Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close

by Jonathan Safran Foer

  And then, all of a sudden, I thought of something. Something enormous. Something wonderful. “Do you want to help me?” “Excuse me!” “With the key.” “Help you!” “You could go around with me.” “You want my help!” “Yes.” “Well, I don’t need anyone’s charity!” “Jose,” I told him. “You’re obviously very smart and knowledgeable, and you know a ton of things that I don’t know, and also it’s good just to have company, so please say yes.” He closed his eyes and became quiet. I couldn’t tell if he was thinking about what we were talking about, or thinking about something else, or if maybe he’d fallen asleep, which I know that old people, like Grandma, sometimes do, because they can’t help it. “You don’t have to make a decision right now,” I said, because I didn’t want him to feel forced. I told him about the 162 million locks, and how the search would probably take a long time, it might even take the full one and a half years, so if he wanted to think about it for a while that would be OK, he could just come downstairs and tell me his answer whenever. He kept thinking. “Take as long as you want,” I said. He kept thinking. I asked him, “Do you have a decision?”

  He didn’t say anything.

  “What do you think, Mr. Black?”

  Nothing.

  “Mr. Black?”

  I tapped him on the shoulder and he looked up suddenly.

  “Hello?”

  He smiled, like I do when Mom finds out about something I did that I shouldn’t have done.

  “I’ve been reading your lips!” “What?” He pointed at his hearing aids, which I hadn’t noticed before, even though I was trying as hard as I could to notice everything. “I turned them off a long time ago!” “You turned them off?” “A long, long time ago!” “On purpose?” “I thought I’d save the batteries!” “For what?” He shrugged his shoulders. “But don’t you want to hear things?” He shrugged his shoulders again, in a way so I couldn’t tell if he was saying yes or no. And then I thought of something else. Something beautiful. Something true. “Do you want me to turn them on for you?”

  He looked at me and through me at the same time, like I was a stained-glass window. I asked again, moving my lips slowly and carefully so I could be sure he understood me: “Do. You. Want. Me. To. Turn. Them. On. For. You?” He kept looking at me. I asked again. He said, “I don’t know how to say yes!” I told him, “You don’t have to.”

  I went behind him and saw a tiny dial on the back of each of his hearing aids.

  “Do it slowly!” he said, almost like he was begging me. “It’s been a long, long time!”

  I went back around to his front so he could see my lips, and I promised him I would be as gentle as I could. Then I went back behind him and turned the dials extremely slowly, a few millimeters at a time. Nothing happened. I turned them a few more millimeters. And then just a few more. I went around to the front of him. He shrugged, and so did I. I went back around behind him and turned them up just a tiny bit more, until they stopped. I went back in front of him. He shrugged. Maybe the hearing aids didn’t work anymore, or maybe the batteries had died of old age, or maybe he’d gone completely deaf since he turned them off, which was possible. We looked at each other.

  Then, out of nowhere, a flock of birds flew by the window, extremely fast and incredibly close. Maybe twenty of them. Maybe more. But they also seemed like just one bird, because somehow they all knew exactly what to do. Mr. Black grabbed at his ears and made a bunch of weird sounds. He started crying—not out of happiness, I could tell, but not out of sadness, either.

  “Are you OK?” I whispered.

  The sound of my voice made him cry more, and he nodded his head yes.

  I asked him if he wanted me to make some more noise.

  He nodded yes, which shook more tears down his cheeks.

  I went to the bed and rattled it, so that a bunch of the pins and paper clips fell off.

  He cried more tears.

  “Do you want me to turn them off?” I asked, but he wasn’t paying attention to me anymore. He was walking around the room, sticking his ears up to anything that made any noise, including very quiet things, like pipes.

  I wanted to stay there watching him hear the world, but it was getting late, and I had a Hamlet rehearsal at 4: 30, and it was an extremely important rehearsal, because it was the first one with lighting effects. I told Mr. Black that I would pick him up the next Saturday at 7: 00, and we would start then. I told him, “I’m not even through with the A’s.” He said, “OK,” and the sound of his own voice made him cry the most.

  Message three. 9: 31 A.M. Hello? Hello? Hello?

  When Mom tucked me in that night, she could tell that something was on my mind, and asked if I wanted to talk. I did, but not to her, so I said, “No offense, but no.” “Are you sure?” “Très fatigué,” I said, waving my hand. “Do you want me to read something to you?” “It’s OK.” “We could go through the New York Times for mistakes?” “No, thank you.” “All right,” she said, “all right.” She gave me a kiss and turned off the light, and then, as she was about to go, I said, “Mom?” and she said, “Yes?” and I said, “Do you promise not to bury me when I die?”

  She came back over and put her hand on my cheek and said, “You’re not going to die.” I told her, “I am.” She said, “You’re not going to die any time soon. You have a long, long life ahead of you.” I told her, “As you know, I’m extremely brave, but I can’t spend eternity in a small underground place. I just can’t. Do you love me?” “Of course I love you.” “Then put me in one of those mausoleum-thingies.” “A mausoleum?” “Like I read about.” “Do we have to talk about this?” “Yes.” “Now?” “Yes.” “Why?” “Because what if I die tomorrow?” “You’re not going to die tomorrow.” “Dad didn’t think he was going to die the next day.” “That’s not going to happen to you.” “It wasn’t going to happen to him.” “Oskar.” “I’m sorry, but I just can’t be buried.” “Don’t you want to be with Dad and me?” “Dad isn’t even there!” “Excuse me?” “His body was destroyed.” “Don’t talk like that.” “Talk like what? It’s the truth. I don’t understand why everyone pretends he’s there.” “Take it easy, Oskar.” “It’s just an empty box.” “It’s more than an empty box.” “Why would I want to spend eternity next to an empty box?”

  Mom said, “His spirit is there,” and that made me really angry. I told her, “Dad didn’t have a spirit! He had cells!” “His memory is there.” “His memory is here,” I said, pointing at my head. “Dad had a spirit,” she said, like she was rewinding a bit in our conversation. I told her, “He had cells, and now they’re on rooftops, and in the river, and in the lungs of millions of people around New York, who breathe him every time they speak!” “You shouldn’t say things like that.” “But it’s the truth! Why can’t I say the truth!” “You’re getting out of control.” “Just because Dad died, it doesn’t mean you can be illogical, Mom.” “Yes it does.” “No it doesn’t.” “Get a hold of yourself, Oskar.” “Fuck you!” “Excuse me!” “Sorry. I mean, screw you.” “You need a time-out!” “I need a mausoleum!” “Oskar!” “Don’t lie to me!” “Who’s lying?” “Where were you!” “Where was I when?” “That day!” “What day?” “The day!” “What do you mean?” “Where were you!” “I was at work.” “Why weren’t you at home?” “Because I have to go to work.” “Why didn’t you pick me up from school like the other moms?” “Oskar, I came home as soon as I could. It takes longer for me to get home than for you to. I thought it would be better to meet you at the apartment than make you wait at school for me to get to you.” “But you should have been home when I got home.” “I wish I had been, but it wasn’t possible.” “You should have made it possible.” “I can’t make the impossible possible.” “You should have.” She said, “I got home as quickly as I could.” And then she started crying.

  The ax was winning.

  I put my cheek against her. “I don’t need anything fancy, Mom. Just something above ground.” She took a deep br
eath, put her arm around me, and said, “That might be possible.” I tried to think of some way to be hilarious, because I thought that maybe if I was hilarious, she wouldn’t be mad at me anymore and I could be safe again. “With a little elbow room.” “What?” “I’m gonna need a little elbow room.” She smiled and said, “OK.” I sniffled again, because I could tell that it was working. “And a bidet.” “Absolutely. One bidet coming up.” “And some electrical fencing.” “Electrical fencing?” “So that grave robbers won’t try to steal all of my jewels.” “Jewels?” “Yeah,” I said, “I’m gonna need some jewels, too.”

  We cracked up together, which was necessary, because she loved me again. I pulled my feelings book from under my pillow, flipped to the current page, and downgraded from DESPERATE to MEDIOCRE.“Hey, that’s great!” Mom said, looking over my shoulder. “No,” I said, “it’s mediocre. And please don’t snoop.” She rubbed my chest, which was nice, although I had to turn a little so she wouldn’t feel that I still had my key on, and that there were two keys.

  “Mom?” “Yes.” “Nothing.”

  “What is it, baby?” “Well it’s just that wouldn’t it be great if mattresses had spaces for your arm, so that when you rolled onto your side, you could fit just right?” “That would be nice.” “And good for your back, probably, because it would let your spine be straight, which I know is important.” “That is important.” “Also, it would make snuggling easier. You know how that arm constantly gets in the way?” “I do.” “And making snuggling easier is important.” “Very.”

  MEDIOCRE

  OPTIMISTIC, BUT REALISTIC

  “I miss Dad.” “So do I.” “Do you?” “Of course I do.” “But do you really?” “How could you ask that?” “It’s just that you don’t act like you miss him very much.” “What are you talking about?” “I think you know what I’m talking about.” “I don’t.” “I hear you laughing.” “You hear me laughing?” “In the living room. With Ron.” “You think because I laugh every now and then I don’t miss Dad?” I rolled onto my side, away from her.

  OPTIMISTIC, BUT REALISTIC

  EXTREMELY DEPRESSED

  She said, “I cry a lot, too, you know.” “I don’t see you cry a lot.” “Maybe that’s because I don’t want you to see me cry a lot.” “Why not?” “Because that isn’t fair to either of us.” “Yes it is.” “I want us to move on.” “How much do you cry?” “How much?” “A spoonful? A cup? A bathtub? If you added it up.” “It doesn’t work like that.” “Like what?”

  She said, “I’m trying to find ways to be happy. Laughing makes me happy.” I said, “I’m not trying to find ways to be happy, and I won’t.” She said, “Well, you should.” “Why?” “Because Dad would want you to be happy.” “Dad would want me to remember him.” “Why can’t you remember him and be happy?” “Why are you in love with Ron?” “What?” “You’re obviously in love with him, so what I want to know is, why? What’s so great about him?” “Oskar, did it ever occur to you that things might be more complicated than they seem?” “That occurs to me all the time.” “Ron is my friend.” “So then promise me you won’t ever fall in love again.” “Oskar, Ron is going through a lot, too. We help each other. We’re friends.” “Promise me you won’t fall in love.” “Why would you ask me to promise that?” “Either promise me you’ll never fall in love again, or I’m going to stop loving you.” “You’re not being fair.” “I don’t have to be fair! I’m your son!” She let out an enormous breath and said, “You remind me so much of Dad.” And then I said something that I wasn’t planning on saying, and didn’t even want to say. As it came out of my mouth, I was ashamed that it was mixed with any of Dad’s cells that I might have inhaled when we went to visit Ground Zero. “If I could have chosen, I would have chosen you!”

  She looked at me for a second, then stood up and walked out of the room. I wish she’d slammed the door, but she didn’t. She closed it carefully, like she always did. I could hear that she didn’t walk away.

  EXTREMELY DEPRESSED

  INCREDIBLY ALONE

  “Mom?”

  Nothing.

  I got out of bed and went to the door.

  “I take it back.”

  She didn’t say anything, but I could hear her breathing. I put my hand on the doorknob, because I thought maybe her hand was on the doorknob on the other side.

  “I said I take it back.”

  “You can’t take something like that back.”

  “Can you apologize for something like that?”

  Nothing.

  “Do you accept my apology?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “How can you not know?”

  “Oskar, I don’t know.”

  “Are you mad at me?”

  Nothing.

  “Mom?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you still mad at me?”

  “No.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I was never mad at you.”

  “What were you?”

  “Hurt.”

  INCREDIBLY ALONE

  I GUESS I FELL ASLEEP ON THE FLOOR.

  WHEN I WOKE UP, MOM WAS PULLING MY

  SHIRT OFF TO HELP ME GET INTO MY PJS,

  WHICH MEANS SHE MUST HAVE SEEN ALL

  OF MY BRUISES. I COUNTED THEM LAST

  NIGHT IN THE MIRROR AND THERE WERE

  FORTY-ONE. SOME OF THEM HAVE

  GOTTEN BIG, BUT MOST OF THEM ARE

  SMALL. I DON’T PUT THEM THERE FOR

  HER, BUT STILL I WANT HER TO ASK ME

  HOW I GOT THEM (EVEN THOUGH SHE

  PROBABLY KNOWS), AND TO FEEL SORRY

  FOR ME (BECAUSE SHE SHOULD REALIZE

  HOW HARD THINGS ARE FOR ME), AND TO

  FEEL TERRIBLE (BECAUSE AT LEAST SOME

  OF IT IS HER FAULT), AND TO PROMISE ME

  THAT SHE WON’T DIE AND LEAVE ME

  ALONE. BUT SHE DIDN’T SAY ANYTHING.

  I COULDN’T EVEN SEE THE LOOK IN HER

  EYES WHEN SHE SAW THE BRUISES,

  BECAUSE MY SHIRT WAS OVER MY HEAD,

  COVERING MY FACE LIKE A POCKET, OR A

  SKULL.

  My Feelings

  They are announcing flights over the speakers. We are not listening. They do not matter to us, because we are not going anywhere. I miss you already, Oskar. I missed you even when I was with you. That’s been my problem. I miss what I already have, and I surround myself with things that are missing.

  Every time I put in a new page, I look at your grandfather. I am so relieved to see his face. It makes me feel safe. His shoulders are pinched. His spine is curved. In Dresden he was a giant. I’m glad that his hands are still rough. The sculptures never left them. I didn’t notice until now that he is still wearing his wedding ring. I wonder if he put it on when he came back or if he wore it all those years. Before I came here I locked up the apartment. I turned off the lights and made sure none of the faucets leaked. It’s hard to say goodbye to the place you’ve lived. It can be as hard as saying goodbye to a person. We moved in after we were married. It had more room than his apartment. We needed it. We needed room for all of the animals, and we needed room between us. Your grandfather bought the most expensive insurance policy. A man from the company came over to take pictures. If anything happened, they would be able to rebuild the apartment again exactly as it was. He took a roll of film. He took a picture of the floor, a picture of the fireplace, a picture of the bathtub. I never confused what I had with what I was. When the man left, your grandfather took out his own camera and started taking more pictures. What are you doing? I asked him.

  Better safe than sorry, he wrote. At the time I thought he was right, but I am not sure anymore.

  He took pictures of everything. Of the undersides of the shelves in the closet. Of the backs of the mirrors. Even the broken things. The things you would not want to remember. He could have rebuilt the apartment by taping together the pictures.

  And the doorknob
s. He took a picture of every doorknob in the apartment. Every one. As if the world and its future depended on each doorknob. As if we would be thinking about doorknobs should we ever actually need to use the pictures of them.

  I don’t know why that hurt me so much.

  I told him, They are not even nice doorknobs.

  He wrote, But they are our doorknobs.

  I was his too.

  He never took pictures of me, and we didn’t buy life insurance.

  He kept one set of the pictures in his dresser. He taped another set into his daybooks, so they’d always be with him, in case something happened at home.

  Our marriage was not unhappy, Oskar. He knew how to make me laugh. And sometimes I made him laugh. We had to make rules, but who doesn’t. There is nothing wrong with compromising. Even if you compromise almost everything.

  He got a job at a jewelry store, because he knew the machines. He worked so hard that they made him assistant manager, and then manager. He did not care about jewelry. He hated it. He used to say jewelry is the opposite of sculpture.

  But it was a living, and he promised me that was OK.

  We got our own store in a neighborhood that was next to a bad neighborhood. It was open from eleven in the morning until six at night. But there was always work to be done.