Part 33 (1/2)

He sighed and put his hands in perfect This-is-the-church-this-is-the-steeple architecture. ”It's really quite simple. You introduced us again on the occasion she drove you home. Sometime in October, wasn't it? You remember?”

I nodded.

”Well, the woman called me shortly thereafter. Said she was worried about you. You and I weren't on the best of terms, if you recall, so naturally, I was concerned and accepted her invitation to meet for dinner. She chose a rather inappropriately ornate restaurant, Hyacinth something, and over the course of the seven-course meal proceeded to inform me it was a swell swell idea for you to start seeing a child psychiatrist to work out some issues you had with your deceased mother. Naturally, I was livid. The sheer idea for you to start seeing a child psychiatrist to work out some issues you had with your deceased mother. Naturally, I was livid. The sheer gall gall of the woman! But then, when I came home, of the woman! But then, when I came home, saw saw you-saw your hair, the natural color of feldspar-I began to worry if perhaps she was right. Yes, it was an idiotic, you-saw your hair, the natural color of feldspar-I began to worry if perhaps she was right. Yes, it was an idiotic, insulting insulting a.s.sumption on my part, but all the same, I've always been nervous, raising you without your mother. You could say it's been my Achilles' heel. And so I had dinner with her two more times, in order to discuss the possibility of your a.s.sumption on my part, but all the same, I've always been nervous, raising you without your mother. You could say it's been my Achilles' heel. And so I had dinner with her two more times, in order to discuss the possibility of your seeing seeing someone, at the end of which I realized, not only did you someone, at the end of which I realized, not only did you not not need help, need help, she she needed help. And rather urgently.” Dad sighed. ”I know you liked her, but she was not the most stable of people. She called my office a few times after that. I told her you and I had managed to work things out, that we were needed help. And rather urgently.” Dad sighed. ”I know you liked her, but she was not the most stable of people. She called my office a few times after that. I told her you and I had managed to work things out, that we were fine. fine. And she accepted it. Shortly thereafter, we flew to Paris. I hadn't talked to or heard anything about her since. Until she committed suicide. Tragic, certainly, but I can't say I was surprised.” And she accepted it. Shortly thereafter, we flew to Paris. I hadn't talked to or heard anything about her since. Until she committed suicide. Tragic, certainly, but I can't say I was surprised.”

”When did you send her the barbaresco orientals?”

”I-the what?” what?”

”Obviously you didn't buy them for Janet Finnsbroke who dates back to the Paleozoic Period. You bought them for Hannah Schneider.”

He stared at me. ”Yes. I-well, I didn't want you to - ”

”Then you were madly in love with her,” I interrupted. ”Don't lie. Say Say it-” Dad laughed. ”Hardly.” ”No one buys barbaresco orientals for someone they're not in love with.” it-” Dad laughed. ”Hardly.” ”No one buys barbaresco orientals for someone they're not in love with.”

”Then call Guinness. I am the first, my dear.” He shook his head. ”I told told you. I thought she was rather sad. I sent her flowers after one of our dinners, after I told her, rather harshly, what I thought of her-that she was one of those despairing people who concoct madcap theories about others-and doubtlessly for herself-purely for entertainment as their own lives are so dull. Such people wish to be bigger than they actually are. And naturally, when one speaks one's mind-tells someone the truth, or one's personal version of it-it never goes over well. Someone always ends up crying. Remember what I've always said about truth, standing in a long black dress in the corner, feet together, head down?” you. I thought she was rather sad. I sent her flowers after one of our dinners, after I told her, rather harshly, what I thought of her-that she was one of those despairing people who concoct madcap theories about others-and doubtlessly for herself-purely for entertainment as their own lives are so dull. Such people wish to be bigger than they actually are. And naturally, when one speaks one's mind-tells someone the truth, or one's personal version of it-it never goes over well. Someone always ends up crying. Remember what I've always said about truth, standing in a long black dress in the corner, feet together, head down?”

”She's the loneliest girl in the room.”

”Precisely. Contrary to popular belief, no one wants anything to do with her. She's too depressing to be around. Trust me, everyone prefers to dance with something a little s.e.xier, a little more comforting. And so I sent flowers. I didn't know what kind they were. I asked the florist to pick something-”

”They were barbaresco oriental lilies.”

Dad smiled. ”Well, now I know.”

I didn't say anything. The position at which Dad was sitting, turned away from the lamplight, made his face old. The wrinkles on his face textured him. Lines cut toward his eyes and along his face, in his hands, tiny tears all over him.

”So it was you calling that night,” I said.

He looked at me. ”What?”

”The night I ran away to her house. You called her.”

”Who?”

”Hannah Schneider. I was there when the phone rang. She said it was Jade, but it wasn't Jade. It was you.” ”Yes,” he said softly, nodding. ”Maybe that's right. I did call her.” ”See? You-you have an entire relations.h.i.+p relations.h.i.+p with her and you- ” with her and you- ” ”Why do you think I calledher?” ”Why do you think I calledher?” Dad shouted. ”That nut job was my only lead! I didn't know the names or telephone numbers of any of those other pieces of fuzz you'd befriended. And when she told me you'd just materialized on her doorstep, immediately I wanted to come get you, but again, she proposed one of her squishy psychoa.n.a.lytic ideas and I, being something of a fool when it comes to my daughter as we've Dad shouted. ”That nut job was my only lead! I didn't know the names or telephone numbers of any of those other pieces of fuzz you'd befriended. And when she told me you'd just materialized on her doorstep, immediately I wanted to come get you, but again, she proposed one of her squishy psychoa.n.a.lytic ideas and I, being something of a fool when it comes to my daughter as we've well well established this evening, I went along with it. 'Leave her alone. We need to talk. Just us girls.' Dear established this evening, I went along with it. 'Leave her alone. We need to talk. Just us girls.' Dear G.o.d. G.o.d. If there's one supremely puffed-up concept in all of Western Culture, it's the If there's one supremely puffed-up concept in all of Western Culture, it's the talk. talk. Doesn't anyone remember that cute little phrase, which I happen to find rather illuminating? Talk is cheap?” Doesn't anyone remember that cute little phrase, which I happen to find rather illuminating? Talk is cheap?”

”Why didn't you say something?”

”I suppose I was embarra.s.sed.” Dad gazed at the floor, the landfill of books. ”After all, you were completing your application to Harvard. I didn't wish to upset you.”

”Maybe I wouldn't have been upset. Maybe I'm more upset now.” now.”

”Granted, it wasn't the wisest decision, but it was a decision I thought best at the time. Anyway, this business with Hannah Schneider is finished. May she rest in peace. The school year's nearly over.” Dad sighed. ”It's one for the books, is it not? I think Stockton is certainly the most theatrical town in which we've lived. It has all the elements of a good piece of fiction. More pa.s.sion than Peyton Place, more frustration than Yoknapatawpha County. And it's certainly up there with Macondo in terms of sheer elements of the bizarre. It has s.e.x, sin and that most painful quality of all, youthful disillusionment. You're ready, sweet. You no longer need your old pa.”

My hands were cold. I walked over to the yellow couch in front of the windows and sat down. ”It's not all finished with Hannah Schneider,” I said. ”You have blood here.” I showed him.

”You got me, huh,” he said sheepishly, touching his face. ”Was it the Bible or An American Tragedy? American Tragedy? I'd like to know for symbolic purposes.” I'd like to know for symbolic purposes.”

”There's more about Hannah Schneider.”

”I might need st.i.tches.”

”Her real name was Catherine Baker. She was an old member of The Night.w.a.tchmen. She murdered a policeman.”

My words were like a ghost pa.s.sing through Dad; not that I'd ever seen a ghost pa.s.sing through a person, but his face drained of color-fell out of him like water poured from a bucket. He stared at me, expressionless.

”I'm not kidding,” I said. ”And if you want to confess something about your own involvement, recruiting or-or murder or blowing up one of your capitalist Harvard colleagues, you'd better do it right now, because I'm going to know everything. I won't stop.” The resolve in my voice surprised Dad, but especially me; it was as if my voice was stronger than I was. It threw itself onto the ground, leading the way like slabs of stone.

Dad was squinting. He looked as if, suddenly, he had no idea who I was. ”But they never existed,” he said slowly. ”Not for thirty years. They're a fairy tale.”

”Not necessarily. It's all over the Internet that-”

”Oh, the Internet,” Dad interrupted. ”As powerful a source as they come. If we open that gate, we must also usher in Elvis, still alive and kicking, popup ads -I don't understand why you're bringing up The Night.w.a.tchmen. You've been reading my old lectures, Federal Forum- ?” Federal Forum- ?”

”The founder, George Gracey, is still alive. He lives in Paxos. A man named Smoke Harvey drowned in Hannah's swimming pool last fall and he'd tracked him down and-”

”Of course,” Dad nodded, ”I remember her whining about it-obviously yet another reason why she went bananas.” ”No,” I said. ”She killed killed him. Because he was researching a book about Gracey. He was going to expose him. All of them. The entire organization.” Dad raised his eyebrows. ”Well, you've obviously done quite a bit of work figuring this out. Go on.” him. Because he was researching a book about Gracey. He was going to expose him. All of them. The entire organization.” Dad raised his eyebrows. ”Well, you've obviously done quite a bit of work figuring this out. Go on.”

I hesitated; Burt Towelson wrote in Guerrilla Girls Guerrilla Girls (1986) to preserve the purity of any investigation one had to be vigilant about whom one spoke to concerning the scary truths that had emerged; but then, if I couldn't trust Dad, I couldn't trust anyone. He was staring at me as he'd stared at me a thousand times before, whenever we moseyed through my thesis for an upcoming research paper (his expression interested but doubtful he'd be (1986) to preserve the purity of any investigation one had to be vigilant about whom one spoke to concerning the scary truths that had emerged; but then, if I couldn't trust Dad, I couldn't trust anyone. He was staring at me as he'd stared at me a thousand times before, whenever we moseyed through my thesis for an upcoming research paper (his expression interested but doubtful he'd be wowed) and so it seemed an inevitable thing to walk him through my theory, My Grand Scheme of Things. I began with Hannah plotting her own exit because of what Ada Harvey knew, how she left me L'Avventura, L'Avventura, ”The Flying Demoiselle,” the costume party, a version of Connault Helig's elimination technique employed to murder Smoke, Hannah's history of the Bluebloods paralleling Catherine Baker's history, her preoccupation with Missing Persons and, finally, my telephone conversation with Ada Harvey. In the beginning, Dad stared at me as if I was a lunatic, but as I went on, he began to hang on my every word. In fact, I hadn't seen Dad this engrossed since he obtained a newsstand copy of the June 1999 issue ”The Flying Demoiselle,” the costume party, a version of Connault Helig's elimination technique employed to murder Smoke, Hannah's history of the Bluebloods paralleling Catherine Baker's history, her preoccupation with Missing Persons and, finally, my telephone conversation with Ada Harvey. In the beginning, Dad stared at me as if I was a lunatic, but as I went on, he began to hang on my every word. In fact, I hadn't seen Dad this engrossed since he obtained a newsstand copy of the June 1999 issue oiThe New Republic, oiThe New Republic, in which his lengthy satiric response to an article ent.i.tled, ”Little Shop of Horrors: A History of Afghanistan,” had been printed in the Letters section. in which his lengthy satiric response to an article ent.i.tled, ”Little Shop of Horrors: A History of Afghanistan,” had been printed in the Letters section.

When I finished, I expected him to hurl questions at me, but he remained thoughtfully silent for a minute, maybe two.

He frowned. ”So who killed poor Miss Schneider?”