The Book of Why

by Nicholas Montemarano

  Ralph shook off the ocean, dropped the ball for me to throw again. “No more,” I said. “Enough,” and she looked dejected, the way only dogs can. It was late May, the day before our third anniversary.

  It was only later, at home, that we noticed Ralph’s tail. It wasn’t moving, not even at the sound of words that always made it wag. The vet said the waves had probably damaged it. He said the tail might never move, we’d have to wait and see, and it was as if we’d been told our dog would never be happy again when it was just that she might never look happy again, like a person who couldn’t smile. She’d be fine whether she ever wagged her tail or not; we were worried more for ourselves, that we’d lost some of our own happiness.

  For days we watched her tail oddly bent and not moving.

  Two weeks later her tail knocked over a wineglass. This otherwise would have upset us. But we were so happy, we left the stain. Some days it was a comforting reminder, other days a frightening one, of how lucky we’d been. We pretended it was all about her tail, not about how quickly the tide could have taken her away.

  Some books say it’s very quick and peaceful. Some books say within six to twelve seconds after injection she will take a slightly deeper breath. Some books say she will fall into what looks like a deep sleep. Some books say she will take a few more breaths. Some books say look into her eyes. Some books say washing the body can be a last act of loving kindness. Some books say most living creatures are made of mostly water. Some books say you may want someone to drive you home. Some books say you are not alone in your sadness. Some books say there will be an empty feeling each time you come home. Some books say the loss may bring up memories of other losses. Some books say hold a memorial service if you wish. Some books say buy a stone for your garden in the shape of a paw print. Some books say pet figurines are a popular way to remember. Some books say it’s very common to think you’ve seen her in the home or in the yard long after she’s gone. Some books say grief makes people do strange things. Some books say don’t make any important decisions in the weeks that follow such a loss.

  STUCK, TURNED AROUND, I can’t see where I’m going. Cars keep coming, keep bumping me back. I try to turn, to right myself, but can’t move. Hit again—hard—and now I’m facing the right way. A jolt from behind knocks off my sunglasses. I put my glasses back on—I don’t want to be recognized—and move forward. Around, around again, and I see you—red shirt, hair longer and in a ponytail. I want to bump you and your father, but can’t reach you; someone’s always in the way. Hit from behind, I spin around again. A frustration dream that’s not a dream.

  Sunglasses, hair shorter, clean-shaven; a disguise. An adult alone where no other adults are alone. And if you see me, if your father does, I’ll pretend not to know you at first—it’s been two years, after all—then act happy when I remember, ask how you’ve been. I’ll tell your father that I’m here with a friend and his kids.

  The red shirt passes me, a flash of your face, your hands gripping the wheel, then gone where I can’t see.

  I’m after you again—red shirt, red car. Closer, closer, but the cars stop—mine beside yours. Ride’s over. I drop my keys on purpose, hide my face bending to pick them up.

  I don’t go on every ride with you and your father; too suspicious without a child. A frog-themed ride that free-falls fifty feet, then “hops” back up; smiling pandas circling a beehive; a space shuttle that swings like a pendulum; a small Ferris wheel. Close, but not too close. I pretend to study the park’s map, look at my watch as if waiting for someone, tighten my shoelaces for the nth time.

  I keep following.

  Cotton candy turns your lips blue. You walk beside your father, waving the paper cone like a maestro.

  I sit behind you on a roller coaster with two drops, not too steep. You raise your arms, but don’t make a sound. If I reach out I could touch your hair blown back by the wind.

  Later, I sip lemonade on a beach chair and watch you slide down a water tube, your father waiting to catch you. All around me children lick grease from their fingers, then run back to scream under waterfalls. I’m the only person not wearing a bathing suit or shorts. Sunny and seventy, the weekend before Memorial Day. I reach to pull on my beard, a nervous habit, but it’s gone. My hands don’t recognize me.

  The waterfalls go dry; it startles the children. Spouting water is sucked back into holes in the ground. No one is allowed down the slides; no one is allowed to leave. I’m convinced this has something to do with me: they know what I’m doing here; they know I’ve followed you from your house to Dutch Wonderland.

  A girl is missing: seven years old, brown hair, green bathing suit. The name comes garbled through the speakers. I wait to hear it again, rather to hear it for the first time. I want to shush the girl behind me who keeps asking her mother if they’ll play the rest of the song that had been playing.

  I’ve done nothing wrong.

  Not ever, I mean, but now, in this moment, as far as I know. But it’s possible to do something wrong without knowing you are, while intending, in fact, to do what’s right, or what you believe is right. It’s possible, I know, to intend to do one thing but to do something else entirely, to do the exact opposite; or to do exactly what you intended to do, but to see that action or decision result in exactly what you didn’t want, or what someone else didn’t want, or what no one wanted.

  The girl is found in a bathroom stall; everyone applauds at this announcement. The music resumes—a different song, yet always the same. Waterfall water falls; the slides come back to life; water shoots up from the ground, sends children running. They run back to run away again.

  I run and watch, fear being watched: a lap around the cemetery, rest, another lap, rest. I lean against a tree and stretch my legs, then sit in the tree’s shade and wait.

  An old man walks through the cemetery with his dog. He waits patiently while the mutt—barrel-chested, black and tan—sniffs roses left in front of a nameless stone. I wonder how someone dead that long can still be remembered by someone living. Maybe a great-great-great-great-great-grandchild left the flowers. Maybe the person’s life story has been passed down through generations; it must be fiction by now, a game of Chinese whispers.

  After three days, I know your routine. Swimming at the Y in the morning. I’ve seen you return home, hair wet, jean shorts over a bathing suit. A walk to the library with your grandmother after school. Your mother works half days; she leaves in the morning with a cigarette between her lips and returns home after three, smoking a different cigarette. Late afternoon, usually around four, she sits on the porch—there’s an old couch and three white plastic chairs—and drinks a beer while waiting for your father to get home. She drops her cigarette butts in an empty bottle.

  You sit on the lawn, a small square of grass and flowers, and draw. You show your mother. She sips her beer, tells you how pretty you’ve drawn her, gives the pad back to you.

  I have my routine, too. Run, rest, watch. A drive downtown for lunch. Later, while you and your family eat dinner—your father grills, and you eat on the porch—I sit across the street on a bench outside the hospital and pretend to read the paper.

  At dusk the air grows chilly and TV light flickers in your darkening house. I walk past the house a few times; I hear gunfire from a cop show or an old movie. Your mother comes out for a smoke. You follow her out in your pajamas to catch fireflies. Then you go back inside, and I hear the lock turn.

  I drive back to the hotel, where I order room service. I don’t have a plan. I’m not sure how long I’ll stay. I’ve considered ringing your bell and telling your parents the truth—the names of your dolls, the song you were humming, the crying-laughing game, the fact that you don’t speak, that you want to be a singer, that you believe you used to live near a beach. But when I practice what I might say, when I imagine what this might sound like from their perspective, what I’m saying—I practice aloud—begins to sound crazy. I can’t imagine what your parents would say. I can only
imagine what I might say if I were them. I’d be open-minded, to a point. I might even believe. But after that, I’d probably say, “I’m very sorry for your loss. Best of luck with the rest of your life.” And so I can’t bring myself to ring the bell, can’t summon the nerve, or the stupidity, to say something to your parents. What I really want, I suppose, is to speak with you. I want to tell you this entire story from beginning to end. But you’re seven years old, and I’m not sure what you could possibly say, or sign, in response. So I’m left with this book, which I hope you’ll find when you’re older, in a used bookstore, and then—but, you see, there’s only one ending to this story, to every story.

  The next morning, a Saturday, one last look at you.

  I’m sitting across the street in the cemetery, leaning against a gravestone, when you come out of the house, a puppy in your arms. You sit on the lawn and bait the puppy, a German shepherd, with a stick.

  And then I hear your voice. “Hello,” you say, and now you’re standing, looking at me. “Hello,” you say again, and wave.

  I wave back and walk across the street to your lawn. My legs are shaking, my mouth has gone dry. The words I’ve practiced saying—to your parents, to you—are lost. “Cute dog,” I say. “May I pet him?”

  “Yes, but he might pee on you.”

  I crouch beside you in the grass and pet the puppy. He tries to bite my fingers with his needle teeth. He wants anything in his mouth. I let him chew on my shirt sleeve, and then we play tug-of-war with it.

  “How old?”

  “Ten weeks,” you say.

  “What’s his name?”

  “Harry.”

  “How’d you come up with that name?”

  “I don’t know,” you say. “He just looks like a Harry.”

  I’m afraid to look at you—to really look at you. But I’m leaving soon, and, unless something unexpected happens in the next few minutes, I may never see you again. Seven years old now, one of the most expressive faces I’ve seen. Big brown eyes, big lips, dimples.

  I’m about to ask if you remember me, but your mother comes outside to smoke a cigarette. She sees me and says, “Can I help you with something?”

  I stand, brush off my cords. “I saw the puppy and couldn’t resist.”

  She comes closer. “You,” she says. “I know you from—”

  “Two years ago,” I say. “The tornado.”

  She snaps her fingers. “That’s it,” she says. “I knew I knew you.”

  “Eric,” I say.

  “Do you live here now?”

  “Just visiting.”

  “You know, your friend came back—what’s her name.”

  “Sam.”

  “She was here about a year ago, asking questions.”

  “What kinds of questions?”

  “Something about her brother,” she says. “She kept asking if his name meant anything to us.”

  “Did it?”

  “No, but I’m not sure she believed us.” She takes out a new pack of cigarettes and slaps it against her palm. “She asked about you, too.”

  “What did she ask?”

  “I don’t remember. Whatever it was didn’t make much sense to me.” She takes a cigarette from her pack, puts it in her mouth, but doesn’t light it. “She was a strange bird. No offense.”

  “I didn’t know her well, but I know she’s been through a lot.”

  “Everyone’s been through a lot,” she says.

  I pick up the puppy and let him lick my face. “Sorry, I’m going through dog withdrawal.”

  “You didn’t bring Ralph?”

  “You remember her name.”

  “You don’t forget a girl Ralph.”

  “I lost her,” I say. “About six months ago.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” she says, but I’m watching you. You give no reaction, as if you didn’t hear. I give the puppy my finger to nip.

  “She’s speaking,” I say.

  “Funny, it was the day you left,” she says. “She came down for breakfast and said Mom, and I nearly fell over.”

  “It’s nice to hear her voice.”

  “I always knew,” she says. “If she could speak in her sleep, then she could speak when she’s awake.”

  I lay the puppy in the grass beside you. “Do you remember Ralph?”

  “No.”

  “Do you remember me?”

  You look at your mother. “Do I know him?”

  “You’ve met before,” your mother says.

  “I don’t remember,” you say.

  “I remember you,” I say. “You want to be a singer.”

  “Not anymore,” your mother says. “Now she wants to be a vet.”

  “What’s that song she used to hum?”

  “She’s forgotten all that—whatever it was.”

  Despite my terrible voice, I want to start singing the song, want to see if you sing along or react in any way, but your attention is focused entirely on your puppy, and I don’t blame you. I might as well not be here.

  “I’m sure she’ll be a great vet,” I say.

  The puppy runs across the lawn, and you chase him behind the house, where I can no longer see you.

  There are so many things I’d like to say, but none of them is willing, despite all my practice, to come out of my mouth.

  “Well, I should be going.”

  “Nice to see you again,” your mother says.

  “Take care,” I say.

  “You, too,” she says. “Be well.”

  “Goodbye,” I tell her, and then I call out to you, wherever you’ve gone, “Goodbye, Gloria. Goodbye.”

  SOME BOOKS SAY start a garden, sing to your plants. Some books say join a book club, take music lessons, start a stamp collection, get a pet. Some books say brew your own beer. Some books say try paintball, enter a local trivia competition, take dance lessons, learn to rumba. Some books say listen to James Brown. Some books say give yourself a hug. Some books say when someone hugs you, let them be the first to let go. Some books say let a dog lick your face. Some books say swim naked. Some books say kiss a stranger. Some books say climb a mountain. Some books say overcome a phobia. Some books say change begins with pain. Some books say get busy living or get busy dying. Some books say never say the word try. Some books say there’s nothing you can’t do. Some books say accept your limitations. Some books say don’t take no for an answer. Some books say buy a karaoke machine and invite friends over. Some books say learn a new language. Some books say leave no regrets. Some books say beware a person who has nothing to lose. Some books say do no harm. Some books say never cut what can be untied. Some books say admit your mistakes. Some books say you are not your mistakes. Some books say forgive everyone everything. Some books say never criticize what can’t be changed. Some books say don’t be afraid to say I don’t know. Some books say don’t bore people with your problems. Some books say when someone asks how you feel, say terrific, never better. Some books say ask questions. Some books say don’t ask too many questions. Some books say carry someone. Some books say let yourself be carried. Some books say there’s nothing to fear. Some books say it’s okay to be afraid. Some books say whistle in the dark. Some books say give more than you take. Some books say God never gives you more than you can take. Some books say God never blinks. Some books say God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference. Some books say read the Psalms. Some books say if something seems too good to be true, it probably is. Some books say choose your life partner carefully. Some books say tape-record your spouse’s laughter. Some books say that if you live with a partner, one usually dies first. Some books say surrender. Some books say do not go gently. Some books say recognize that you are lost. Some books say put yourself back together piece by piece. Some books say it’s never too late. Some books say it’s not unusual to live to ninety. Some books say you will probably be old for a long time. Some books say you can’t kiss your
own ear. Some books say it’s nice to meet someone after a long absence. Some books say reunion is a type of heaven. Some books say there’s no good in goodbye. Some books say never say goodbye, better to say see you later, see you soon, see you someday, until we meet again.

  Acknowledgments

  Saying thank you is one of the great joys of life. So it truly is my pleasure to express gratitude to the following:

  Jill Grinberg, my agent, who has believed in my writing since day one.

  John Parsley, my editor, and everyone at Little, Brown who helped give life to this book.

  The writers whose work raised important questions for me as I wrote this novel: Wayne Dyer, Deepak Chopra, David Richo, Esther and Jerry Hicks, Louise Hay, and Rhonda Byrne.

  Martha Collins, whose villanelle “The Story We Know,” one of my favorite poems, was an important trigger for this novel.

  Tara Potterveld, for her help with sign language.

  Nicole Michels, who waits for me when I fall behind, and our son, Dangiso, the most joyful human being I’ve ever met.

  Finally, of course, Ralph—best dog in the universe.

  About the Author

  Nicholas Montemarano is the author of a story collection, If the Sky Falls (a New York Times Book Review Editor’s Choice), and a debut novel, A Fine Place. His fiction has been published in Esquire, Zoetrope, Tin House, and The Pushcart Prize (2003), and cited as distinguished stories of the year in The Best American Short Stories four times. He is Associate Professor of English at Franklin & Marshall College in Lancaster, Pennsylvania.

  Praise for Nicholas Montemarano’s

  The Book of Why

  “Montemarano is a brilliant illuminator of the outer reaches of hope, a writer unafraid to ask the hardest questions: Is there meaning behind human suffering? Are we responsible, somehow, for the tragedies that befall us? Do we have the power to change our lives? And if not, what’s left for us? You’ll read this stunning novel compulsively, at first in search of answers, then from a deep and painful affection for the human beings you’ll meet in these pages. This is a haunting and extraordinary book.”