Special Topics in Calamity Physics

by Marisha Pessl

  "We're power lunching today with breaking news," she said, frowning as she arranged the blank papers in front of her, though visibly thrilled to preside over the entire blue desk, rather than merely the right-hand side. The white piping of her navy suit, edging around her shoulders, patch pockets and cuffs, delineated her petite frame like white lines marking sudden swerves of an unlit road. She blinked at the screen and looked grave. "A Carlton County woman was found dead this afternoon by rescue workers searching the Smoky Mountain National Park. This is the latest development in the search for five local high school students and a teacher that began yesterday. News 13's Stan Stitwell is live at the rescue center. Stan, what are the police saying?"

  Stan Stitwell appeared, standing in a parking lot, an ambulance parked behind him. If Stan Stitwell had been wine, he wouldn't be robust or full bodied. Stan would be fruity, acidic, with a hint of cherry. Limp brown hair hung into his forehead like wet shoelaces.

  "Cherry, Sluder County Police have not yet made a statement, but we hear they've positively identified the body to be that of Hannah Louise Schneider, a forty-four-year-old teacher at the St. Gallway School, the well-known private school in West Stockton. Park personnel had been searching for her and the five other students for over twenty-four hours now. Authorities haven't yet told us what condition the body was in, but minutes ago, detectives arrived on the scene to determine if there was foul play."

  "And the five students, Stan. What's the latest on them?"

  "Well, despite the bad conditions out here, rain, wind, heavy fog, the search continues. An hour ago rescue teams managed to get a National Guard helicopter into the air, but they had to bring it back due to bad visibility. But, still, in the past two hours or so, at least twenty-five more civilians have joined the volunteer search effort. And as you can see here behind me, the Red Cross and a medical team from the University of Tennessee have set up operations for food and aiding injuries. Everyone's doing what they can to make sure the kids get home safe."

  "Thank you, Stan," said Cherry. "And News 13 will continue to keep you updated as the story unfolds." She glanced down at a blank piece of paper on her desk. She looked up again.

  "Up next, it's the little things in life you take for granted. Today, as part of our 'Wellness' series, we'll show you a lot of time and money goes into designing that little thing your dentist wants you to use twice a day. News 13's Mary Grubb has the story of the toothbrush."

  I watched the rest of the news, but there was no further mention of the camping trip. I found myself noticing all the Little Things about Cherry: her eyes scurrying across the teleprompter, the way her facial expressions morphed between the Look of Restrained Dismay (salon heist), the Look of Deep-seated Sorrow (infant dead in apartment fire), the Look of Quiet Community Consciousness (battle revs up between motocross riders and trailer-owners in Marengo) with the ease of trying on slips in a dressing room. (Staring at the blank papers in front of her seemed to be the switch that prompted this mechanical expression-wipe, similar to shaking an Etch A Sketch.)

  And the next morning, Monday, when I dragged myself out of bed at 6:30 to catch "Waking You Up in the Morning!" I observed the maniacal way Cherry unilaterally leeched all attention from Norvel, rendering him an appendix, a hubcap, an extra packet of salt one misses at the bottom of a bag of fast food. Norvel, if one visualized him with a full head of sandy hair, had probably once been competent, perhaps even commanding in his news delivery, but like a Dresden church with Byzantine architecture on the eve of February 13, 1945, he'd been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Paired with Cherry, prey to her Ways to Upstage by Way of Large Plastic Earrings, her Modes of Stealing Thunder Via the Application of More Eye Makeup than a Drag Queen, not to mention the Art of the Indirect Castration (i.e., "Speaking of toddlers, Norvel has the story of a new Montessori day care center opening up in Yancey County.") —it had left him in ruins. He spoke his allotted portion of the broadcast (forgettable stories about mayoral appearances and farm animals) in the uncertain, rickety voice of a woman on a diet of pineapples and cottage cheese, her spine emerging from her back like a banister when she bent over.

  I knew she was bad news, that it wasn't the most wholesome of affairs.

  I just couldn't help myself.

  "Five local high school students were found alive this morning by rescue personnel in the Great Smoky Mountains following an intensive two-day search," said Cherry. "This is the latest development in the story after the body of their teacher, Hannah Louise Schneider, was recovered yesterday. We're live outside the Sluder County Hospital with News 13's Stan Stitwell. Stan, what can you tell us?"

  "Cherry, there were cheers and tears here as Park rescue squads brought to safety the five high school seniors missing since Saturday. The heavy fog and showers tapered off early this morning and K-9 rescue dogs were able to track the students from a popular Park campsite known as Sugartop Summit to another section more than twelve miles away. Police say the kids had become separated from Hannah Schneider and the sixth student found on Saturday. They tried to locate a path out of the park but became lost. One of the male students is allegedly suffering from a broken leg. Otherwise, they're all confirmed in stable condition. A half hour ago they were admitted to the Emergency Room, which you can see just behind me. They're being treated for cuts and scrapes and other minor injuries."

  "That's great news, Stan. Any word from the police about the teacher's cause of death?"

  "Cherry, Sluder County Police have issued no statements about the body of the woman found, except to say that for the progress of the investigation, all evidence will be held at this time. We'll have to wait for the Sluder County coroner's ruling, which is expected next week. For now, everyone's relieved the kids are safe. They're expected to be released from the hospital later today."

  "Great, Stan. And News 13 will keep you tuned as news breaks in this camping tragedy." Cherry looked down at the piece of paper and looked up again.

  "It's small. It's black. It's something you shouldn't leave home without." "Find out what it is," said Norvel, blinking at the camera, "in our 'Get Technical' series. Coming up next."

  I watched the program until the very end, when Cherry smiled and twittered, "Have a great morning!" and the camera zoomed away from her and Norvel like a fly zipping around the studio. From her triumphant grin, it appeared she was hoping the camping tragedy would be her claim to fame, her Fifteen Minutes (That Could Potentially Lead to a Full Half Hour), her First-Class Ticket to Somewhere (with Fully Reclining Seats and Champagne before Takeoff). Cherry seemed to see it all twisting into the distance like a four-lane highway: "The Cherry Jeffries Talk Show: Spill Your Heart Out," CHAY-JEY, a conservative clothing line for the serious blond working woman ("No longer an oxymoron"), "Cherry Bird," the Cherry Jeffries Fragrance for Women in Motion, the newspaper article in USA Today, "Move over Oprah, Here Comes Cherry." A car commercial roared onto the screen. I noticed Dad standing behind me. His tattered leather bag, stuffed with legal pads and periodicals, hung heavily around his shoulder. He was on his way to the university. His first seminar, Conflict Resolution in the Third World, started at 9:00 A.M.

  "Perhaps it's not a wise idea to watch anymore," he said.

  "And do what instead," I asked blandly.

  "Rest. Read. I have a new annotated copy of De Profundis—"

  "I don't want to read De Profundis."

  "Fair enough." He was silent for a moment. Then: "You know, I could phone Dean Randall. We could go somewhere for the day. Drive to a— " "Where?" "Perhaps we could take a picnic to one of those lakes people are always praising to the high heavens. One of these local lakes with ducks."

  "Ducks."

  "You know. Paddleboats. And geese."

  Dad walked around to the front of the couch, ostensibly so I'd peel my eyes off the TV and look at him.

  "To get on the highway," he said. "It might remind us that no matter the tragedy, there's always a world beyond it. 'Whither goes
t thou, America, in thy shiny car in the night?' "

  I continued to stare at the TV, my eyes sore, my thin bathrobe, the color of tongues, limp around my legs.

  "Did you have an affair with Hannah Schneider?" I asked. Dad was so shocked he didn't immediately speak."I—what?" I repeated the question. "How can you ask such a thing?" "You had an affair with Eva Brewster, so maybe you also had an affair with Hannah Schneider. Maybe you had an affair with the entire school and kept me in the dark—"

  "Of course not' Dad said irritably, then he took a deep breath and added very quietly, "I did not have an affair with Hannah Schneider. Sweet, you should stop this. . . brooding—it isn't good. What can I do? Tell me. We can move somewhere. California. You always wanted to go to California, didn't you? Any state you like . . ."

  Dad was grabbing at words the way drowning people grab at floating bits of plywood. I didn't say anything. "Well," he said, after a minute. "You have my office number. I'll be home around two to check on you." "Don't check on me." "Sweet." "What?" "There's that macaroni — " "In the fridge, which I can reheat for lunch—yes, I know." He sighed and covertly I glanced over at him. He looked as if I'd punched

  him in the face, as if I'd spray-painted PIG on his forehead, as if I'd told him I wished he was dead. "You'll call if you need anything?" he asked. I nodded. "If you'd like, on my way home I can pick up a few videos from—what is

  that-?" "Videomecca." "Right. Any requests?" "Gone with the Fucking Wind" I said. Dad kissed me on the cheek and walked through the hall to the front door. It was one of those instances one feels as if one's skin has abruptly become thin as one layer of phyllo dough on a triangle of baklava, when one desperately doesn't want the other person to go, but one doesn't say anything in order to feel isolation in its purest form, as a periodic table of element, one of the noble gases, Iso1.

  The front door closed, locked. To the far-off tune of the blue Volvo driving away, it slipped over me, sadness, deadness, like a sheet over summer furniture.

  I guess it was shock, the body's spin on distress, what Jemma Sloane drearily refers to on p. 95 of her book on "confrontational children," Raising Goliath (1999): "child coping mechanisms." Whatever the psychological grounds, for the next four days following their rescue (as my beloved Chernobyl reported during First News at Five, returned to their homes like damaged parcels) I adopted the character and deportment of a nasty ninety-year-old widow.

  Dad had to work, so I spent the rest of Spring Break alone. I said little. What I did say tended to be to myself or to my colored companion, the TV (Chernobyl proved more enjoyable than any show-offy grandchild). Dad was the grossly underpaid yet loyal caretaker who showed up at regular intervals to make sure I hadn't burned down the house, that I ate my prepared meals and didn't fall asleep in strange positions that could lead to injury or death. He was the nurse who held his tongue when I was irritable, in the off chance I keeled over.

  When I felt up to it, I ventured outside. The rueful weekend of rain had given way to conceited sunshine. It was too much—the glare, the grass like straw. The sun harassed the yard with a shamelessness I'd never noticed before, inundating the leaves, scalding the pavement. Also offensive were the earthworms, those vagrants, visibly hungover from the downpour, so wasted they were unable to mobilize and fried themselves into orange french fries all over the driveway.

  I scowled, kept my bedroom shades pulled, hated everyone, felt grouchy. As soon as Dad drove away in the morning, I rummaged through the kitchen trash to retrieve the latest Stockton Observer, which he'd thrown out early in the morning, so I wouldn't see the headlines and fester over what had happened. (He didn't know my well-being was a lost cause; I had little appetite and sleep remained likely as phoenix eggs.)

  Around five o'clock, before he came home, I returned the newspaper to the trash can, carefully repositioning it below last night's rigatoni with tomato sauce (the UNCS Political Science Department assistant, Barbara, had given Dad a few "comfort food" recipes; supposedly they'd been the rock that helped some wayward stepson, Mitch, through rehab). It was a stealthy exercise, much like hiding one's medication in the elastic of a fitted sheet, crushing it up with a soupspoon, using it to fertilize geraniums.

  "Teacher Death Shocks School," "Dead Woman Beloved Teacher, Community Activist," "Investigators Hold Details of Local Death"—these were the keyed-up articles about it, us, her. They rehashed the specifics of the rescue, the Stockton community's "shock," "disbelief" and "sense of loss." Jade, Charles, Milton, Nigel and Lu all got their names and grinning yearbook pictures in the paper. (I did not—another blow for being the first found.) They quoted Eva Brewster: "We can't believe it." They also quoted Alice Kline, who'd worked with Hannah at the Burns County Animal Shelter: "It's so sad. She was the happiest, kindest person in the world. All the dogs and cats are waiting for her to come back." (When someone died prematurely they routinely become the Happiest, Kindest Person.)

  Apart from "Investigation Continues into Park Death," which explained that her body had been discovered two miles from Sugartop Summit, that she had been hanging by an electrical cord, none of the other articles said anything new. After a while, I found it all stomach-turning, especially the editorial, "WNC Murder, Evidence of Voodoo," by R. Levenstein, some "local critic, conservationist and Web blogger" speculating that her death was occult related. "The police's continuing reluctance to disclose the details of Hannah Schneider's death steers the astute observer to a conclusion local authorities have been trying to cover up for years: there is a growing populace of witches in Sluder and Burns Counties."

  No, it wasn't like it was in the Olden Days.

  Due to my new fondness for trawling through the trash, I was able to locate something else of note Dad had discarded for the sake of my mental health, The St. Gallway Bereavement Pack. Judging from the date on the large manila envelope in which it'd come, apparently The Pack had been launched with the velocity of a Tomahawk cruise missile as soon as news of the catastrophic event hit school radars.

  The Pack included a letter from Headmaster Havermeyer ("Dear Parents: We are saddened this week by the death of one of our dearest teachers, Hannah Schneider . . ."), an overexcited article from a 1991 issue of Parenting magazine, "How Children Grieve," a schedule of counseling times and room numbers, Crisis Team constituents, a pair of 24-hour 800-numbers to call for psychological assistance (1-800-FEEL-SAD, and another I find difficult to remember, 1-800-U-BEWAIL, I believe) and a tepid postscript about a funeral ("A date for Ms. Schneider's memorial service has yet to be arranged.").

  One can imagine how strange it was for me to read these carefully prepared materials, to realize they were talking about Hannah, our Hannah, the Ava Gardnered person across from whom I'd once eaten pork chops —how scary and sudden the shift from Living to Dead. Chiefly unsettling was the fact that The Pack mentioned nothing of how she'd died. True, The Pack had been prepared and mailed well before the Sluder County Coroner's Office would release its autopsy report. Yet the omission was bizarre, as if she hadn't been murdered (a sensational word; if I had my way there'd be something a little more serious at the intersection of Death, Murder and Slaughter— Mauleth, perhaps). Instead, according to The Pack, Hannah had simply "passed"; she'd been playing poker and decided not to take another card. Or, reading Havermeyer's spongy wording, one had the sense she'd been seized ("taken from us"), King-Kong-style ("without warning") by the gigantic, smooth hand of God ("she's in good hands"), and though such an event was gruesome ("one of life's toughest lessons") everyone should nail a grin to their face and continue robotically with daily life ("we must continue on, loving each day, as Hannah would've wanted").

  St. Gallway's Grief Management began, but certainly did not end, with The Bereavement Pack. The day after I found the thing, Saturday the 2, Dad received a phone call from Mark Butters, Head of the Crisis Team.

  I eavesdropped on the conversation from my bedroom phone with Dad's silent complicity. Prior to Butters' appointment
to the Crisis Team, he'd never been a confident man. He had the complexion of baba ghanoush and his flabby body, even on bright, sunny days, reminded one of nothing more robust than a much-used carry-on suitcase. His most obvious personality trait was his suspicious nature, the unflagging conviction that he, Mr. Mark Butters, was the secret subject of all student jokes, quips, puns and personal asides. Over his table at lunch, his eyes searched student faces like drug dogs in an airport for the chalky residue of ridicule. But, as evidenced by his sonorous, newly confident voice, Mr. Butters had simply been a person of untapped potential, a man who needed only a Tiny Calamity in order to shine. He'd given up Hesitation and Doubt with the surprising ease of anonymously returning erotica in the middle of the night to the RETURNS slot at the video store, had effortlessly replaced them with Authority and Daring.

  "Your schedule permitting," said Mr. Butters, "we'd like to arrange a half-hour session with both you and Blue in order to discuss what's happened.

  You'll be sitting down with myself and Havermeyer, as well as one of our child counselors."

  "One of your what?"

  (Dad, I should mention, did not believe in anyone's counsel except his own. He thought psychotherapy promulgated nothing more than a great deal of handholding and shoulder massaging. He despised Freud, Jung, Frasier and any person who thought it fascinating to instigate a lengthy discussion of his/her own dreams.)

  "A counselor. To share your concerns, your daughter's concerns. We have on hand a very competent, full-time child psychologist, Deb Cromwell. She's come to us from The Derds School in Raleigh."

  "I see. Well, I have only one concern."

  "Oh?"

  "Yes."

  "Great. Hit me with it."

  "You."

  Butters was silent. Then: "I see."

  "My concern is that for the entire week your school has remained mute—out of terror, I suppose—and now, at long last, one of you has mustered the courage to come forward, at, what time is it, three-forty-five on a Saturday afternoon. And all you have to say is that you'd like us to schedule a time to come in and be psychoanalyzed. Is that correct?"