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 and 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 shortchangers 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 them 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 jêtés 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 Braveheart. 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?”