Special Topics in Calamity Physics

by Marisha Pessl

Her gaze finally picked itself up and I saw, with horror, her face was red. There were giant tears looming in her eyes.

  "And then there's you," she said.

  I couldn't breathe. Run for Larsons truck, I told myself. Run for the high

  way, for Mexico, because Mexico was where everyone went when they had to escape (though no one ever got there; they were all killed tragically, mere yards from the border) or if not Mexico, then Hollywood, because Hollywood was where everyone went when they wanted to reinvent themselves and end up a movie star (see The Revenge of Stella Verslanken, Botando, 2001).

  "When I saw you in that grocery store back in September, I saw a lonely person." She didn't say anything for a moment, just let those words rest there like tired workmen on a curb. "I thought I could help."

  I felt like a wheeze. No —I was a cough, a bed creak, something humiliating, the frayed ruffle on discolored pantaloons. But just as I was going to glue together some childish excuse to run out of her house, never to return ("The most catastrophic thing to befall any man, woman or child is abject pity," wrote Carol Mahler in the Plum Award-winning Color Doves [1987]) —I glanced over at Hannah and was struck dumb.

  Her anger, irk, aggravation—whatever that mood was she'd been mired in since I'd first arrived, when the phone screamed, when she'd sworn me to secrecy, even the apparent melancholy of moments ago—had fizzled. She was now disturbingly peaceful (see "Lake Lucerne," A Question of Switzerland, Porter, 2000, p. 159).

  True, she'd lit yet another cigarette, and smoke tangled out of her fingers. She'd also fluffed her hair and so it swayed one way, then the other across her forehead as if seasick. But her face, rather bluntly, boasted the relieved and somewhat satisfied expression of a person who'd just accomplished something, a harrowing feat; it was a face of slammed-shut textbooks, doors dead bolted, switched-off lights, or else, after a bow, amidst a drizzle of applause, heavy red curtains swinging closed.

  Jade's words slammed into my head: "She's really the worst actress on the planet. If she was an actress, she wouldn't even make the B movies. She'd be in the D or the E movies."

  "Anyway," Hannah went on, "who cares about any of that now—the reasons for things. Don't think about it. Ten years from now—that's when you decide. After you've taken the world by storm. Are you sleepy?" She asked this quickly and evidently had no interest in my answer because she yawned into her fist, stood up, and stretched in the lazy royal way of her own white Persian cat—Lana or Turner, I wasn't sure which—who, with a heralding thrash of tail, strolled out of the darkness beneath the piano bench and meowed.

  17

  The Sleeping Beauty and Other Fairy Tales

  I couldn't sleep. Oh, no—now that I was alone in a strange, stiff bed, a pale morning soaking through the curtains, the overhead lamp a giant eye staring down at me, The Histories of the Bluebloods began to creep out of the underbrush like exotic nocturnal animals at nightfall (see "Zorilla," "Shrew," "Jerboa," "Kinkajou" and "Small-Eared Zorro," Encyclopedia of Living Things, 4th éd.). I had very little experience dealing with Dark Pasts, apart from close readings of Jane Eyre (Brontë, 1847) and Rebecca (Du Maurier, 1938) and though I’d always secretly seen splendor in melancholic chills, ashy circles stamped under the eyes, wasted silence, now, knowing each of them had suffered (if Hannah could be believed), it worried me.

  After all, there was Wilson Gnut, the calmly handsome kid I knew at Luton Middle in Luton, Texas, whose father hanged himself on Christmas Eve. Wilson's own ensuing tragedy had nothing to do with his father, but in the way he was treated at school. People weren't mean to him—quite the contrary, they were sweet as pie. They held open doors, offered homework to plagiarize, allowed him to cut in line at all water fountains, vending machines and gym uniform distributions. But lurking within their benevolence was the universal understanding that because of his father, a Secret Door had been opened for Wilson, and anything and everything dark and deviant could fly out of it—suicide, sure, but other frightening things too, like Necrophilia, Polyorphantia, Menazoranghia, maybe even Zootosis.

  With the quiet precision of Jane Goodall alone at her observation post in a tropical forest of Tanzania, I observed and documented the array of looks elicited in Wilson's presence by students, parents and faculty alike. There was the Relieved Glance of "Darn Glad I Ain't You" (after smiling amiably at Wilson, performed covertly to a commiserating third party), the Sorry Look of "He'll Never Git Over It" (performed to the floor and/or immediate space around Wilson), the Meaningful Gaze of "Kid'll End Up Crooked as a Dog's Hind Leg" (performed deep into Wilson's brown eyes) and the Simple Gawk of the Unbelieving (mouth open, eyes unfocused, overall demeanor near vegetative, performed at Wilson Gnut's back as he sat quietly at his desk).

  There were gestures too, like the Just-Whistlin'-Dixie Wave (performed after school in car windows as students drove away with their parents and noticed Wilson still waiting for his mother, who had stringy hair, a goat laugh and wore beads, a gesture always accompanied by one of three remarks: "So sad, what happened," "Cain't imagine what he's goin' through" or the bluntly paranoid, "Dad's not goin' kill himself anytime soon. Is he?"). There was also the That's-Him-Thar Point, the That's-Him-Thar Point in the Opposite Direction of Wilson Gnut (a Texan's attempt at subtlety) and worst of all, the Quick Conniption (performed by students when Wilson Gnut's hands accidentally touched theirs, on door handles, for example, or passing Unit Tests around class, as if Wilson Gnut's misfortune was an illness transmitted via hands, elbows or fingertips).

  In the end—and this was the tragedy—Wilson Gnut ended up agreeing with everyone. He, too, began to believe a Secret Door had been opened just for him and awaited something dark and deviant, which, any moment now, would come flying out. It wasn't his fault, of course; if the world insinuates you're a Dog That Don't Hunt, a Cowboy With No Shit Kickers, In Low Cotton, you tend to believe it's true. Wilson stopped spearheading basketball games at break, disappeared from Olympics of the Mind. And even though, on multiple occasions, I overheard a few well-meaning kids asking him if he wanted to accompany them after school to KFC, Wilson avoided eye contact, mumbled, "No, thanks," and disappeared down the hall.

  I thus concluded, with the same awe of Jane Goodall discovering the chimpanzees' nimble use of tools to extract termites, it really wasn't so much the tragic event itself, but others having knowledge of it that prevented recovery. Individuals could live through almost anything (see Das unglaubliche Leben der Wolfgang Becker, Becker, 1953). Even Dad was in awe of the human body and Dad was never in awe of anything. "It really is staggering, what the corpus can withstand."

  After this observation, if he was in a Bourbon Mood and feeling theatrical, Dad did Brando as Colonel Kurtz.

  " 'You have to have men who are moral,' " droned Dad, slowly turning his head toward me, widening his eyes in an attempt to portray Genius and Insanity simultaneously, " 'and at the same time, able to use their primordial instincts to kill without feeling, without passion, without judgment . . .' " (Dad always raised his eyebrows and stared at me pointedly on "judgment.") " 'Because it's judgment that defeats us.' "

  Of course, I had to question the soundness of what Hannah had told me, of Hannah herself. There had been an undeniable sound-staginess to her words, evidence of fake palms (vagueness over exact locations), a prop warehouse (wineglass, endless cigarettes), wind machines (tendency to romanticize), publicity stills (heavy gazes at the ceiling, the floor)—theatrical flairs that brought to mind the lovelorn posters caking her classroom. It was also true, plenty of confidence men were capable of spinning grim fairy tales under pressure, replete with backstory, artful cross-reference, dashes of irony and twists of fate without a single flick of the eyes. And yet, while such villainous scheming was remotely plausible, it didn't exactly seem feasible for Hannah Schneider. Sharpies and short-changers concocted such elaborate fictions to escape the slammer; what was Hannah's motivation for making up forlorn pasts for each of the Bluebloods, brutally pushing th
em outside, locking the door, making them stand in the rain? No, I felt certain there was a basic truth to what she'd told me, even if it had Hannified studio lighting and white people in pancake makeup playing savages.

  With these thoughts, morning sneaking toward the windows, flimsy curtains whispering to a draft, I fell asleep.

  There's nothing like a bright and chipper morning to briskly send running all demons of the night before. (Contrary to popular belief, Unease, Inner Demons and Guilt Complexes were remarkably unsure of themselves and usually fled in the strong presence of Ease and Squeaky-Clean Conscience.)

  I woke up in Hannah's tiny guest room—walls the color of bluebells — and slumped out of bed. I pulled back the thin white curtain. The front lawn shivered excitedly. Blue sky ballooned overhead. Crisp brown leaves, en pointe, were busy practicing glissades and grand jetés down the driveway. On Hannah's moldy bird feeder (usually as forsaken as a house with asbestos insulation and lead paint) two fat cardinals lunched with a chickadee.

  I made my way downstairs and found Hannah dressed, reading the newspaper.

  "There you are," she said cheerfully. "Sleep well?"

  She gave me clothes, old gray corduroy pants she said had shrunk in the wash, black shoes and a pale pink cardigan with tiny beads around the neck.

  "Keep this stuff," she said, smiling. "It looks adorable on you."

  Twenty minutes later, she drove behind me in her Subaru all the way to the BP gas station, where I left Larson's truck and keys with Big Red who had raw-carrot fingers and worked mornings.

  Hannah suggested we grab a bite to eat before she drove me home, so we stopped at Pancake Haven on Orlando. A waitress took our order. The restaurant had an uncomplicated frankness: square windows, worn brown carpet that stuttered Pancake Haven Pancake Haven all the way to the bathrooms, people sitting quietly with their food. If there was Darkness or Doom in the world, it was remarkably courteous, waiting for everyone to finish breakfast.

  "Is Charles .. . in love with you?" I asked suddenly. It shocked me, how easy it was to ask the question.

  Her reaction wasn't outrage, but amusement. "Who told you that—Jade? I thought I explained it last night—her need to exaggerate everything, pit people against each other, make everything more exotic than it is. They all do it. I have no idea why." She sighed. "They also have me pining after some person—what's the name . . . Victor. Or Venezia, something out of Brave-heart. It begins with V—"

  "Valerio?" I suggested quietly.

  "Is that it?" She laughed, a loud flirty sound, and a man in orange flannel sitting at the table next to us looked over at her, hopeful. "Believe me, if my knight in shining armor was wandering around out there—Valerio, right? — I'd be hightailing it after him. And when I found him, I'd hit him over the head with my club, toss him over my shoulder, bring him back to my lair and have my way with him." Still sort of giggling to herself, she unzipped her leather purse and handed me three quarters. "Now call your father."

  I used the payphone by the cigarette machine. Dad answered after the first ring. "Hi-"

  "Where in God's name are you?"

  "At a diner with Hannah Schneider."

  "Are you all right?"

  (I have to admit, it was thrilling to hear the tremendous anxiety in Dad's voice.) "Of course. I'm having french toast." "Oh? We'll I'm having a Missing Person's Report for breakfast. Last Seen.

  Approximately two-thirty. Wearing. I'm not sure. Glad you called. Was that a dress you were wearing last night or a Hefty-Hefty Cinch Sak?"

  "I'll be home in an hour."

  "Delighted you've decided to again grace me with your presence."

  "Well, I'm not going to Fort Peck."

  "Eh—we can discuss it."

  And then it came to me, like Alfred Nobel his idea of a weapon to end all war (see Chapter 1, "Dynamite," History's Missteps, June, 1992). " 'In fear, one flees,' " I said. He hesitated, but only for a second. "A valid point. But we'll have to see.

  On the other hand, I am in dire need of your assistance with these piteous student essays. If it meant putting myself at your disposal, say, trading Fort Peck for three or four hours of your time, I suppose I'd be willing to do so."

  "Dad?"

  "Yes?"

  I don't know why, but I couldn't say anything.

  "Don't tell me you've gotten a tattoo across your chest that reads, 'Raised in Hell,' " he said. "No." "You've obtained a piercing." "No." "You wish to join a cult. A division of extremists who practice polygamy and call themselves Man's Agony."

  "No."

  "You're a lesbian and you'd like my blessing before asking out a field hockey coach." "No, Dad." "Thank God. Sapphic love, while natural and as old as the seas, is, regrettably, still considered by Middle America something of a fad, akin to the Melon Diet or Pantsuits. It wouldn't be an easy way of life. And as we both know, having me for a father is no cakewalk. It'd be strenuous, I think, to shoulder both loads."

  "I love you, Dad."

  There was silence.

  I felt ludicrous, of course, not only because when one throws out those particular words, one needs them to boomerang back without delay, not even because I realized the previous evening had turned me into a sap, a cuckoo, a walking For the Love of Benji and a living Lassie Come Home, but because I knew full well Dad couldn't stomach those words, just as he couldn't stomach American politicians, corporate executives who were quoted in The Wall Street Journal saying either "synergy" or "out of the box," third-world poverty, genocide, game shows, movie stars, E.T., or for that matter, Reese's Pieces.

  "I love you too, my dear," he said at last. "Really though, I thought you'd have figured that out by now. Yet I suppose it's to be expected. The clearest, most palpable things in life, the elephants and white rhinos if you will, standing around quite plainly in their watering holes, chewing on leaves and twigs, they often go unnoticed. And why is that?"

  It was a Van Meer Rhetorical Question followed by the Van Meer Pregnant Pause, so I simply waited, pressing the receiver against the bottom of my chin. I'd heard him use such oratorical devices before, the few times I'd come to watch him lecture in one of the big amphitheaters with carpeted walls and buzzing light. The last time I'd heard him speak, on Civil Warfare at Cheswick College, I remember, quite distinctly, I was horrified. Without a doubt, I thought to myself, as Dad went on frowning center stage (occasionally breaking into a variety of showy gestures, as if he was a deranged Mark Antony or manic King Henry VIII), everyone could see, plain as day, Dad's embarrassing truth: he wanted to be Richard Burton. But then I really looked around, and noticed every student (even the one on the third row who'd shaved an anarchy symbol into the back of his head) was behaving like a feeble white moth spiraling through Dad's light.

  "America is asleep," Dad boomed. "You've heard it before—perhaps by a homeless man you passed on the street and he smelled like a Porta-John so you held your breath and pretended he was a mailbox. Well, is it true? Is America hibernating? Getting forty winks, a bit of shut-eye? We're a country of boundless opportunity. Aren't we? Well, I know the answer's 'yes' if you happen to be a CEO. Last year, the average compensation for a Chief Executive Officer soared 26 percent, compared to blue-collar salaries inching up a pitiable 3 percent. And the fattest paycheck of all? Mr. Stuart Burnes, CEO of Remco Integrated Technologies. Tell him what he's won, Bob! One-hundred sixteen-point-four million dollars for a year's labor."

  Here Dad crossed his arms and looked fascinated.

  "What's Stu doing to warrant such a windfall, a salary that would feed all of Sudan? Sadly, not much. Integrated missed fourth-quarter earnings. Stock prices fell 19 percent. Yet board members picked up the tab for the crew on Stu's hundred-foot yacht, also paid the Christie's curator fees for his fourteen-hundred-piece Impressionist art collection."

  Here Dad inclined his head as if hearing faint, far-off music.

  "So this is greed. And is it good? Should we listen to a man wearing suspenders? With many of yo
u, when you come and chat with me during office hours, I sense an air of inevitability, not of defeat, but resignation, that such iniquities are simply the way it is and they can't be changed. This is America and what we do is grab as much cash as we can before we all die of heart disease. But do we want our lives to be a bonus round, a Money Grab? Call me an optimist, but I don't think so. I think we hope for something more meaningful. But what do we do? Start a revolution?"

  Dad asked this of a small brown-haired girl wearing a pink T-shirt in the front row. She nodded apprehensively.

  "Are you out of your mind?"

  Instantly, she turned six shades pinker than the T-shirt.

  "You might have heard of various imbeciles who waged war on the U.S. government in the sixties and seventies. The New Communist Left. The Weather Underground. The Students for the Blah-Blah-No-One-Takes-You-Seriously. In fact, I think they were worse than Stu, because they smashed, not monogamy, but hope for productive protest and objection in this country. With their delusional self-importance, ad hoc violence, it became easy to dismiss anyone voicing dissatisfaction with the way things are as freaky flower chiles.

  "No. I contend we should take a cue from one of the greatest American movements of our time—a revolution in itself really, nobly warring as it does against time and gravity, also accountable for the most widespread perpetuation of alien-looking life forms on Earth. Cosmetic surgery. That's right, ladies and gentlemen. America is in dire need of a nip-tuck. No mass uprising, no widespread revolution. Rather, an eye lift here. A boob job there. Some well-placed liposuction. A minuscule cut behind the ears, tug it up, staple it into place—confidentiality is key—and voilà, everyone will be saying we look mahvelous. Greater elasticity. No sags. For those of you who are laughing, you'll see precisely what I mean when you do the reading for Tuesday, the treatise in Littleton's Anatomy of Materialism, 'The Nightwatchmen and Mythical Principles of Practical Change.' And Eidelstein's 'Repressions of Imperialist Powers.' And my own meager piece, 'Blind Dates: Advantages of Silent Civil War.' Do not forget. You will be pop quizzed."