Tremendous Things

by Susin Nielsen

  “I’m really sorry, sir. And might I say, it was totally unclassy of her to bring him here tonight.”

  “That’s kind of you, Wilbur. I rather thought the same myself.” He had a sip of his wine.

  “Thank you for arranging this trip. It’s been the experience of a lifetime.”

  “It has, hasn’t it? This was my first time in Paris, too. A dream come true…in spite of certain…unforeseen circumstances.”

  It was time for the concert to begin. I could hardly focus, knowing what I was about to do. The French students played first and closed out with a great rendition of “Big Yellow Taxi” by Joni Mitchell. Then the Trudeau-Manias played, and we closed out with a medley from the musical Grease.

  Before people could start drifting away, Fabrizio clinked a glass with a fork to get everyone’s attention. “Ladies and gentlemen, mesdames et messieurs, we have one last song to play for you tonight. A special number, with lyrics by our very own Wilbur Nuñez-Knopf, and music by Alex Shirazi.”

  Charlie stood by the food table, stuffing two petits fours into her mouth at once. I met her gaze.

  Alex played the opening chords. Fabrizio kept his promise to take part; he grabbed my tambourine and shook it, and his body, to the beat.

  My heart was pounding. My mouth was dry. But I forced it open.

  And I started to sing.

  Charlotte’s Web

  The first time I laid eyes on you

  I heard angels sing a hymn

  You bit me with your heavenly venom

  Paralyzed my limbs

  You drew me in, you held me tight

  You had me in your spell

  Your voice, your style, your laugh, your smile

  Your voracious appetite as well

  Charlotte, my own spider

  You have gotten in my head

  Charlotte, my own spider

  You have caught me in your web

  You are beautiful, dear Charlotte

  You captivate me with your grin

  I am stuck in the invisible silk

  That you’ve wound around my skin

  O that you would love me back

  That you would feel the way I did

  Until that day I remain trapped

  By you, my sweet arachnid

  Charlotte, my own spider

  You have gotten in my head

  Charlotte, my own spider

  You have caught me in your web

  There was complete silence when we were done. The combination of the fairy lights and the now-dark sky made it hard to see people’s reactions.

  People started to clap, but I could tell from the tepid nature of the applause that they were just being polite. I saw Guillaume, who was gazing at me with an inscrutable look on his face.

  Someone started to laugh, and of course I recognized who it was immediately. As my eyes adjusted, I also realized he was holding up his phone. He’d recorded the whole thing. “You sounded like a cat being strangled, Wank!”

  “Shut up, Tyler,” someone said. Jo Lin.

  “And his name is Wilbur, you jackass.” That was Laura. I wanted to hug them both.

  People started to disperse, heading back to the buffet table for more food and wine. I wound my way through the crowd, looking for Charlie. Guillaume grabbed my arm. “That was either very inspired, Wilbur, or very stupid.”

  “I tend to agree, Guillaume.”

  “Charlie is a wonderful young woman, as you are already aware. But she knows her own mind. So all I can say to you is…bonne chance.”

  * * *

  —

  I finally found Charlie upstairs in the apartment. She was curled up on the couch with Minouche.

  “Charlie—” I began.

  “I do not like being the center of attention, Wilbur,” she said.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to embarrass you—”

  “No. It was very thoughtful. But I think we should talk.”

  “Okay.” I sat beside her on the couch.

  “I can’t believe you wrote a song for me,” she said. “It was very sweet. And honestly also very embarrassing.”

  “I didn’t mean to—”

  “No, no. Do not apologize. You and Alex have some talent.” She took my hands in hers. “And I want you to know, I like you, too. You are one of the most wonderful men I have ever met.”

  “Why do I feel a but coming?”

  “But…I do not think my feelings for you are as strong as your feelings for me.”

  There it was.

  “This week I have been thinking how much I would enjoy, you know—fooling around with you—”

  “Really—?”

  “But I cannot do it, Wilbur. Because you are the best boy friend I have ever had. And I do not want to risk ruining that for one night of fun.”

  My mind was on fire. “I would like to suggest that we could have both? A night of fun, plus friends for life?”

  “It rarely works out that way.” She squeezed my hand. “I love you, Wilbur. But I don’t love you. You understand?”

  A big, fat tear of disappointment escaped my eyeball and rolled down my cheek. She wiped it away with a fingertip.

  Then she leaned in and kissed me.

  It was long. Lingering. It lasted until Guillaume came in a few moments later.

  Even as my heart felt like it was shattering, it was magnificent.

  12:01 a.m.

  Sal? How are you? Are you back home? So much to tell you.

  1:15 a.m.

  Sal?

  2:40 a.m.

  Sal?

  5:05 a.m.

  Sal?

  Guillaume woke me at five thirty a.m. to take me to the airport. He made me one last delicious café au lait. I ate one last croissant with Normandy butter. I picked up Minouche and kissed her head. I tried to keep my senses on full alert: the creamy taste of the coffee, the flakiness of the croissant, the sweetness of the butter, the scratches from Minouche’s paws on the hardwood floors, the smile on the ceiling cherub’s face.

  Charlie’s bedroom door stayed closed.

  “Time to go,” said Guillaume at six a.m. sharp.

  As we wheeled my suitcase across the floor, her door flung open. “Why did you not wake me? Just let me brush my teeth. I am coming too!”

  Guillaume drove us to Charles de Gaulle Airport in his Renault. I squeezed into the front and Charlie squeezed into the back, still in her pajamas.

  We arrived just as the sun was starting to peek over the horizon. Guillaume got my suitcase from the trunk. “It has been a pleasure hosting you, Wilbur,” he said. “Tu n’es pas une lumière, mais tu es un très gentil garçon.” He embraced me, and we did the cheek-kisses. “You are welcome any time.”

  “Merci, Guillaume.”

  He climbed back into the car.

  I was going to miss the Famous French Intellectual.

  Charlie and I looked at each other. “Please give my love to your mothers, and to Sal,” she said.

  “I will.”

  “And please, can we Skype or WhatsApp when you are back?”

  “Of course.”

  “I am going to miss you a tremendous amount, Wilbur. T’es trop génial.”

  A Peugeot pulled up in front of the Renault. Tyler climbed out of the back seat.

  “Wilbur?” said Charlie.

  “Yes?”

  “I am now going to give you your parting gift.” She took my face in her hands and she kissed me. For a long, long time.

  I peered out of the corner of my eye, and saw Tyler, watching us.

  I’m not one to gloat, but— Oh, who am I kidding?

  I gloated.

  * * *

  —r />
  Alex and Fabrizio wanted to know everything, in play-by-play detail. So as we waited for our plane to board, I told them.

  Fab actually got teary-eyed. “That’s so sad, Wilbur. And yet, call me crazy, it’s also kind of beautiful. A beautiful tragedy.”

  “I predict a lot of new poetry,” said Alex. They took turns giving me big hugs.

  “The thing is…I’m super sad, but I’m also super happy. It was an amazing trip.”

  “So, you ne regrettes rien?” asked Fab.

  “No. If it weren’t for Sal, and for you two…I would have stayed home. Can you imagine? If I’d missed all this?” I shook my head. “I can’t wait to see Sal. I can’t wait to thank him and tell him everything that’s happened.”

  But the moment I saw the Mumps waiting for me at the Toronto airport, I knew.

  I was never going to have the chance to tell Sal everything, because Sal was no longer here to tell.

  * * *

  —

  Mup drove us home. I held Templeton in my arms. No lie, he put his front paws around my neck and kept them there, his own little dog hug, like he was afraid that if he let go, I’d leave again.

  Mum sat in the back seat with us and told me what had happened. “He died two days ago. He had a massive stroke in the hospital. There was nothing anyone could do.”

  “Why didn’t you call me?”

  “Because it would have served no purpose, Wil, except to ruin the rest of your trip.”

  Part of me felt a bit angry with them. But a bigger part of me could see their logic.

  “He received your letter,” Mup told me. “I brought it to him at the hospital. It made him so very happy, Wil, it really did. He must have read it through three times.”

  We didn’t say much more on the drive home. I didn’t cry. I just stared out the window while Templeton licked my face.

  When we arrived outside our house, everything looked so…normal. Sal’s place looked exactly the same. I still expected him to come out onto his porch to welcome me back.

  Mum made tea. A leather bag sat on the kitchen table; I recognized it as Sal’s. “What’s it doing here?”

  “The hospital staff packed up his things. And he has no immediate family, so…I haven’t been able to bring myself to look through it yet.”

  I took it into the living room. It was all of the things that Alex, Fabrizio, and I had brought him: his sweater, his slippers, the photo of Irma, his fedora, his copy of The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay and mine of Charlotte’s Web.

  Scrunched into the bottom of the bag was a sealed envelope with Sal’s spidery handwriting on the front.

  Wilbur.

  I tucked Templeton under my arm and went upstairs to my room. I lay down on my bed. I tore open the letter.

  Dear Wilbur,

  If you are reading this, I guess it means I have well and truly kicked the bucket. You’ll no doubt be feeling sad. But if you think you’re sad, imagine how I feel. (Hahahaha, that was a joke!)

  Since my recent brush with death (and also since I’m bored out of my nut in the hospital and Ruth Gimbel is driving me ’round the bend), I have decided I should use some of my time here wisely and write you a letter that you can only open once I’ve shuffled off this mortal coil.

  Wilbur, when Irma passed away, I wanted to die, too. That is the truth. I couldn’t imagine my life without her. I started thinking of ways to plan my exit.

  Then you and your mothers moved in next door. I gave you a couple of old books about dinosaurs one day and after that I couldn’t get rid of you. You kept hanging around like a bad smell. You’d just unilaterally decided we were friends. I didn’t want a friend, Wilbur. I wanted to be left alone to wallow in my sorrow.

  But you were tenacious, or oblivious, or both. You just kept showing up and ringing my doorbell, day after day, and I didn’t have the heart to send you away. After a while, you broke me down. And do you know why? Because I came to realize that I looked forward to the time I spent with you. You were a ray of sunshine in my gloomy days. A slightly odd, but entirely sweet, young boy.

  You brought me back to life, Wilbur, not once, but twice. You just didn’t know about it the first time.

  So when I’m gone, try not to be sad for too, too long. Know that my life has been good. Some of it has been hard. I saw the worst of humanity when I was still very young. But I also saw the best. I believe that most of my life has been beautiful. My little life is a blip in the history of our world—but it’s also been a marvel. Just go lie down under Fulton again if you don’t believe me.

  If I can offer any advice to carry with you through your own brief time on this planet, it’s this: Be kind. Be strong. Be yourself. Because “yourself,” Wilbur, is a very fine human being. Even before Alex, Fabrizio, and I helped you to believe it, you were already terrific.

  Radiant.

  Some pig.

  I consider it one of the highlights of my life to have known you.

  To quote our favorite spider: “You have been my friend, Wilbur. And that in itself is a tremendous thing.”

  “Thank you, Wilbur. You’ve made Darryl look very handsome.” Ms. Norrie nuzzled her face into Darryl’s freshly washed and groomed fur. “Isn’t that right, little munchkin? Aren’t you a good-looking fellow?”

  Darryl, a labradoodle, was my tenth customer at It’s a Dog’s Life. I’d applied for the job in June, and Robin, the owner, hired me on the spot after a Great Dane puked up two socks and a pair of men’s underpants in the middle of my interview. I’d cleaned it up for her without batting an eye. Robin says I’m the best employee she’s ever had. “Nothing fazes you,” she says. By nothing I am pretty sure she means barf and poo. But I’m okay with that. I like my job. And it helps me keep my mind off Sal.

  * * *

  —

  So many people came to his celebration of life! I knew he had friends, but I had no idea how many. He was popular at his synagogue, as well as with all the people he’d met through pinochle and bowling. All of the people who’d worked for him at his furniture store back in the day showed up. Lloyd, Viktor, Brenda, and a few other people from the Market were there. José came. Leah and Alice and Ethel—all the women from aquacise, really—came, too. Ruth acted like a grieving widow, which the Mumps and I privately agreed was a bit much.

  The Mumps put the entire event together. They insisted that Alex and I perform a couple of songs, because they said Sal would have wanted it. We played one original (“Charlotte’s Web”) and one classic (“You’re My Best Friend” by Queen, which we kind of mangled but nobody seemed to mind it). Fab borrowed my tambourine again, and I have to say, just like he did in Paris, he added a bit of panache. When we were done, Ethel’s son asked if we’d consider playing a few songs at his daughter’s bat mitzvah, before the main band takes the stage, and we said yes. We have a month left to work on our numbers, which is a relief.

  Charlie insisted that we livestream Sal’s celebration of life so she could watch it from her apartment in Paris. She and I FaceTime regularly, about once a week. I still kind of love her, if I’m honest. But I also love being her friend. We talk about everything: about Sal, about my new job, about the play she’s in this summer, which is a French, all-female version of Twelve Angry Men (called, naturally, Twelve Angry Women). Sometimes we just read. There’s something comforting about looking up from my book and seeing her on my computer screen.

  I miss Sal every day. I still have moments when I forget he’s gone, and I’ll go to knock on the wall, or I’ll think of a story I have to tell him. Then I’ll remember, and I’ll just have to go somewhere for a private cry.

  I wish I could tell Sal that he was right. I didn’t get the girl, but the trip to Paris was still the best ten days of my life. I wish I could tell him thanks. Not just for that, but for bringing Alex back
into my life, and, yes, for bringing Fabrizio into my life, too.

  Because of Sal, my trip to Paris is my new Defining Moment.

  I no longer let myself be defined by what happened in seventh grade.

  And I definitely don’t let myself be defined by Tyler Kertz.

  * * *

  —

  When we got back from Paris, he tried to humiliate me all over again by posting his video of “Charlotte’s Web” on YouTube. Everyone from my school watched it, and I guess they told friends to watch it, because it wound up getting quite a few views. Nothing near viral, but close to a thousand.

  At first I thought it was going to be like my seventh grade time capsule letter all over again. It got quite a few nasty comments, of the “Worst voice ever!” and “Sounds like a hyena in heat!” variety.

  But the crazy thing is, most people at my school—especially the girls—had a different point of view. Once, when Tyler started imitating my voice and lyrics in the hall, Poppy said, “Shut up, Tyler. You wish you had half of Wilbur’s talent.”

  “Yeah,” said Olivia the oboist. “It was so romantic.”

  His attempt to make me feel like crap mostly backfired. He still called me Wank for the rest of the school year, but more and more people started calling me Wilbur again. It’s finally getting old. Tyler is getting old. And it’s not just me who feels that way. Jo Lin, Oliver, Laura, Alex, Fabrizio, and all the others who’d quietly borne his insults—I think we all woke up and realized he’s just one guy. He’s lost his power to make us feel like trash. Once, after one of our final band practices in June, he started ribbing me—and I just looked right over his head, stepped around him, and kept on walking. After everything that’s happened, I no longer care about Tyler Kertz.

  He is the zero.

  * * *

  —

  The Mumps have really been there for me these past few months, without being too over-the-top. We talk a lot, and cry a lot, but we also laugh a lot, sharing memories of our great friend and neighbor. I still go to aquacise with Mup; I didn’t want to, but Mup told me the ladies would be heartbroken if I didn’t. “They can’t lose you both at the same time.” It was a fair point.