Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close (8 page)

'It doesn't have cushions.'

'What is that?'

'You mean the painting?'

'Your apartment smells good.' The man in the other room called again, this time extremely loudly, like he was desperate, but she didn't pay any attention, like she didn't hear it, or didn't care.

I touched a lot of things in her kitchen, because it made me feel OK for some reason. I ran my finger along the top of her microwave, and it turned gray & visquous
; C'est sale
,' I said, showing it to her and cracking up. She became extremely serious. 'That's embarrassing,' she said. 'You should see my laboratory,' I said. 'I wonder how that could have happened,' she said. I said, 'Things get dirty.'

'But I like to keep things clean. A woman comes by every week to clean. I've told her a million times to clean everywhere. I've even pointed that out to her.' I asked her why she was getting so upset about such a small thing. She said, 'It doesn't feel small to me,' and I thought about moving a single grain of sand one millimeter. I took a wet wipe from my field kit and cleaned the microwave.

'Since you're an epidemiologist,' I said, 'did you know that seventy percent of household dust is actually composed of human epidermal matter?'

'No,' she said, 'I didn't.'

'I'm an amateur epidemiologist.'

'There aren't many of those.'

'Yeah. And I conducted a pretty fascinating experiment once where I told Feliz to save all the dust from our apartment for a year in a garbage bag for me. Then I weighed it. It weighed 112 pounds. Then I figured out that seventy percent of 112 pounds is 78.4 pounds. I weigh 76 pounds, 78 pounds when I'm sopping wet. That doesn't actually prove anything, but it's weird. Where can I put this?'

'Here,' she said, taking the wet wipe from me. I asked her, 'Why are you sad?'

'Excuse me?'

'You're sad. Why?'

The coffee machine gurgled. She opened a cabinet and took out a mug. 'Do you take sugar?' I told her yes, because Dad always took sugar. As soon as she sat down, she got back up and took a bowl of grapes from her refrigerator. She also took out cookies and put them on a plate. 'Do you like strawberries?' she asked. 'Yes,' I told her, 'but I'm not hungry.' She put out some strawberries. I thought it was weird that there weren't any menus or little magnetic calendars or pictures of kids on her refrigerator. The only thing in the whole kitchen was a photograph of an elephant on the wall next to the phone. 'I love that,' I told her, and not just because I wanted her to like me. 'You love what?' she asked. I pointed at the picture. 'Thank you,' she said. 'I like it, too.'

'I said I
loved
it.'

'Yes. I
love
it.'

'How much do you know about elephants?'

'Not too much.'

'Not too much a little? Or not too much nothing?'

'Hardly anything.'

'For example, did you know that scientists used to think that elephants had esp?'

'Do you mean E.S.P.?'

'Anyway, elephants can set up meetings from very faraway locations, and they know where their friends and enemies are going to be, and they can find water without any geological clues. No one could figure out how they do all of those things. So what's actually going on?'

'I don't know.'

'How do they do it?'

'It?'

'How do they set up meetings if they don't have E.S.P.?'

'You're asking me?'

'Yes.'

'I don't know.'

'Do you want to know?'

'Sure.'

'A lot?'

'Sure.'

'They're making very, very, very, very deep calls, way deeper than what humans can hear. They're talking to each other. Isn't that so awesome?'

'It is.' I ate a strawberry.

'There's this woman who's spent the last couple of years in the Congo or wherever. She's been making recordings of the calls and putting together an enormous library of them. This past year she started playing them back.'

'Playing them back?'

'To the elephants.'

'Why?' I loved that she asked why. 'As you probably know, elephants have much, much stronger memories than other mammals.'

'Yes. I think I knew that.'

'So this woman wanted to see just how good their memories actually are. She'd play the call of an enemy that was recorded a bunch of years earlier – a call they'd heard only once – and they'd get panicky, and sometimes they'd run. They remembered hundreds of calls. Thousands. There might not even be a limit. Isn't that fascinating?'

'It is.'

'Because what's
really
fascinating is that she'd play the call of a dead elephant to its family members.'

'And?'

'They remembered.'

'What did they do?'

'They approached the speaker.'

'I wonder what they were feeling.'

'What do you mean?'

'When they heard the calls of their dead, was it with love that they approached the jeep? Or fear? Or anger?'

'I don't remember.'

'Did they charge?'

'I don't remember.'

'Did they cry?'

'Only humans can cry tears. Did you know that?'

'It looks like the elephant in that photograph is crying.' I got extremely close to the picture, and it was true. 'It was probably manipulated in Photoshop,' I said. 'But just in case, can I take a picture of your picture?' She nodded and said, 'Didn't I read somewhere that elephants are the only other animals that bury their dead?'

'No,' I told her as I focused Grandpa's camera, 'you didn't. They just gather the bones. Only humans bury their dead.'

'Elephants couldn't believe in ghosts.' That made me crack up a little. 'Well, most scientists wouldn't say so.'

'What would you say?'

'I'm just an amateur scientist.'

'And what would you say?' I took the picture. 'I'd say they were confused.'

Then she started to cry tears.

I thought,
I'm the one who's supposed to be crying
.

'Don't cry,' I told her. 'Why not?' she asked. 'Because,' I told her. 'Because what?' she asked. Since I didn't know why she was crying, I couldn't think of a reason. Was she crying about the elephants? Or something else I'd said? Or the desperate person in the other room? Or something that I didn't know about? I told her, 'I bruise easily.' She said, 'I'm sorry.' I told her, 'I wrote a letter to that scientist who's making those elephant recordings. I asked if I could be her assistant. I told her I could make sure there were always blank tapes ready for recording, and I could boil all the water so it was safe to drink, or even just carry her equipment. Her assistant wrote back to tell me she already had an assistant, obviously, but maybe there would be a project in the future that we could work on together.'

'That's great. Something to look forward to.'

'Yeah.'

Someone came to the door of the kitchen who I guessed was the man that had been calling from the other room. He just stuck his head in extremely quickly, said something I didn't understand, and walked away. Abby pretended to ignore it, but I didn't. 'Who was that?'

'My husband.'

'Does he need something?'

'I don't care.'

'But he's your husband, and I think he needs something.' She cried more tears. I went over to her and I put my hand on her shoulder, like Dad used to do with me. I asked her what she was feeling, because that's what he would ask. 'You must think this is very unusual,' she said. 'I think a lot of things are very unusual,' I said. She asked, 'How old are you?' I told her twelve – lie #59 – because I wanted to be old enough for her to love me. 'What's a twelve-year-old doing knocking on the doors of strangers?'

'I'm trying to find a lock. How old are you?'

'Forty-eight.'

'Jose. You look much younger than that.' She cracked up through her crying and said, 'Thanks.'

'What's a forty-eight-year-old doing inviting strangers into her kitchen?'

'I don't know.'

'I'm being annoying,' I said. 'You're not being annoying,' she said, but it's extremely hard to believe someone when they tell you that.

I asked, 'Are you sure you didn't know Thomas Schell?' She said, 'I didn't know Thomas Schell,' but for some reason I
still
didn't believe her. 'Maybe you know someone else with the first name Thomas? Or someone else with the last name Schell?'

'No.' I kept thinking there was something she wasn't telling me. I showed her the little envelope again. 'But this is your last name, right?' She looked at the writing, and I could see that she recognized something about it. Or I thought I could see it. But then she said, 'I'm sorry. I don't think I can help you.'

'And what about the key?'

'What key?' I realized I hadn't even shown it to her yet. All of that talking – about dust, about elephants – and I hadn't gotten to the whole reason I was there.

I pulled the key out from under my shirt and put it in her hand. Because the string was still around my neck, when she leaned in to look at the key, her face came incredibly close to my face. We were frozen there for a long time. It was like time was stopped. I thought about the falling body.

'I'm sorry,' she said. 'Why are you sorry?'

'I'm sorry I don't know anything about the key.' Disappointment #3. 'I'm sorry, too.'

Our faces were so incredibly close.

I told her, 'The fall play this fall is
Hamlet
, in case you're interested. I'm Yorick. We have a working fountain. If you want to come to opening night, it's twelve weeks from now. It should be pretty great.' She said, 'I'll try,' and I could feel the breath of her words against my face. I asked her, 'Could we kiss for a little bit?'

'Excuse me?' she said, although, on the other hand, she didn't pull her head back. 'It's just that I like you, and I think I can tell that you like me.' She said, 'I don't think that's a good idea.' Disappointment #4. I asked why not. She said, 'Because I'm forty-eight and you're twelve.'

'So?'

'And I'm married.'

'So?'

'And I don't even know you.'

'Don't you feel like you know me?' She didn't say anything. I told her, 'Humans are the only animal that blushes, laughs, has religion, wages war, and kisses with lips. So in a way, the more you kiss with lips, the more human you are.'

'And the more you wage war?' Then I was the silent one. She said, 'You're a sweet, sweet boy.' I said, 'Young man.'

'But I don't think it's a good idea.'

'Does it have to be a good idea?'

'I think it does.'

'Can I at least take a picture of you?' She said, 'That would be nice.' But when I started focusing Grandpa's camera, she put her hand in front of her face for some reason. I didn't want to force her to explain herself, so I thought of a different picture I could take, which would be more truthful, anyway. 'Here's my card,' I told her, when the cap was back on the lens, 'in case you remember anything about the key or just want to talk.'

I went over to Grandma's apartment when I got home, which is what I did basically every afternoon, because Mom worked at the firm on Saturdays and sometimes even Sundays, and she got panicky about me being alone. As I got near Grandma's building, I looked up and didn't see her sitting at her window waiting for me, like she always did. I asked Parley if she was there, and he said he thought so, so I went up the seventy-two stairs.

I rang the doorbell. She didn't answer, so I opened the door, because she always leaves it unlocked, even though I don't think that's safe, because sometimes people who seem good end up being not as good as you might have hoped. As I walked in, she was coming to the door. It looked almost like she had been crying, but I knew that was impossible, because once she told me that she emptied herself of tears when Grandpa left. I told her fresh tears are produced every time you cry. She said, 'Anyway.' Sometimes I wondered if she cried when no one was looking.

'Oskar!' she said, and lifted me from the ground with one of her hugs. 'I'm OK,' I said. 'Oskar!' she said again, picking me up in another hug. 'I'm OK,' I said again, and then I asked her where she'd been. 'I was in the guest room talking to the renter.'

When I was a baby, Grandma would take care of me during the day. Dad told me that she would give me baths in the sink, and trim my fingernails and toenails with her teeth because she was afraid of using clippers. When I was old enough to take baths in the bathtub, and to know I had a penis and a scrotum and everything, I asked her not to sit in the room with me. 'Why not?'

'Privacy.'

'Privacy from what? From me?' I didn't want to hurt her feelings, because not hurting her feelings is another of my
raisons d'etre
. 'Just privacy,' I said. She put her hands on her stomach and said, 'From
me
?' She agreed to wait outside, but only if I held a ball of yarn, which went under the bathroom door and was connected to the scarf she was knitting. Every few seconds she would give it a tug, and I had to tug back – undoing what she'd just done – so that she could know I was OK.

She was taking care of me when I was four, chasing me around the apartment like she was a monster, and I cut my top lip against the end of our coffee table and had to go to the hospital. Grandma believes in God, but she doesn't believe in taxis, so I bled on my shirt on the bus. Dad told me it gave her incredibly heavy boots, even though my lip only needed a couple of stitches, and that she kept coming across the street to tell him, 'It was all my fault. You should never let him be around me again.' The next time I saw her after that, she told me, 'You see, I was pretending to be a monster, and I became a monster.'

Grandma stayed at our apartment the week after Dad died, while Mom was going around Manhattan putting up posters. We had thousands of thumb wars, and I won every single one, even the ones I was trying to lose. We watched approved documentaries, and cooked vegan cupcakes, and went for lots of walks in the park. One day I wandered away from her and hid. I liked the way it felt to have someone look for me, to hear my name again and again. 'Oskar! Oskar!' Maybe I didn't even like it, but I needed it right then.

I followed her around from a safe distance as she started to get incredibly panicky. 'Oskar!' She was crying and touching everything, but I wouldn't let her know where I was, because I was sure that the cracking up at the end would make it all OK. I watched her as she walked home, where I knew she would sit on the stoop of our building and wait for Mom to come back. She would have to tell her I had disappeared, and that because she wasn't watching me closely enough, I was gone forever and there would be no more Schells. I ran ahead, down Eighty-second Street and up Eighty-third, and when she came up to the building, I jumped out from behind the door. 'But I didn't order a pizza!' I said, cracking up so hard I thought my neck would burst open.

She started to say something, and then she stopped. Stan took her arm and said, 'Why don't you sit down, Grandma.' She told him, 'Don't touch me,' in a voice that I'd never heard from her. Then she turned around and went across the street to her apartment. That night, I looked through my binoculars at her window and there was a note that said, 'Don't go away.'

Ever since that day, whenever we go on walks she makes us play a game like Marco Polo, where she calls my name and I have to call back to let her know that I'm OK.

'Oskar.'

'I'm OK.'

'Oskar.'

'I'm OK.'

I'm never exactly sure when we're playing the game and when she's just saying my name, so I always let her know that I'm OK.

A few months after Dad died, Mom and I went to the storage facility in New Jersey where Dad kept the stuff that he didn't use anymore but might use again one day, like when he retired, I guess. We rented a car, and it took us more than two hours to get there, even though it wasn't far away, because Mom kept stopping to go to the bathroom and wash her face. The facility wasn't organized very well, and it was extremely dark, so it took us a long time to find Dad's little room. We got in a fight about his razor, because she said it should go in the 'throw it away' pile and I told her it should go in the 'save it' pile. She said, 'Save it for what?' I said, 'It doesn't matter for what.' She said, 'I don't know why he saved a three-dollar razor in the first place.' I said, 'It doesn't matter why.' She said, 'We can't save everything.' I said, 'So it will be OK if I throw away all of your things and forget about you after you die?' As it was coming out of my mouth, I wished it was going into my mouth. She said she was sorry, which I thought was weird.

One of the things we found were the old two-way radios from when I was a baby. Mom and Dad put one in the crib so they could hear me crying, and sometimes, instead of coming to the crib, Dad would just talk into it, which would help me get to sleep. I asked Mom why he kept those. She said, 'Probably for when you have kids.'

'
What the?
'

'That's what Dad was like.' I started to realize that a lot of the stuff he'd saved – boxes and boxes of Legos, the set of
How It Works
books, even the empty photo albums – was probably for when I had kids. I don't know why, but for some reason that made me angry.

Anyway, I put new batteries in the two-way radios, and I thought it would be a fun way for me and Grandma to talk. I gave her the baby one, so she wouldn't have to figure out any buttons, and it worked great. When I'd wake up I'd tell her good morning. And before I'd go to bed we'd usually talk. She was always waiting for me on the other end. I don't know how she knew when I'd be there. Maybe she just waited around all day.

'Grandma? Do you read me?'

'Oskar?'

'I'm OK. Over.'

'How did you sleep, darling? Over.'

'What? I couldn't hear that. Over.'

'I asked how did you sleep. Over.'

'Fine,' I'll say, looking at her across the street, my chin in my palm, 'no bad dreams. Over.'

'One hundred dollars. Over.' We never have all that much to say to each other. She tells me the same stories about Grandpa again and again, like how his hands were rough from making so many sculptures, and how he could talk to animals. 'You'll come visit me this afternoon? Over?'

'Yeah. I think so. Over.'

'Please try. Over.'

'I'll try. Over and out.'

Some nights I took the two-way radio into bed with me and rested it on the side of the pillow that Buckminster wasn't on so I could hear what was going on in her bedroom. Sometimes she would wake me up in the middle of the night. It gave me heavy boots that she had nightmares, because I didn't know what she was dreaming about and there was nothing I could do to help her. She hollered, which woke me up, obviously, so my sleep depended on her sleep, and when I told her, 'No bad dreams,' I was talking about her.

Grandma knitted me white sweaters, white mittens, and white hats. She knew how much I liked dehydrated ice cream, which was one of my very few exceptions to veganism, because it's what astronauts have for dessert, and she went to the Hayden Planetarium and bought it for me. She picked up pretty rocks to give to me, even though she shouldn't have been carrying heavy things, and usually they were just Manhattan schist, anyway. A couple of days after the worst day, when I was on my way to my first appointment with Dr. Fein, I saw Grandma carrying a huge rock across Broadway. It was as big as a baby and must have weighed a ton. But she never gave that one to me, and she never mentioned it.

'Oskar.'

'I'm OK.'

One afternoon, I mentioned to Grandma that I was considering starting a stamp collection, and the next afternoon she had three albums for me and – 'because I love you so much it hurts me, and because I want your wonderful collection to have a wonderful beginning' – a sheet of stamps of Great American Inventors.

'You've got Thomas Edison,' she said, pointing at one of the stamps, 'and Ben Franklin, Henry Ford, Eli Whitney, Alexander Graham Bell, George Washington Carver, Nikola Tesla, whoever that is, the Wright Brothers, J. Robert Oppenheimer – '

'Who's he?'

'He invented the bomb.'

'Which bomb?'

'
The
bomb.'

'He wasn't a Great Inventor!' She said, 'Great, not good.'

'Grandma?'

'Yes, darling?'

'It's just that where's the plate block?'

'The what?'

'The thing on the side of the sheet with the numbers.'

'With the numbers?'

'Yeah.'

'I got rid of it.'

'You
what
?'

'I got rid of it. Was that wrong?' I felt myself starting to spaz, even though I was trying not to. 'Well, it's not worth anything without the plate block!'

'What?'

'The
plate block
! These stamps. Aren't.
Valuable
!' She looked at me for a few seconds. 'Yeah,' she said, 'I guess I heard of that. So I'll go back to the stamp shop tomorrow and get another sheet. These we can use for the mail.'

'There's no reason to get another,' I told her, wanting to take back the last few things I said and try them again, being nicer this time, being a better grandson, or just a silent one. 'There is a reason, Oskar.'