Part 33 (2/2)

Naturally, Dad would have to ask the one one question I had only a rickety-bridge answer to. Ada Harvey had said she thought Hannah had committed suicide, but since question I had only a rickety-bridge answer to. Ada Harvey had said she thought Hannah had committed suicide, but since I'd I'd heard that stranger bounding through the trees, I tended to think someone in heard that stranger bounding through the trees, I tended to think someone in Nachtlich Nachtlich had done it; Hannah had been a liability when she'd killed the State Trooper, and with Ada telephoning the FBI and the possibility of her capture, Gracey, the entire group's clandestine existence was at risk. But I didn't know any of this for certain, and as Dad said, one should never ”dribble speculation like a leaky garbage bag.” had done it; Hannah had been a liability when she'd killed the State Trooper, and with Ada telephoning the FBI and the possibility of her capture, Gracey, the entire group's clandestine existence was at risk. But I didn't know any of this for certain, and as Dad said, one should never ”dribble speculation like a leaky garbage bag.”

”Well, I'm not sure, exactly,” I said.

He nodded and said nothing more.

”Have you written about Nachtlich Nachtlich recently?” I asked. recently?” I asked.

He shook his head. ”No. Why?”

”Remember the way we met Hannah Schneider-she was in Fat Kat Foods and then she reappeared at the shoe store?” ”Yes,” he said, after a moment. ”Ada Harvey described the same thing when she told me how Hannah met her father. She'd planned the whole encounter. So I was worried maybe you were her next victim, because you were writing something-”

”Sweet,” Dad interjected, ”as flattered as I'd be for Miss Baker to choose me as her target-never been anyone's target before-there is is no Night-watchmen, not any longer. They're considered by even the most laid-back of political theorists to be a mere fantasy. And what are fantasies? What we use to pillow ourselves against the world. Our world, it's a cruel parquet- no Night-watchmen, not any longer. They're considered by even the most laid-back of political theorists to be a mere fantasy. And what are fantasies? What we use to pillow ourselves against the world. Our world, it's a cruel parquet-murder to sleep on. Besides, this isn't the age of revolutionaries, but an age of isolationaries. Man's proclivity today is not to unite, but to cut himself off from others, step on them, grab as much to sleep on. Besides, this isn't the age of revolutionaries, but an age of isolationaries. Man's proclivity today is not to unite, but to cut himself off from others, step on them, grab as much dough dough as he can. As you know too, history is cyclical and we're not due for another uprising-even a silent one-for another two hundred years. More to the point, I remember reading an in-depth piece about Catherine Baker being a Parisian gypsy in origin, so however thrilling it may sound, it's still rather tenuous to a.s.sert Schneider and Baker were the same woman. Given the odd way she told all of this to you, how do you know she didn't simply read a book, a real as he can. As you know too, history is cyclical and we're not due for another uprising-even a silent one-for another two hundred years. More to the point, I remember reading an in-depth piece about Catherine Baker being a Parisian gypsy in origin, so however thrilling it may sound, it's still rather tenuous to a.s.sert Schneider and Baker were the same woman. Given the odd way she told all of this to you, how do you know she didn't simply read a book, a real page-turner page-turner about the mysterious Catherine Baker, then let her imagination run wild? Maybe she wanted you to believe, for about the mysterious Catherine Baker, then let her imagination run wild? Maybe she wanted you to believe, for everyone everyone to believe before she killed herself, that to believe before she killed herself, that that that had been her life, a life of upheaval and causes-she, Bonnie, some other dope, Clyde. That way she might live forever, had been her life, a life of upheaval and causes-she, Bonnie, some other dope, Clyde. That way she might live forever, nest-ce pas? nest-ce pas? She'd leave behind a thrilling Life Story, not the dreary editorial that was her truth. Such are the lies people tell. And they're a dime a dozen.” She'd leave behind a thrilling Life Story, not the dreary editorial that was her truth. Such are the lies people tell. And they're a dime a dozen.”

”But what about the way she met Smoke - ?” ”All we know for certain is that she liked to pick up men in food settings,” food settings,” Dad said with authority. ”She was looking for love amidst frozen peas.” Dad said with authority. ”She was looking for love amidst frozen peas.”

I stared at him. He did did have a few infinitesimal points. On es forward, pointing a finger. Have you thought about that? that? Coming up with a theory is all very thrilling, but if there's truth to it, it's no longer a round of Coming up with a theory is all very thrilling, but if there's truth to it, it's no longer a round of Wheel of Fortune. Wheel of Fortune. I won't allow you to draw attention to yourself, a.s.suming, of course, any of this is true, which we will probably never know with any certainty. Going to the police is gallant for simpletons, for nitwits-but what purpose would it serve? So the sheriff can have a story for his donut break?” I won't allow you to draw attention to yourself, a.s.suming, of course, any of this is true, which we will probably never know with any certainty. Going to the police is gallant for simpletons, for nitwits-but what purpose would it serve? So the sheriff can have a story for his donut break?”

”No,” I said. ”So lives can be saved.”

”How touching. Just whose life are you saving?”

”You can't just go kill people because you don't like what they're doing. That makes us animals. Even-even if we can never find it we still have to try for...” I trailed off into silence, because I wasn't exactly sure what we had to try for. ”Justice,” I said weakly.

Dad only laughed. ” 'Justice is a wh.o.r.e who won't let herself be stiffed and collects the wages of shame even from the poor.' Karl Kraus. Austrian essayist.”

” 'All good things may be expressed in a single word,' ” I said. ” 'Freedom, justice, honor, duty, mercy. And hope/ Churchill.” ” 'As thou urgest justice, be a.s.sured /Thou shalt have justice more than thou desirest.' Merchant of Venice.” Merchant of Venice.” ” 'Justice wields an erratic sword / grants mercy to fortunate few / Yet if man doesn't fight for her / 'Tis chaos he's left to.' ” ” 'Justice wields an erratic sword / grants mercy to fortunate few / Yet if man doesn't fight for her / 'Tis chaos he's left to.' ”

Dad opened his mouth to speak, but stopped, frowning. ”Mackay?”

”Gareth van Meer. 'The Revolution Betrayed.' Civic Journal of Foreign Affairs. Civic Journal of Foreign Affairs. Volume six, issue nineteen.” Volume six, issue nineteen.”

Dad smiled, tilted his head back and gave a very loud ”Ha!” ”Ha!”

I'd forgotten about his ”Ha!” ”Ha!” Usually he reserved it for faculty meetings with a Dean, when a fellow colleague said something humorous or stirring and Dad was slightly perturbed Usually he reserved it for faculty meetings with a Dean, when a fellow colleague said something humorous or stirring and Dad was slightly perturbed he he hadn't thought to say it, so he said a very loud hadn't thought to say it, so he said a very loud Ha!, Ha!, partly an expression of annoyance and partly to suck the room's attention back to him. Now, however, when he looked at me, unlike those faculty meetings with a Dean (Dad allowed me to sit in the corner whenever I was out sick with a mild head cold and, without stirring, swallowing all potential sneezes, I listened to the a.s.sembled Ph.D.s with chalky complexions and thinning hair, speaking in weighty voices of Knights at the Round Table) Dad had big, bare tears s.h.i.+vering there, ones that threatened to slide shyly from his eyes like modest girls in bathing suits removing their towels, making a slow, embarra.s.sed move toward the pool. partly an expression of annoyance and partly to suck the room's attention back to him. Now, however, when he looked at me, unlike those faculty meetings with a Dean (Dad allowed me to sit in the corner whenever I was out sick with a mild head cold and, without stirring, swallowing all potential sneezes, I listened to the a.s.sembled Ph.D.s with chalky complexions and thinning hair, speaking in weighty voices of Knights at the Round Table) Dad had big, bare tears s.h.i.+vering there, ones that threatened to slide shyly from his eyes like modest girls in bathing suits removing their towels, making a slow, embarra.s.sed move toward the pool.

He stood, put a hand on my shoulder and moved past me to the door.

”So be it, my Justice-seeker.”

I sat in front of the empty chair for another moment or two, surrounded by the books. They all had a silent, haughty perseverance about them. They weren't going to be destroyed by any launch at a human, oh no. With the exception of The Heart of the Matter, of The Heart of the Matter, which had belched up a clump of pages, the others were intact, gleefully open and showing off their pages. Their tiny black words of wisdom remained in perfect order, sitting in pristine rows, unmoving, attentive like schoolchildren impervious to the influence of a naughty child. which had belched up a clump of pages, the others were intact, gleefully open and showing off their pages. Their tiny black words of wisdom remained in perfect order, sitting in pristine rows, unmoving, attentive like schoolchildren impervious to the influence of a naughty child. Common Sense Common Sense was open next to me, peac.o.c.king its pages. was open next to me, peac.o.c.king its pages.

”Stop moping and get in here,” called Dad from the kitchen. ”You must eat something if you're going to wage war on flabby-armed, potbellied radicals. I don't think they age all that well, so you'll probably be able to outrun them.”

34.

Paradise Lost For the first time since Hannah died, I slept through the night. Dad called such sleeps ”The Sleep of Trees,” which was not to be confused with ”The Sleep of Hibernation” or ”The Sleep of Dead-Tired Dogs.” The Sleep of Trees was the most absolute and rejuvenating of sleeps. It was only darkness, no dreams, a leap forward in time.

I didn't stir when the alarm went off, nor did I wake up to hear Dad shouting from downstairs the Van Meer Vocabulary Wake-up Call.

”Wake up, sweet! Your word of the day is pneumococcus!” pneumococcus!”

I opened my eyes. The phone was ringing. The clock by my bed read 10:36 A.M. The answering machine clicked on downstairs.

”Mr. Van Meer, I wanted to notify you that Blue is not in school today. Please call us and give a reason for her absence.” Eva Brewster curtly recited the number to the main office and hung up. I waited for Dad's footsteps to come through the hall to find out who'd called, but I heard nothing but the clinking of silverware in the kitchen.

I climbed out of bed, stumbled into the bathroom, splashed water on my face. In the mirror, my eyes looked unusually large, my face thin. I was cold, so I pulled the comforter off my bed, wrapped it around me and walked with it down the stairs.

”Dad! Did you call the school?”

I entered the kitchen. It was empty. The clinking I'd heard was the breeze through the open window hitting the silverware wind chime over the sink. I switched on the downstairs light and called into the stairwell.

”Dad!” I used to dread a house without Dad in it. It could feel empty as a can, a sh.e.l.l, a blind desert skull of a Georgia O'Keefe painting. Growing up, I had a variety of techniques to avoid the truth of the house without Dad. There was ”The Watch General Hospital General Hospital with Very Loud Volume” (surprisingly comforting, more than one would imagine) and the Put On with Very Loud Volume” (surprisingly comforting, more than one would imagine) and the Put On It Happened One Night It Happened One Night (Clark Gable without an unders.h.i.+rt could distract anyone). (Clark Gable without an unders.h.i.+rt could distract anyone).

Late morning light poured through the windows, bright and vicious. I opened the refrigerator and saw with some surprise, he'd made a fruit salad. I reached in, picked out a grape, ate it. Also in the refrigerator was lasagna, which he'd attempted to cover with too small a piece of tinfoil; it left two corners and a side exposed like a winter coat leaving entire s.h.i.+ns bare, half the person's arms and neck. (Dad was always unable to correctly eyeball the required length for tinfoil.) I ate another grape and called his office.

The Political Science Department a.s.sistant answered the phone.

”Hey, is my dad there? It's Blue.”

”Hmm?”

I glanced at the clock. He didn't have a cla.s.s until 11:30 A.M. ”My dad. Dr. Van Meer. Can I talk to him please? It's an emergency.” ”He's not coming in today,” she said. ”There's that conference in Atlanta, right?”

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