she left me, she'd given me the flashlight, the map, told me not to be afraid. And during the afternoon hike up Bald Creek Trail, on four or five occasions, she'd pointed out on our maps, not only our location, but the fact that Sugar-top Summit was only four miles away from the Park's main road, U.S. 441. Glibb, 1979). Yet, she hadn't been totally without concern; before she left me, she'd given me the flashlight, the map, told me not to be afraid. And during the afternoon hike up Bald Creek Trail, on four or five occasions, she'd pointed out on our maps, not only our location, but the fact that Sugar-top Summit was only four miles away from the Park's main road, U.S. 441.

If I could determine the reason Hannah had wished to flee her life, I could determine who'd killed her. Because it'd been a first-rate rub out, a b.u.t.ton man well acquainted with autopsies, because he'd understood the consequence of the ligature marks, how to make them look like suicide. He'd planned in advance the ideal spot for the lynching, that small, round clearing, and thus he'd known she was running away and what trail she was taking to reach the road. Maybe he'd been wearing night-vision goggles, or hunter's camouflage-like the disturbing kind I'd seen in Andreo Verduga's Wal-Mart shopping cart in Nestles, Missouri, s.h.i.+fTbush Invisible Gear, Fall Mix, ”the accomplished hunter's dream”-and, ”instantly invisible in his woodland surroundings,” he'd stepped onto a tree stump or some other st.u.r.dy, elevated position, silently waiting for her, poised with the electrical cord in a noose, which was in turn rigged to the tree. As she stumbled past, trying to find her way, trying to find him- him-because she'd known who he was-he looped it over her head, wrenching his end of the rope hard so she rose into the air. She didn't have time to react, to kick or scream, to organize the last thoughts of her life. (”Even the devil deserves last thoughts,” wrote William Stonely in Ash Complexions Ash Complexions [1932].) [1932].) As I reenacted this scene in my head, my heart began to thud. Sickening chills began to inchworm down my arms and legs, and then, rather abruptly, one more detail fell motionless at my feet like a lead-poisoned canary, like a pugface nose-toasted by a mean right to his chin.

Hannah had instructed Milton to take me to her house, not not to play matchmaker (though perhaps that played a part; I couldn't discount the movie posters in her cla.s.sroom), but so I, a thought-ridden and inquisitive person, would engage in a little gumshoe: to play matchmaker (though perhaps that played a part; I couldn't discount the movie posters in her cla.s.sroom), but so I, a thought-ridden and inquisitive person, would engage in a little gumshoe: ”You're such a perceptive person; you dont miss anything” ”You're such a perceptive person; you dont miss anything” she'd told me that night at her house. She had not foreseen her death, and thus presumed, after she'd disappeared, when the search party turned up no trace of her, the Bluebloods and I would be left with the maddening question of what had happened, the kind of question that could she'd told me that night at her house. She had not foreseen her death, and thus presumed, after she'd disappeared, when the search party turned up no trace of her, the Bluebloods and I would be left with the maddening question of what had happened, the kind of question that could kill kill a person, turn a person into a Bible-spewer, a rocking-horsed corn-shucking mountie with no teeth. And thus I, along with Milton, had been meant to discover, sitting entirely alone on that strangely immaculate coffee table (ordinarily littered with ashtrays and matchbooks, a person, turn a person into a Bible-spewer, a rocking-horsed corn-shucking mountie with no teeth. And thus I, along with Milton, had been meant to discover, sitting entirely alone on that strangely immaculate coffee table (ordinarily littered with ashtrays and matchbooks, National Geographies National Geographies and junk mail) an item that would be our rea.s.surance, the end to her story: a film, and junk mail) an item that would be our rea.s.surance, the end to her story: a film, L'Avventura. L'Avventura.

I felt faint. Because it was chic, oh, yes, it was brilliant, brilliant, tres Schneideresque: neatly precise yet sweetly hush-hush. (It was an act of personal punctuation even Dad would've considered nimble.) It was thrilling because it ill.u.s.trated a premeditation, a craftiness of action and mind of which I hadn't thought Hannah capable. She was hurtfully beautiful; sure, she could listen to you, and rumba remarkably well with a winegla.s.s; she could also pick up men like they were socks cluttering the floor, but for a person to orchestrate, however gently, such a subtle end to her life-at least, her life as everyone at St. Gallway knew it-that was something else, something dramatic, yet sad, because this murmur of an ending, this cla.s.sy question mark, had not happened. tres Schneideresque: neatly precise yet sweetly hush-hush. (It was an act of personal punctuation even Dad would've considered nimble.) It was thrilling because it ill.u.s.trated a premeditation, a craftiness of action and mind of which I hadn't thought Hannah capable. She was hurtfully beautiful; sure, she could listen to you, and rumba remarkably well with a winegla.s.s; she could also pick up men like they were socks cluttering the floor, but for a person to orchestrate, however gently, such a subtle end to her life-at least, her life as everyone at St. Gallway knew it-that was something else, something dramatic, yet sad, because this murmur of an ending, this cla.s.sy question mark, had not happened.

I tried to calm myself. (”Emotion, especially excitement, is the enemy of d.i.c.k work,” said Detective Lieutenant Peterson in Wooden Kimono Wooden Kimono [Lazim, 1980].) [Lazim, 1980].) L'Avventura, Michelangelo Antonioni's lyrical black-and-white masterpiece of i960 happened to be one of Dad's favorite films and thus, over the years, I'd seen it no less than twelve times. (Dad had a soft spot for all things Italian, including curvy women with poofy hair and Marcello Mastroianni's squints, shrugs, winks and smiles, which he tossed like overripe cherry tomatoes at women strolling Via Veneto. When Dad fell into a Mediterraneo Bourbon Mood, he'd even do bits of Michelangelo Antonioni's lyrical black-and-white masterpiece of i960 happened to be one of Dad's favorite films and thus, over the years, I'd seen it no less than twelve times. (Dad had a soft spot for all things Italian, including curvy women with poofy hair and Marcello Mastroianni's squints, shrugs, winks and smiles, which he tossed like overripe cherry tomatoes at women strolling Via Veneto. When Dad fell into a Mediterraneo Bourbon Mood, he'd even do bits of La Dolce Vita La Dolce Vita with pitch-perfect, seedy Italian flair: with pitch-perfect, seedy Italian flair: ”Tu sei la prima donna del primo giorno delia creazione, sei la madre, la sorella, l'amante, l'arnica,l'angelo, il diavolo, la terra, la casa . ”Tu sei la prima donna del primo giorno delia creazione, sei la madre, la sorella, l'amante, l'arnica,l'angelo, il diavolo, la terra, la casa . . .”) . .”) The film's simple plot unraveled as follows: A wealthy socialite, Anna, goes on a yachting trip with her friends off the coast of Sicily. They go ash.o.r.e to sunbathe on a deserted island. Anna wanders away and never returns. Anna's fiance, Sandro, and her best friend, Claudia, search the island, and subsequently, all of Italy, pursuing a variety of dead-end clues and embarking on a love affair of their own. At the film's end, Anna's disappearance remains as mysterious as the day she disappeared. Life continues-in this case, one of hollow desire and material excess -and Anna is all but forgotten.

Hannah had hoped I'd find this film. She hoped -no, she knew- knew-I'd perceive the similarities between Anna's unexplained tale and her own. (Even their names were virtually identical.) And she was confident I'd explain it to the others, not only that she'd planned this departure but that she wanted us to move on with our lives, with dancing barefoot with a winegla.s.s, with shouting off of mountaintops (”Living Italian-Style,” as Dad was fond of saying, though being Swiss-born it was violently against nature for him to follow his own advice).

”L'Avventura,” Dad said, ”has the sort of ellipsis ending most American audiences would rather undergo a root ca.n.a.l than be left with, not only because they loathe anything left to the imagination-we're talking about a country that invented spandex-but also because they are a confident, self-a.s.sured nation. They Dad said, ”has the sort of ellipsis ending most American audiences would rather undergo a root ca.n.a.l than be left with, not only because they loathe anything left to the imagination-we're talking about a country that invented spandex-but also because they are a confident, self-a.s.sured nation. They know know Family. They Family. They know know Right from Wrong. They know G.o.d-many of them attest to daily chats with the man. And the idea that none of us can truly know anything at all -not the lives of our friends or family, not even ourselves-is a thought they'd rather be shot in the arm with their own semi-automatic rifle than face head on. Personally, I think there's something terrific about not knowing, relinquis.h.i.+ng man's feeble attempt to control. When you throw up your hands, say, 'Who knows?' you can get on with the sheer gift of being alive, rather like the Right from Wrong. They know G.o.d-many of them attest to daily chats with the man. And the idea that none of us can truly know anything at all -not the lives of our friends or family, not even ourselves-is a thought they'd rather be shot in the arm with their own semi-automatic rifle than face head on. Personally, I think there's something terrific about not knowing, relinquis.h.i.+ng man's feeble attempt to control. When you throw up your hands, say, 'Who knows?' you can get on with the sheer gift of being alive, rather like the paparazzi, paparazzi, the the puttane, puttane, the the cognoscenti, cognoscenti, the the tappisti. tappisti. . .” (Around here, I always tuned Dad out, because when he went on in Italian he was like a h.e.l.l's Angel on a Harley; he loved to go fast and loud and for everyone to stop in the streets and stare at him.) . .” (Around here, I always tuned Dad out, because when he went on in Italian he was like a h.e.l.l's Angel on a Harley; he loved to go fast and loud and for everyone to stop in the streets and stare at him.) By now, it was after 6:00 P.M. The sun was loosening its grip on the lawn and frilly black shadows had collapsed all over my bedroom floor like skinny widows killed with a.r.s.enic. I rolled off the bed, putting the folder and photo of punk-rocked Hannah in the top left desk drawer (where I also kept her Charles Manson paperback). I considered calling Milton, telling him everything, but then I heard the Volvo swerving down the driveway. Moments later, Dad was in the hall.

I found him by the front door, which he hadn't closed because he was reading the front page of South Africa's Cape Daily Press. Cape Daily Press.

”You've got to be kidding me,” he muttered disgustedly, ”poor disorganized fools-when will the madness-no, it wont wont end, not until they educate-but it's possible, crazier things have happened . . .” He glanced at me, a dour expression on his face, before returning to the article. ”They're slaughtering more rebels in the D.R.C., sweet, some five hundred - ” end, not until they educate-but it's possible, crazier things have happened . . .” He glanced at me, a dour expression on his face, before returning to the article. ”They're slaughtering more rebels in the D.R.C., sweet, some five hundred - ”

He looked at me again, startled. ”What's the matter? You look exhausted.”

He frowned. ”Are you still not sleeping? I went through quite a nasty period of insomnia myself, Harvard '74-”

”I'm fine.”

He studied me, about to argue, then decided against it. ”Well, never fear!” With a smile, he folded the newspaper. ”Remember what we're doing tomorrow or have you forgotten our bid for a day of repose? The great Lake Pennebaker!”

I had had forgotten; Dad had been planning the day trip with all the excitement of Britain's Captain Scott planning the world's first expedition to the South Pole, hoping to beat Norway's Captain Amundsen in the process. (In Dad's case, he hoped to beat the retirees so he'd be first in line for a paddle-boat and a picnic table in the shade.) forgotten; Dad had been planning the day trip with all the excitement of Britain's Captain Scott planning the world's first expedition to the South Pole, hoping to beat Norway's Captain Amundsen in the process. (In Dad's case, he hoped to beat the retirees so he'd be first in line for a paddle-boat and a picnic table in the shade.) ”A lake excursion,” he went on, kissing me on the cheek before picking up his briefcase and moving down the hall. ”I must say I'm stirred by the idea, especially since we'll be catching the tail end of the Pioneer Crafts Fair. I think you and I both require an afternoon in the sun, to take our minds off the flabby state of the world -though something tells me when I see the onslaught of RVs I'll realize I'm not in Switzerland anymore.”

29.