Marisha Pessl - Special Topics in Calamity Physics

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.