Special topics in calamity physics - By Marisha Pessl Page 0,22

version of Gangsta Rap: "Next stop Speers, South Dakota, homeland of the Ring-necked Pheasant, the Black-footed Ferret, the Badlands, Black Hills Forest, Crazy Horse Memorial, capital, Pierre, largest city, Sioux Falls, rivers, Moreau, Cheyenne, White, James. . ."

"You take the large bedroom at the top of the stairs," he said now, watching Percussion and Woodwinds as they carried a heavy box across the yard toward the separate gabled entrance of the EXPANSIVE MASTER SUITE, "Hell, have the upstairs wing to yourself. Isn't it nice, sweet, to have a wing? Why shouldn't we live it up like Kubla Khan for a change? If you go up there, you'll find a surprise. I think you'll be pleased. I had to bribe a housewife, a real estate agent, two furniture salesmen, a UPS Head of Operations —now listen, yes, I'm talking to you — if you could go downstairs and aid your compatriot in unpacking the materials for my study, it would be most effective. He seems to have fallen down a rabbit hole."

Over the years, Dad's surprises, large and small, had been scholarly in nature, a set of 1999 Lamure-France Encyclopedias of the Physical World translated from the French and unavailable for purchase in the United States. ("All Nobel Prize-winners have a set of these," Dad said.)

But as I pushed open the bedroom door at the top of the stairs and walked into the large blue-walled room covered in pastoral oil paintings, giant arc windows along the far wall blistered with bubble curtains, I discovered not a rare, underground edition of Wie schafft man ein Meisterwerk, or The Step-by-Step Manual for Crafting Your Magnum Opus (Lint, Steggertt, Cue, 1993), but astonishingly, my old Citizen Kane desk pushed into the corner by the window. It was the real thing: the elephantine, walnut, Renaissance Revival library table I'd had eight years ago at 142 Tellwood Street in Wayne, Oklahoma.

Dad had found the desk at the Lord and Lady Hillier Estate Sale just outside of Tulsa, to which antiques wheeler-and-dealer June Bug, Partie "Let's Make a Deal" Lupine, had dragged Dad one stuffy Sunday afternoon. For some reason, when Dad saw the desk (and the five struggling Arnies it took to get it on the auction platform), he saw me and only me presiding over it (though I was only eight with a wingspan less than half its length). He paid a huge, undisclosed amount for it and announced with great flourish that this was "Blue's Desk," a desk "worthy of my little Eve of St. Agnes, upon which she will unmask all the Great Ideas." A week later, two of Dad's checks bounced, one at a grocery store, another at the university bookstore. I secretly believed it was because he'd paid "way above treasure price" for the desk, according to Let's Make a Deal, though Dad claimed he'd simply been slapdash with his bookkeeping. "Snubbed a decimal point," he'd said.

And then, rather anticlimactically, I was only able to unmask Great Ideas in Wayne, because we weren't able to take the desk with us to Sluder, Florida—something to do with the movers (the falsely advertised You Can Take It With You Moving Co.) being unable to fit it in the van. I shed ferocious tears and called Dad a reptile when we had to leave it, as if it wasn't just an oversized table with elaborate talon legs and seven drawers requiring seven individual keys, but a black pony I was abandoning in a barn.

Now I hurried back down the TWELVE OAKS STAIRCASE, finding Dad in the basement carefully opening the BUTTERFLIES FRAGILE box containing my mother's specimen—the six glass display cases she'd been working on when she'd died. When we arrived at a new house, he took hours to mount them, always in his office, always on the wall opposite his desk: thirty-two lined up girls in a petrified beauty pageant. It was why he didn't like June Bugs—or anyone, for that matter—nosing around his study, because the most devastating aspect of the Lepidoptera was not their color, or the unexpected furriness of the Polyphemus Moth antennae, not even the gloomy feeling you felt whenever you stood in front of something that had once zigzagged madly through the air, now still, wings uncouthly spread, body pinned to a piece of paper in a glass case. It was the presence of my mother within them. As Dad said once, they allowed you to see her face in greater close-up than any photographic likeness (Visual Aid