Marisha Pessl - Special Topics in Calamity Physics

Biologically speaking, this irreparable change, however minute, has no right to occur. Consider the Carpenter Ant, who allows a fellow ant recently found dead on the job to remain where he is a total of fifteen to thirty seconds before his lifeless body is picked up, hauled out of the nest, and tossed into a pile of debris composed of bits of sand and dust (see All My Children: Fervent Confessions of an Ant Queen , Strong, 1989, p. 21). Mammals, too, take an equally humdrum view of both death and bereavement. A lone tigress will defend her cubs against a roving male, but after they are slaughtered she will “roll over and mate with him without hesitation” (see Pride , Stevens-Hart, 1992, p. 112). Primates do mourn—“there is no form of grief as profound as a chimpanzee’s,” declares Jim Harry in The Tool-Makers (1980) — but their anguish tends to be reserved only for immediate family members. Male chimpanzees are known to execute not only competitors but also the young and disabled both inside and outside their clan, occasionally even eating them, for no apparent reason (p. 108).

Try as I might, I could summon none of the c’est la vie sangfroid of the Animal Kingdom. I began to experience, over the course of the next three months, full-blown insomnia. I’m not talking about the romantic kind, not the sweet sleeplessness one has when one is in love, anxiously awaiting the morn so one can rendezvous with a lover in an illicit gazebo. No, this was the torturous, clammy kind, when one’s pillow slowly takes on the properties of a block of wood and one’s sheets, the air of the Everglades.

My first night home from the hospital, none of them, not Hannah, Jade or the others, had been found. With the rain blathering endlessly against the windows, I stared at my bedroom ceiling and was aware of a new sensation in my chest, the feeling that it was caving in like an old piece of sidewalk. My head was seized by dead-end thoughts, the most rampant of which was the Moving Picture Producer’s Yen: the tremendous and supremely unproductive desire to scrap the last forty-eight hours of Life, rid myself of the original director (who obviously didn’t know what He was doing) and reshoot the entire affair, including substantial script rewrites and recasting the leads. I sort of couldn’t stand myself, how safe and snug I was in my wool socks and navy flannel pajamas purchased from the Adolescent Department at Stickley’s. I even resented the mug of Orange Blossom tea Dad had placed on the southwest corner of my bedside table. (It read, “A Stitch in Time Saves Nine” and sat there like an unpopped blister.) I felt as if my fortunate rescue by the Richardses was akin to a first cousin with no teeth and a tendency of spitting when he talked — downright embarrassing. I had no desire to be the Otto Frank, the Anastasia, the Curly, the Trevor Rees-Jones. I wanted to be with the rest of them, suffering what they were suffering.

Given my state of turmoil, it will come as no surprise that in the ten days following the camping trip, St. Gallway’s Spring Break, I found myself embarking on a sour, irksome and altogether unsatisfying love affair.

She was an insipid, fickle mistress, that two-headed she-male, otherwise known as the local news, WQOX News 13. I started seeing her three times a day (First News at5, News13at5:30, Late Night News at11:00), but within twenty-four hours, with her straight talk, shoulder pads, ad-libs and commercial breaks (not to mention that backdrop of faux sun permanently setting behind her) she managed to strong-arm her way into my unhinged head. I couldn’t eat, couldn’t try to sleep without supplementing my day with her half-hour programming at 6:30 A.M., 9:00 A.M., noon and 12:30 P.M..

Like all romances, ours began with great expectation.

“We have your local news next,” said Cherry Jeffries. She was dressed in Pepto-dismal pink, had hazel eyes, a tight smile reminiscent of a tiny rubber band stretched across her face. Thick, chin-length blond hair capped her, as if she were a ballpoint pen. “It’s called the Sunrise Nursery School, but the D.S.S. wants the sun to go down on the center after multiple allegations of abuse.”

“Restaurant owners protest a new tax increase by city hall,” chirped Norvel Owen. Norvel’s sole distinguishing characteristic was his male pattern baldness, which mimicked the stitching of a baseball. Also of note was his necktie, which appeared to be patterned with mussels, clams and other invertebrates. “We’ll talk about what it means for you and your Saturday night on the town. These stories coming up.”

A green square popped up and hovered at Cherry’s shoulder like a good idea: SEARCH.

“But first, our top story,” said Cherry. “Tonight an intensive search continues for five local high school students and their teacher reported missing in the Smoky Mountain National Park. Park authorities were alerted early this morning after a Yancey County resident found a sixth student near Route 441. The student was admitted to a local hospital for exposure and was released in stable condition earlier this evening. The Sluder County Sheriff says the group entered the park Friday afternoon, expecting to camp for the weekend, but later became lost. Rain, wind and heavy cloud cover have decreased visibility for the rescue squads. But with temperatures staying well above freezing, Park rangers and Sluder County Police stay optimistic the others will be rescued without injury. Our hearts go out to all the families and everyone involved in the search.”

Cherry glanced down at the blank piece of paper on the plastic blue desk. She looked up again.

“People are horsing around at the Western North Carolina Farm Center with the arrival of a brand new pony.”

“But this is no ordinary horse, of course, of course,” piped Norvel. “Mackenzie is a Falabella Miniature Horse standing a little over two feet tall. Curators say the pony originates from Argentina and is one of the rarest breeds in the world. You can go see Little Mac for yourself at the petting corral.”

“It happens every year,” said Cherry, “and its success depends on you. ”

“Later,” said Norvel, “details on Operation Blood Drive.”

By the following morning, Sunday, my fly-by-night infatuation had congealed into obsession. And it wasn’t just the news I was anticipating, yet still had not heard — that rescue teams had at last found them, that Hannah was alive and safe, that Fear (renowned for its hallucinogenic qualities) had conjured everything I’d heard and seen. There was something undeniably gripping about Cherry and Norvel (Chernobyl, I called them), a quality that forced me to withstand six hours of talk shows (one theme of significance, “From Frog to Prince: Extreme Male Makeovers”) and cleaning commercials featuring housewives with too many stains, kids and not enough time, to catch their second segment together, Your Stockton Power Lunch at 12:30. A wide and triumphant smile elbowed through Cherry’s face when she announced she was the sole anchor this afternoon.

“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?”