Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close

by Jonathan Safran Foer

  I asked him, “What were you trying to say?” He flipped back and pointed at, “I’m sorry.” I said, “It’s OK.” said, “Maybe your vocal cords actually are broken. You should go to a specialist.” I asked him, “What were you trying to say?” He pointed at, “I’m sorry.”

  I asked, “Can I take a picture of your hands?”

  He put his hands on his lap, face-up, like a book.

  YES and NO.

  I focused Grandpa’s camera.

  He kept his hands extremely still.

  I took the picture.

  I told him, “I’m going to go home now.” He picked up his book and wrote, “What about your grandma?” “Tell her I’ll talk to her tomorrow.”

  As I was halfway across the street, I heard clapping behind me, almost like the birds’ wings outside Mr. Black’s window. I turned around and the renter was standing at the building’s door. He put his hand on his throat and opened his mouth, like he was trying to speak again.

  I called back to him, “What are you trying to say?”

  He wrote something in his book and held it up, but I couldn’t see it, so I ran back over. It said, “Please don’t tell your grandmother that we met.” I told him, “I won’t if you won’t,” and I didn’t even wonder the obvious thing, which was why would he want to keep it a secret? He wrote, “If you ever need me for anything, just throw pebbles at the guest room window. I’ll come down and meet you under the streetlamp.” I said, “Thanks.” Although inside what I was thinking was, Why would I ever need you?

  All I wanted was to fall asleep that night, but all I could do was invent.

  What about frozen planes, which could be safe from heat-seeking missiles?

  What about subway turnstiles that were also radiation detectors?

  What about incredibly long ambulances that connected every building to a hospital?

  What about parachutes in fanny packs?

  What about guns with sensors in the handles that could detect if you were angry, and if you were, they wouldn’t fire, even if you were a police officer?

  What about Kevlar overalls?

  What about skyscrapers made with moving parts, so they could rearrange themselves when they had to, and even open holes in their middles for planes to fly through?

  What about…

  What about…

  What about…

  And then a thought came into my brain that wasn’t like the other thoughts. It was closer to me, and louder. I didn’t know where it came from, or what it meant, or if I loved it or hated it. It opened up like a fist, or a flower.

  What about digging up Dad’s empty coffin?

  Why I’m Not Where You Are 9/11/03

  I don’t speak, I’m sorry.

  My name is Thomas.

  I’m sorry.

  I’m still sorry.

  To my child: I wrote my last letter on the day you died, and I assumed I’d never write another word to you, I’ve been so wrong about so much that I’ve assumed, why am I surprised to feel the pen in my hand tonight? I’m writing as I wait to meet Oskar, in a little less than an hour, I’ll close this book and find him under the streetlight, we’ll be on our way to the cemetery, to you, your father and your son, this is how it happened. I gave a note to your mother’s doorman almost two years ago. I watched from across the street as the limousine pulled up, she got out, she touched the door, she’d changed so much but I still knew her, her hands had changed but the way she touched was the same, she went into the building with a boy, I couldn’t see if the doorman gave her my note, I couldn’t see her reaction, the boy came out and went into the building across the street. I watched her that night as she stood with her palms against the window, I left another note with the doorman, “Do you want to see me again, or should I go away?” The next morning there was a note written on the window, “Don’t go away,” which meant something, but it didn’t mean “I want to see you again.” I gathered a handful of pebbles and tossed them at her window, nothing happened, I tossed some more, but she didn’t come to the window, I wrote a note in my daybook—”Do you want to see me again?”—I ripped it out and gave it to the doorman, the next morning I went back, I didn’t want to make her life any harder than it was, but I didn’t want to give up either, there was a note on the window, “I don’t want to want to see you again,” which meant something, but it didn’t mean yes. I gathered pebbles from the street and threw them at her window, hoping she would hear me and know what I meant, I waited, she didn’t come to the window, I wrote a note— “What should I do?”—and gave it to the doorman, he said, “I’ll make sure she gets it,” I couldn’t say, “Thank you.” The next morning I went back, there was a note on her window, the first note, “Don’t go away,” I gathered pebbles, I threw them, they tapped like fingers against the glass, I wrote a note, “Yes or no?” for how long could it go on? The next day I found a market on Broadway and bought an apple, if she didn’t want me I would leave, I didn’t know where I would go, but I would turn around and walk away, there was no note on her window, so I threw the apple, anticipating the glass that would rain down on me, I wasn’t afraid of the shards, the apple went through her window and into her apartment, the doorman was standing in front of the building, he said, “You’re lucky that was open, pal,” but I knew I wasn’t lucky, he handed me a key. I rode the elevator up, the door was open, the smell brought back to me what for forty years I had struggled not to remember but couldn’t forget. I put the key in my pocket, “Only the guest room!” she called from our bedroom, the room in which we used to sleep and dream and make love. That was how we began our second life together… When I got off the plane, after eleven hours of travel and forty years away, the man took my passport and asked me the purpose of my visit, I wrote in my daybook, “To mourn,” and then, “To mourn try to live,” he gave me a look and asked if I would consider that business or pleasure, I wrote, “Neither.” “For how long do you plan to mourn and try to live?” I wrote, “For the rest of my life.” “So you’re going to stay?” “For as long as I can.” “Are we talking about a weekend or a year?” I didn’t write anything. The man said, “Next.” I watched the bags go around the carousel, each one held a person’s belongings, I saw babies going around and around, possible lives, I followed the arrows for those with nothing to declare, and that made me want to laugh, but I was silent. One of the guards asked me to come to the side, “That’s a lot of suitcases for someone with nothing to declare,” he said, I nodded, knowing that people with nothing to declare carry the most, I opened the suitcases for him, “That’s a lot of paper,” he said, I showed him my left palm, “I mean, that’s a whole lot of paper.” I wrote, “They’re letters to my son. I wasn’t able to send them to him while he was alive. Now he’s dead. I don’t speak. I’m sorry.” The guard looked at the other guard and they shared a smile, I don’t mind if smiles come at my expense, I’m a small price to pay, they let me through, not because they believed me but because they didn’t want to try to understand me, I found a pay phone and called your mother, that was as far as my plan went, I assumed so much, that she was still alive, that she was in the same apartment I’d left forty years before, I assumed she would come pick me up and everything would begin to make sense, we would mourn and try to live, the phone rang and rang, we would forgive ourselves, it rang, a woman answered, “Hello?” I knew it was her, the voice had changed but the breath was the same, the spaces between the words were the same, I pressed “4, 3, 5,5, 6,” she said, “Hello?” I asked, “4, 7, 4, 8, 7, 3, 2, 5, 5, 9, 9, 6, 8?” She said, “Your phone isn’t one hundred dollars. Hello?” I wanted to reach my hand through the mouthpiece, down the line, and into her room, I wanted to reach YES, I asked, “4, 7, 4, 8, 7, 3, 2, 5, 5, 9, 9, 6, 8?” She said, “Hello?” I told her, “4, 3, 5, 7!” “Listen,” she said, “I don’t know what’s wrong with your phone, but all I hear is beeps. Why don’t you hang up and try again.” Try again? I was trying to try again, that’s what I was doing! I knew it wouldn�
��t help, I knew no good would come of it, but I stood there in the middle of the airport, at the beginning of the century, at the end of my life, and I told her everything: why I’d left, where I’d gone, how I’d found out about your death, why I’d come back, and what I needed to do with the time I had left. I told her because I wanted her to believe me and understand, and because I thought I owed it to her, and to myself, and to you, or was it just more selfishness? I broke my life down into letters, for love I pressed “5, 6, 8, 3,” for death, “3, 3, 2, 8, 4,” when the suffering is subtracted from the joy, what remains? What, I wondered, is the sum of my life? “6, 9, 6, 2, 6, 3, 4, 7, 3, 5, 4, 3, 2, 5, 8, 6, 2, 6, 3, 4, 5, 8, 7, 8, 2, 7, 7, 4, 8, 3, 3, 2, 8, 8, 4, 2, 4, 7, 7, 6, 7, 8, 4, 6, 3, 3, 3, 8, 6, 3, 4, 6, 3, 6, 7, 3, 4, 6, 5, 3, 5, 7! 6, 4, 3, 2, 2, 6, 7, 4, 2, 5, 6, 3, 8, 7, 2, 6, 3, 4, 3? 5, 7, 6, 3, 5, 8, 6, 2, 6, 3, 4, 5, 8, 7, 8, 2, 7, 7, 4, 8, 3, 9, 2, 8, 8, 4, 3, 2, 4, 7, 7, 6, 7, 8, 4, 6, 3, 3, 8! 4, 3, 2, 4, 7, 7, 6, 7, 8, 4! 6, 3, 3, 3, 8, 6, 3, 9, 6, 3, 6, 6, 3, 4, 6, 5, 3, 5, 7! 6, 4, 3, 2, 2, 6, 7, 4, 2, 5, 6, 3, 8, 7, 2, 6, 3, 4, 3? 5, 7, 6, 3, 5, 8, 6, 2, 6, 3, 5, 8, 7, 8, 2, 7, 7, 4, 8, 3, 3, 2, 8! 7, 7, 4, 8, 3, 3, 2, 8, 3, 4, 3, 2, 4, 7, 6, 6, 7, 8, 4, 6, 8, 3, 8, 8, 6, 3, 4, 6, 3, 6, 7, 3, 4, 6, 7, 7, 4, 8, 3, 3, 9, 8, 8, 4, 3, 2, 5, 7, 6, 7, 8, 4, 6, 3, 5, 5, 2, 6, 9, 4, 6, 5, 6, 7, 5, 4, 6! 5, 2, 6, 2, 6, 5, 9, 5, 2? 6, 9, 6, 2, 6, 5, 4, 7, 5, 5, 4, 5, 2, 5, 2, 6, 4, 6, 2, 4, 5, 2, 7, 2, 2, 7, 7, 4, 2, 5, 2, 9, 2, 4, 5, 2, 6! 4, 2, 2, 6, 5, 4, 2, 5, 7, 4, 5, 2, 5, 2, 6, 2, 6, 5, 4, 5, 2, 7, 2, 2, 7, 7, 4, 2, 5, 5, 2, 2, 2, 4, 5, 2! 7, 2, 2, 7, 7, 4, 2, 5, 5, 2, 2, 2, 4, 5, 2, 4, 7, 2, 2, 7, 2, 4, 6, 5, 5, 5, 2, 6, 5, 4, 6, 5, 6, 7, 5, 4! 4, 3, 2, 4, 3, 3, 6, 3, 8, 4! 6, 3, 3, 3, 8, 6, 3, 9, 6, 3, 6, 6, 3, 4, 6, 5, 3, 5, 3! 2, 2, 3, 3, 2, 6, 3, 4, 2, 5, 3, 8, 3, 2, 6, 3, 4, 3? 5, 6, 8, 3? 5, 3, 6, 3, 5, 8, 6, 2, 6, 3, 4, 5, 8, 3, 8, 2, 3 8, 3, 3, 2, 8! 3, 3, 4, 8, 3, 3, 2, 8, 3, 4, 3, 2, 4, 7, 6, 6, 7, 8, 4, 6, 8, 3, 8, 8, 6, 3, 4, 6, 3! 2, 2, 7, 7, 4, 2, 5, 5, 2, 9, 2, 4, 5, 2, 6! 4, 2, 2, 6, 5, 4, 2, 5, 7, 4, 2, 5, 2, 6, 2, 6, 5, 4, 5, 2, 7, 2, 2, 7, 7, 4, 2, 5, 5, 2, 2, 2, 4, 5, 2! 7, 2, 2, 7, 7, 4, 2, 5, 5, 2, 2, 2, 4, 5, 2, 4, 7, 2, 2, 7, 2, 4, 6, 5, 5, 5, 2, 6, 5, 4, 6, 5, 6, 7, 5, 4! 6, 5, 5, 5, 7! 6, 4, 5, 2, 2, 6, 7, 4, 2, 5, 6, 5, 2, 6! 2, 6, 5, 4, 5? 5, 7, 6, 5, 5, 2, 6, 2, 6, 5, 4, 5, 2, 7, 2, 2, 7, 7, 4, 2, 5, 9, 2, 2, 2, 4, 5, 2, 4, 5, 5, 6, 5, 2, 6, 5, 5, 5, 2! 4, 5, 2, 4, 5, 5, 6, 5! 5, 6, 8, 3? 5, 5, 6, 5, 5, 2, 6, 2, 6, 3, 4, 5, 8, 3, 8, 2, 3, 3, 4, 8, 3, 9, 2, 8, 8, 4, 3, 2, 4, 3, 3, 6, 3, 8, 4, 6, 3, 3, 3, 8! 4, 3, 2, 4, 3, 3, 6, 3, 8, 4, 6, 3! 5, 6, 8, 3? 5, 6, 8, 3? 5, 6, 8, 3! 4, 2, 2, 6, 5, 4, 2, 5, 7, 4, 5, 2, 5, 2, 6, 2, 6, 5, 4, 5, 2, 7, 2, 2, 7, 4, 5, 2, 4, 6, 3, 5, 8, 6, 2, 6, 3, 4, 8, 7, 8, 2, 7, 7, 4, 8, 3, 3, 2, 8! 6, 5, 5, 5, 7! 6, 4, 5, 2, 2, 6, 7, 4, 2, 5, 6, 5, 2, 6! 2, 6, 5, 4, 5? 5, 7, 6, 5, 5, 2, 6, 2, 6, 5, 4, 5, 2, 7, 2, 2, 7, 7, 4, 2, 5, 9, 2, 2, 2, 4, 5, 2, 4! 5, 6, 8, 3? 5, 5, 6, 5, 2, 4, 6, 3, 6, 7, 3, 4, 6, 7, 7, 4, 8, 3, 3, 9, 8, 8, 4, 3, 2, 4, 5, 7, 6, 7, 8, 4, 6, 3, 5, 5, 2, 6, 9, 4, 6, 5, 6, 7, 5, 4, 6! 5, 2, 6, 2, 6, 5, 9, 5, 2? 6, 9, 6, 2, 6, 5, 4, 7, 5, 5, 4, 5, 2, 5, 2, 6, 4, 6, 2, 4, 5, 2, 7, 2, 2, 7, 7, 4, 2, 5, 5, 2, 9, 2, 4, 5, 2, 6! 4, 2, 2, 6, 5, 4, 2, 5, 7, 4, 5, 2, 5, 2, 6, 2, 5, 4, 5, 2, 7, 2, 2, 7, 7, 4, 2, 5, 5, 2, 2, 2, 4, 5, 2! 7, 2, 2, 7, 7, 4, 2, 5, 5, 2, 2, 2, 4, 5, 2, 4, 7, 2, 2, 7, 2, 4, 6, 5, 5, 5, 2, 6, 5, 4, 6, 5, 6, 7, 5, 4! 6, 5, 5, 5, 7! 6, 4, 5, 2, 2, 6, 7, 4, 2, 5, 6, 5, 2, 6! 2, 6, 5, 4, 5? 5, 7, 6, 5, 5, 2, 6, 2, 6, 5, 5, 2, 7, 2, 2, 7, 7, 4, 2, 5, 9, 2, 2, 2, 4, 5, 2, 4! 5, 6, 8, 3? 5, 5, 6, 5, 2, 4, 6, 5, 5, 5, 2! 4, 5, 2, 4, 5, 5, 6, 5! 2, 5, 5, 2, 9, 2, 4, 5, 2, 6! 4, 2, 2, 6, 5, 4, 2! 5, 6, 5, 5, 2, 6, 2, 6, 3, 4, 5, 8, 3, 8, 2, 3, 3, 4, 8, 3, 9, 2, 8, 8, 4, 3, 2, 4, 3, 3, 3, 8, 4, 6, 3, 3, 3, 8! 4, 3, 2, 4, 3, 3, 6, 3, 8, 4! 6, 3, 3, 3, 8, 6, 3, 9, 6, 3, 6, 6, 3, 4, 6, 5, 3, 5, 3! 2, 2, 3, 3, 2, 6, 3, 4, 2, 5, 6, 3, 8, 3, 2, 6, 3, 4, 3? 5, 6, 8, 3? 5, 3, 6, 3, 5, 8, 6, 2, 6, 3, 4, 5, 8, 3, 8, 2, 3, 3, 4, 8, 3, 3, 2, 8! 2, 7, 2, 4, 6, 5, 5, 5, 2, 6, 5, 4, 6, 5, 6, 7, 5, 4! 6, 5, 5, 5, 7! 6, 4, 5, 2, 2, 6, 7, 4, 2, 5, 6, 5, 2, 6! 2, 6, 5, 4, 5? 5, 7, 6, 5, 5, 2, 6, 2, 6, 5, 4, 5, 2, 7, 2, 2, 7, 7, 4, 2, 5, 9, 2, 2, 2, 4, 5, 2, 4, 5, 5, 6, 5, 2, 4, 6, 5, 5, 5, 2! 4, 5, 2, 4, 5, 5, 6, 5! 5, 6, 8, 3? 5, 6, 5, 5, 2, 6, 2, 6, 3, 4, 5, 8, 3, 8, 2, 3, 3, 4, 8, 3, 9, 2, 8, 8, 4, 3, 2, 4, 3, 4, 5, 5, 5, 2! 4, 5, 2, 4, 5, 5, 6, 5! 6, 5, 4, 5? 4, 5? 5, 5, 6, 5, 5, 2, 6, 2, 6, 3, 4, 5, 8, 3, 8, 2, 3, 3, 4, 8, 3, 9, 2, 8, 8, 4, 3, 2, 4, 3, 3, 6, 3, 8, 4, 6, 3, 3, 3, 8! 4, 3, 2, 4, 3, 3, 6, 3, 8, 4! 6, 3, 3, 3, 6, 7, 4, 2, 5, 6, 3, 8, 7, 2, 6, 3, 4, 3? 5, 7, 6, 5, 8, 6, 2, 6, 3, 4, 5, 8, 7, 8, 2, 7, 7, 4, 8, 3, 3, 2, 8! 7, 7, 4, 8, 3, 3, 2, 8, 3, 3, 2, 4, 7, 6, 6, 7, 8, 4, 6, 8, 3, 8, 8, 6, 3, 4, 6, 3, 6, 7, 3, 4, 6, 7, 7, 4, 8, 3, 3, 9, 8, 8, 4, 3, 2, 4, 5, 7, 6, 7, 8, 4, 6, 3, 5, 5, 2, 6, 9, 4, 6, 5, 6, 7, 5, 4, 6! 5 2, 6, 2, 6, 5, 9, 5, 2? 6, 9, 6, 2, 6, 5, 4, 7, 5, 5, 4, 5, 2, 5, 2, 6, 4, 6, 2, 4, 5, 2, 7, 2, 2, 7, 7, 4, 2, 5, 5, 2, 9, 2, 4, 5, 2, 6! 4, 2, 2, 6, 5, 4, 2, 5, 7, 4, 5, 2, 5, 2, 6, 2, 5, 4, 5, 2, 7, 2, 2, 7, 7, 4, 2, 5, 5, 2, 2, 2, 4, 5, 2! 7, 2, 2, 7, 7, 4, 2, 5, 5, 2, 2, 2, 4, 5, 2, 4, 7, 2, 2, 7, 2, 4, 6, 5, 5, 5, 2, 6, 5, 4, 6, 5, 6, 7, 5, 4! 6, 5, 5, 5, 7! 6, 4, 5, 2, 2, 6, 7, 4, 2, 5, 6, 5, 2, 6! 2, 6, 5, 4, 5? 5, 7, 6, 5, 5, 2, 6, 2, 6, 5, 4, 5, 2, 2, 2, 7, 7, 4, 2, 5, 9, 2, 2, 2, 4, 5, 2, 4! 5, 6, 8, 3? 5, 5, 6, 5, 2, 4, 6, 5, 5, 5, 2! 4, 5, 2, 4, 5, 5, 6, 5! 8, 6, 3, 9, 6, 3, 6, 6, 3, 4, 5, 3, 5, 3, 2, 2, 3, 3, 2, 6, 3, 4, 2, 5, 6, 3, 8, 3, 2, 6, 3, 4, 3? 5, 6, 8, 3? 5, 3, 6, 3, 5, 8, 6, 2, 6, 3, 4, 5, 8, 3, 8, 2, 3, 3, 4, 8, 3, 3, 2, 8! 3, 3, 4, 8, 3, 3, 2, 8, 3, 4, 3, 2, 4, 7, 6, 6, 7, 8, 4, 6, 8, 3, 8, 8, 6, 3, 4, 6, 3! 2, 2, 7, 7, 4, 6, 7, 4, 2, 5, 6, 3, 8, 7, 2, 6, 3, 4, 3? 5, 7, 6, 3, 5, 8, 6, 2, 6, 3, 4, 5, 8, 7, 8, 2, 7, 7, 4, 8, 3, 3, 2, 8! 7, 7, 4, 8, 3, 3, 2, 8, 3, 4, 3, 2, 4, 7, 6, 6, 7, 8, 4, 6, 8, 3, 8, 8, 6, 3, 4, 6, 3, 6, 7, 3, 4, 6, 7, 7, 4, 8, 3, 3, 9, 8, 8, 4, 3, 2, 4, 5, 7, 6, 7, 8, 4, 6, 3, 5, 5, 2, 6, 9, 4, 6, 5, 6, 7, 5, 4, 6! 5, 2, 6, 2, 6, 5, 9, 5, 2? 6, 9, 6, 2, 6, 5, 4, 7, 5, 5, 4, 5, 2, 5, 2, 6, 4, 6, 2, 4, 5, 2, 7, 2, 2, 7, 7, 4, 2, 5, 5, 2, 9, 2, 4, 5, 2, 6! 4, 2, 2, 6, 5, 4, 2, 5, 7, 4, 5, 2, 5, 2, 6, 2, 6, 5, 4, 5, 2, 7, 2, 2, 7, 7, 4, 2, 5, 5, 2, 2, 2, 4, 5, 2! 7, 2, 2, 7, 7, 4, 2, 5, 5, 2, 2, 2, 4, 5, 2, 4, 7, 2, 2, 7, 2, 4, 6, 5, 5, 5, 2, 6, 5, 4, 6, 5, 6, 7, 5, 4! 6, 5, 5, 5, 7! 6, 4, 5, 2, 2, 6, 7, 4, 2, 5, 6, 5, 2, 6! 2, 6, 5, 4, 5? 5, 7, 6, 5, 5, 2, 6, 2, 6, 5, 4, 5, 2, 7, 2, 2, 7, 7, 2, 5, 9, 2, 2, 2, 4, 5, 2, 4! 5, 6, 8, 3? 5, 5, 6, 5, 2, 4, 6, 5, 5, 5, 2! 4, 5, 2, 4, 5, 6, 5! 2, 5, 5, 2, 9, 2, 4, 5, 2, 6! 4, 2, 2, 6, 5, 4, 2! 5, 5, 6, 5, 5, 2, 6, 2, 6, 3, 4, 5, 8, 3, 8, 2, 3, 3, 4, 8, 3, 9, 2, 8, 8, 4, 3, 2, 4, 3, 3, 6, 3, 8, 4, 6, 3, 3, 3, 8! 4, 3, 2, 4, 3, 3, 6, 3, 8, 4! 6, 3, 3, 3, 8, 6, 3, 9, 6, 3, 6, 6, 3, 4, 6, 5, 3, 5, 3! 2, 2, 3, 2, 6, 3, 4, 2, 5, 6, 3, 8, 3, 2, 6, 3, 4, 3? 5, 6, 8, 3? 5, 3, 6, 3, 5, 8, 6, 2, 6, 3, 5, 8, 3, 8, 2, 3, 3, 4, 8, 3, 3, 2, 8! 2, 7, 2, 4, 6, 5, 5, 5, 2, 6, 5, 4, 6, 5, 6, 7, 5, 4! 6, 5, 5, 5, 7! 6, 4, 5, 2, 2, 6, 7, 4, 2, 5, 6, 5, 2, 6! 2, 6, 5, 4, 5? 5, 7, 6, 5, 5, 2, 6, 2, 6, 5, 4, 5, 2, 7, 2, 2, 7, 7, 4, 2, 5, 9, 2, 2, 2, 4, 5, 2, 4, 5, 5, 6, 5, 2, 4, 6, 5, 5, 5, 2! 4, 5, 2, 4, 5, 5, 6, 5! 5, 6, 8, 3? 5, 5, 6, 5, 5, 2, 6, 2, 6, 3, 4, 5, 8, 3, 8, 2, 3, 3, 4, 8, 3, 9, 2, 8, 8, 4, 3, 2, 4, 3, 3, 6, 3, 8, 4, 6, 3, 3, 3, 8! 4, 3, 2, 4, 3, 3, 6, 3, 8, 4, 6, 3! 5, 6, 8, 3? 5, 6, 8, 3? 5, 6, 8, 3! 4, 2, 2, 6, 5, 4, 2, 5, 7, 4, 5, 2, 5, 2, 6, 2, 6, 5, 4, 5, 2, 7, 2, 2, 7, 4, 5, 2, 4, 6, 3, 5, 8, 6, 2, 6, 3, 4, 5, 8, 7, 8, 2, 7, 7, 4, 8, 3, 3, 2, 8! 7, 7, 4, 8, 3, 3, 2, 8, 3, 4, 3, 2, 4, 7, 6, 6, 7, 8, 4, 6, 8, 3, 8, 8, 6, 3, 4, 6, 3, 6, 7, 3, 4, 6, 7, 7, 4, 8, 3, 3, 9, 8, 8, 4, 3, 2, 4, 5, 7, 6, 7, 8, 4, 6, 3, 5, 5, 2, 6, 9, 4, 6, 5, 6, 7, 5, 4, 6! 5, 2, 6, 2, 6, 5, 9, 5, 2? 6, 9, 6, 2, 6, 5, 4, 5, 6, 5, 2, 4, 6, 5, 5, 5, 2, 7, 4, 2, 5, 5, 2, 2, 2, 4, 5, 2! 7, 2, 2, 7, 7, 4, 2, 5, 5, 2, 2, 2, 4, 5, 2, 4, 7, 2, 2, 7, 2, 4, 6, 5, 5, 5, 2, 6, 5, 4, 6, 5, 6, 7, 5, 4! 6, 5, 5, 5, 7!”

  It took me a long time, I don’t know how long, minutes, hours, my heart got tired, my finger did, I was trying to destroy the wall between me and my life with my finger, one press at a time, my quarter ran out, or she hung up, I called again, “4, 7, 4, 8, 7, 3, 2, 5, 5, 9, 9, 6, 8?” She said, “Is this a joke?” A joke, it wasn’t a joke, what is a joke, was it a joke? She hung up, I called again, “8, 4, 4, 7, 4, 7, 6, 6, 8, 2, 5, 6, 5, 3!” She asked, “Oskar?” That was the first time I ever heard his name… I was in Dresden’s train station when I lost everything for the second time, I was writing you a
letter that I knew I never would send, sometimes I wrote from there, sometimes from here, sometimes from the zoo, I didn’t care about anything except for the letter I was writing to you, nothing else existed, it was like when I walked to Anna with my head down, hiding myself from the world, which is why I walked into her, and why I didn’t notice that people were gathering around the televisions. It wasn’t until the second plane hit, and someone who didn’t mean to holler hollered, that I looked up, there were hundreds of people around the televisions now, where had they come from? I stood up and looked, I didn’t understand what I was seeing on the screen, was it a commercial, a new movie? I wrote, “What’s happened?” and showed it to a young businessman watching the television, he took a sip of his coffee and said, “No one knows yet,” his coffee haunts me, his “yet” haunts me. I stood there, a person in a crowd, was I watching the images, or was something more complicated happening? I tried to count the floors above where the planes had hit, the fire had to burn up through the buildings, I knew that those people couldn’t be saved, and how many were on the planes, and how many were on the street, I thought and thought. On my walk home I stopped in front of an electronics store, the front window was a grid of televisions, all but one of them were showing the buildings, the same images over and over, as if the world itself were repeating, a crowd had gathered on the sidewalk, one television, off to the side, was showing a nature program, a lion was eating a flamingo, the crowd became noisy, someone who didn’t mean to holler hollered, pink feathers, I looked at one of the other televisions and there was only one building, one hundred ceilings had become one hundred floors, which had become nothing, I was the only one who could believe it, the sky was filled with paper, pink feathers. The cafés were full that afternoon, people were laughing, there were lines in front of the movie theaters, they were going to see comedies, the world is so big and small, in the same moment we were close and far. In the days and weeks that followed, I read the lists of the dead in the paper: mother of three, college sophomore, Yankees fan, lawyer, brother, bond trader, weekend magician, practical joker, sister, philanthropist, middle son, dog lover, janitor, only child, entrepreneur, waitress, grandfather of fourteen, registered nurse, accountant, intern, jazz saxophonist, doting uncle, army reservist, late-night poet, sister, window washer, Scrabble player, volunteer fireman, father, father, elevator repairman, wine aficionado, office manager, secretary, cook, financier, executive vice president, bird watcher, father, dishwasher, Vietnam veteran, new mother, avid reader, only child, competitive chess player, soccer coach, brother, analyst, maitre d’, black belt, CEO, bridge partner, architect, plumber, public relations executive, father, artist in residence, urban planner, newlywed, investment banker, chef, electrical engineer, new father who had a cold that morning and thought about calling in sick… and then one day I saw it, Thomas Schell, my first thought was that I had died. “He leaves behind a wife and son,” I thought, my son, I thought, my grandson, I thought and thought and thought, and then I stopped thinking… When the plane descended and I saw Manhattan for the first time in forty years, I didn’t know if I was going up or down, the lights were stars, I didn’t recognize any of the buildings, I told the man, “To mourn try to live,” I declared nothing, I called your mother but I couldn’t explain myself, I called again, she thought it was a joke, I called again, she asked, “Oskar?” I went to the magazine stand and got more quarters, I tried again, it rang and rang, I tried again, it rang, I waited and tried again, I sat on the ground, not knowing what would happen next, not even knowing what I wanted to happen next, I tried once more, “Hello, you have reached the Schell residence. I am speaking like an answering message, even though it’s really me on the phone. If you’d like to talk to me or Grandma, please begin at the beep sound I’m about to make. Beeeeep. Hello?” It was a child’s voice, a boy’s. “It’s really me. I’m here. Bonjour?” I hung up. Grandma? I needed time to think, a taxi would be too quick, as would a bus, what was I afraid of? I put the suitcases on a pushcart and started walking, I was amazed that no one tried to stop me, not even as I pushed the cart onto the street, not even as I pushed it onto the side of the highway, with each step it became brighter and hotter, after only a few minutes it was clear I wouldn’t be able to manage, I opened one of the suitcases and took out a stack of letters, “To my child,” they were from 1977, “To my child,” “To my child,” I thought about laying them on the road be side me, creating a trail of things I wasn’t able to tell you, it might have made my load possible, but I couldn’t, I needed to get them to you, to my child. I hailed a cab, by the time we reached your mother’s apartment it was already getting late, I needed to find a hotel, I needed food and a shower and time to think, I ripped a page from the daybook and wrote, “I’m sorry,” I handed it to the doorman, he said, “Who’s this for?” I wrote, “Mrs. Schell,” he said, “There is no Mrs. Schell,” I wrote, “There is,” he said, “Believe me, I’d know if there was a Mrs. Schell in this building,” but I’d heard her voice on the phone, could she have moved and kept the number, how would I find her, I needed a phone book. I wrote “3D” and showed it to the doorman. He said, “Ms. Schmidt,” I took back my book and wrote, “That was her maiden name.”… I lived in the guest room, she left me meals by the door, I could hear her footsteps and sometimes I thought I heard the rim of a glass against the door, was it a glass I once drank water from, had it ever touched your lips? I found my daybooks from before I left, they were in the body of the grandfather clock, I’d have thought she would have thrown them away, but she kept them, many were empty and many were filled, I wandered through them, I found the book from the afternoon we met and the book from the day after we got married, I found our first Nothing Place, and the last time we walked around the reservoir, I found pictures of banisters and sinks and fireplaces, on top of one of the stacks was the book from the first time I tried to leave, “I haven’t always been silent, I used to talk and talk and talk and talk.” I don’t know if she began to feel sorry for me, or sorry for herself, but she started paying me short visits, she wouldn’t say anything at first, only tidy up the room, brush cobwebs from the corners, vacuum the carpet, straighten the picture frames, and then one day, as she dusted the bedside table, she said, “I can forgive you for leaving, but not for coming back,” she walked out and closed the door behind her, I didn’t see her again for three days, and then it was as if nothing had been said, she replaced a light bulb that had worked fine, she picked things up and put them down, she said, “I’m not going to share this grief with you,” she closed the door behind her, was I the prisoner or the guard? Her visits became longer, we never had conversations, and she didn’t like to look at me, but something was happening, we were getting closer, or farther apart, I took a chance, I asked if she would pose for me, like when we first met, she opened her mouth and nothing came out, she touched my left hand, which I hadn’t realized was in a fist, was that how she said yes, or was that how she touched me? I went to the art supply store to buy some clay, I couldn’t keep my hands to myself, the pastels in long boxes, the palette knives, the handmade papers hanging on rolls, I tested every sample, I wrote my name in blue pen and in green oil stick, in orange crayon and in charcoal, it felt like I was signing the contract of my life. I was there for more than an hour, although I bought only a simple block of clay, when I came home she was waiting for me in the guest room, she was in a robe, standing beside the bed, “Did you make any sculptures while you were away?” I wrote that I had tried but couldn’t, “Not even one?” I showed her my right hand, “Did you think about sculptures? Did you make them in your head?” I showed her my left hand, she took off her robe and went onto the sofa, I couldn’t look at her, I took the clay from the bag and set it up on the card table, “Did you ever make a sculpture of me in your head?” I wrote, “How do you want to pose?” She said the whole point was that I should choose, I asked if the carpeting was new, she said, “Look at me,” I tried but I couldn’t, she said, “Look at me or lea
ve me. But don’t stay and look at anything else.” I asked her to lie on her back, but that wasn’t right, I asked her to sit, it wasn’t right, cross your arms, turn your head away from me, nothing was right, she said, “Show me how,” I went over to her, I undid her hair, I pressed down on her shoulders, I wanted to touch her across all of those distances, she said, “I haven’t been touched since you left. Not in that way.” I pulled back my hand, she took it into hers and pressed it against her shoulder, I didn’t know what to say, she asked, “Have you?” What’s the point of a lie that doesn’t protect anything? I showed her my left hand. “Who touched you?” My daybook was filled, so I wrote on the wall, “I wanted so much to have a life.” “Who?” I couldn’t believe the honesty as it traveled down my arm and came out my pen, “I paid for it.” She didn’t lose her pose, “Were they pretty?” “That wasn’t the point.” “But were they?” “Some of them.” “So you just gave them money and that was it?” “I liked to talk to them. I talked about you.” “Is that supposed to make me feel good?” I looked at the clay. “Did you tell them that I was pregnant when you left?” I showed her my left hand. “Did you tell them about Anna?” I showed her my left hand. “Did you care for any of them?” I looked at the clay, she said, “I love that you are telling me the truth,” and she took my hand from her shoulder and pressed it between her legs, she didn’t turn her head to the side, she didn’t close her eyes, she stared at our hands between her legs, I felt like I was killing something, she undid my belt and unzipped my pants, she reached her hand under my underpants, “I’m nervous,” I said, by smiling, “It’s OK,” she said, “I’m sorry,” I said, by smiling, “It’s OK,” she said, she closed the door behind her, then opened it and asked, “Did you ever make a sculpture of me in your head?”… There won’t be enough pages in this book for me to tell you what I need to tell you, I could write smaller, I could slice the pages down their edges to make two pages, I could write over my own writing, but then what? Every afternoon someone would come to the apartment, I could hear the door opening, and the footsteps, little footsteps, I heard talking, a child’s voice, almost a song, it was the voice I’d heard when I called from the airport, the two of them would talk for hours, I asked her one evening, when she came to pose, who paid her all of those visits, she said, “My grandson.” “I have a grandson.” “No,” she said, “I have a grandson.” “What’s his name?” We tried again, we took off each other’s clothes with the slowness of people who know how easy it is to be proven wrong, she lay face-down on the bed, her waist was irritated from pants that hadn’t fit her in years, her thighs were scarred, I kneaded them with YES and NO, she said, “Don’t look at anything else,” I spread her legs, she inhaled, I could stare into the most private part of her and she couldn’t see me looking, I slid my hand under her, she bent her knees, I closed my eyes, she said, “Lie on top of me,” there was nowhere to write that I was nervous, she said, “Lie on top of me.” I was afraid I’d crush her, she said, “All of you on all of me,” I let myself sink into her, she said, “That’s what I’ve wanted,” why couldn’t I have left it like that, why did I have to write anything else, I should have broken my fingers, I took a pen from the bedside table and wrote “Can I see him?” on my arm. She turned over, spilling my body next to her, “No.” I begged with my hands. “No.” “Please.” “Please.” “I won’t let him know who I am. I just want to see him.” “No.” “Why not?” “Because.” “Because why?” “Because I changed his diapers. And I couldn’t sleep on my stomach for two years. And I taught him how to speak. And I cried when he cried. And when he was unreasonable, he yelled at me.” “I’ll hide in the coat closet and look through the keyhole.” I thought she would say no, she said, “If he ever sees you, you will have betrayed me.” Did she feel pity for me, did she want me to suffer? The next morning, she led me to the coat closet, which faces the living room, she went in with me, we were in there all day, although she knew he wouldn’t come until the afternoon, it was too small, we needed more space between us, we needed Nothing Places, she said, “This is what it’s felt like, except you weren’t here.” We looked at each other in silence for hours. When the bell rang, she went to let him in, I was on my hands and knees so my eye would be at the right level, through the keyhole I saw the door open, those white shoes, “Oskar!” she said, lifting him from the ground, “I’m OK,” he said, that song, in his voice I heard my own voice, and my father’s and grandfather’s, and it was the first time I’d heard your voice, “Oskar!” she said again, lifting him again, I saw his face, Anna’s eyes, “I’m OK,” he said again, he asked her where she had been, “I was talking to the renter,” she said. The renter? “Is he still here?” he asked, “No,” she said, “he had to go run some errands.” “But how did he get out of the apartment?” “He left right before you came.” “But you said you were just talking to him.” He knew about me, he didn’t know who I was, but he knew someone was there, and he knew she wasn’t telling the truth, I could hear it in his voice, in my voice, in your voice, I needed to talk to him, but what did I need to say? I’m your grandfather, I love you, I’m sorry? Maybe I needed to tell him the things I couldn’t tell you, give him all the letters that were supposed to be for your eyes. But she would never give me her permission, and I wouldn’t betray her, so I started to think about other ways… What am I going to do, I need more room, I have things I need to say, my words are pushing at the walls of the paper’s edge, the next day, your mother came to the guest room and posed for me, I worked the clay with YES and NO, I made it soft, I pressed my thumbs into her cheeks, bringing her nose forward, leaving my thumbprints, I carved out pupils, I strengthened her brow, I hollowed out the space between her bottom lip and chin, I picked up a daybook and went over to her. I started to write about where I’d been and what I’d done since I left, how I’d made my living, whom I’d spent my time with, what I’d thought about and listened to and eaten, but she ripped the page from the book, “I don’t care,” she said, I don’t know if she really didn’t care or if it was something else, on the next blank page I wrote, “If there’s anything you want to know, I’ll tell you,” she said, “I know it will make your life easier to tell me, but I don’t want to know anything.” How could that be? I asked her to tell me about you, she said, “Not our son, my son,” I asked her to tell me about her son, she said, “Every Thanksgiving I made a turkey and pumpkin pie. I would go to the schoolyard and ask the children what toys they liked. I bought those for him. I wouldn’t let anyone speak a foreign language in the apartment. But he still became you.” “He became me?” “Everything was yes and no.” “Did he go to college?” “I begged him to stay close, but he went to California. In that way he was also like you.” “What did he study?” “He was going to be a lawyer, but he took over the business. He hated jewelry.” “Why didn’t you sell it?” “I begged him. I begged him to be a lawyer.” “Then why?” “He wanted to be his own father.” I’m sorry, if that’s true, the last thing I would have wanted was for you to be like me, I left so you could be you. She said, “He tried to find you once. I gave him that only letter you ever sent. He was obsessed with it, always reading it. I don’t know what you wrote, but it made him go and look for you.” On the next blank page I wrote, “I opened the door one day and there he was.” “He found you?” “We talked about nothing.” “I didn’t know he found you.” “He wouldn’t tell me who he was. He must have become nervous. Or he must have hated me once he saw me. He pretended to be a journalist. It was so terrible. He said he was doing a story about the survivors of Dresden.” “Did you tell him what happened to you that night?” “It was in the letter.” “What did you write?” “You didn’t read it?” “You didn’t send it to me.” “It was terrible. All of the things we couldn’t share. The room was filled with conversations we weren’t having.” I didn’t tell her that after you left, I stopped eating, I got so skinny that the bathwater would collect between my bones, why didn’t anyone ask me why I was so skinny? If
someone had asked, I never would have eaten another bite. “But if he didn’t tell you he was your son, how did you know?” “I knew because he was my son.” She put her hand on my chest, over my heart, I put my hands on her thighs, I put my hands around her, she undid my pants, “I’m nervous,” despite everything I wanted, the sculpture was looking more and more like Anna, she closed the door behind her, I’m running out of room… I spent most of my days walking around the city, getting to know it again, I went to the old Columbian Bakery but it wasn’t there anymore, in its place was a ninety-nine-cent store where everything cost more than ninety-nine cents. I went by the tailor shop where I used to get my pants taken in, but there was a bank, you needed a card just to open the door, I walked for hours, down one side of Broadway and up the other, where there had been a watch repairman there was a video store, where there had been a flower market there was a store for video games, where there had been a butcher there was sushi, what’s sushi, and what happens to all of the broken watches? I spent hours at the dog run on the side of the natural history museum, a pit bull, a Labrador, a golden retriever, I was the only person without a dog, I thought and thought, how could I be close to Oskar from far away, how could I be fair to you and fair to your mother and fair to myself, I wanted to carry the closet door with me so I could always look at him through the keyhole, I did the next best thing. I learned his life from a distance, when he went to school, when he came home, where his friends lived, what stores he liked to go to, I followed him all over the city, but I didn’t betray your mother, because I never let him know I was there. I thought it could go on like that forever, and yet here I am, once again I was proven wrong. I don’t remember when the strangeness of it first occurred to me, how much he was out, how many neighborhoods he went to, why I was the only one watching him, how his mother could let him wander so far so alone. Every weekend morning, he left the building with an old man and went knocking on doors around the city, I made a map of where they went, but I couldn’t make sense of it, it made no sense, what were they doing? And who was the old man, a friend, a teacher, a replacement for a missing grandfather? And why did they stay for only a few minutes at each apartment, were they selling something, collecting information? And what did his grandmother know, was I the only one worried about him? After they left one house, on Staten Island, I waited around and knocked on the door, “I can’t believe it,” the woman said, “another visitor!” “I’m sorry,” I wrote, “I don’t speak. That was my grandson who just left. Could you tell me what he was doing here?” The woman told me, “What a strange family you are.” I thought, Family we are. “I just got off the phone with his mother.” I wrote, “Why was he here?” She said, “For the key.” I asked, “What key?” She said, “For the lock.” “What lock?” “Don’t you know?” For eight months I followed him and talked to the people he talked to, I tried to learn about him as he tried to learn about you, he was trying to find you, just as you’d tried to find me, it broke my heart into more pieces than my heart was made of, why can’t people say what they mean at the time? One afternoon I followed him downtown, we sat across from each other on the subway, the old man looked at me, was I staring, was I reaching my arms out in front of me, did he know that I should have been the one sitting next to Oskar? They went into a coffee store, on the way back I lost them, it happened all the time, it’s hard to stay close without making yourself known, and I wouldn’t betray her. When I got back to the Upper West Side I went into a bookstore, I couldn’t go to the apartment yet, I needed time to think, at the end of the aisle I saw a man who I thought might be Simon Goldberg, he was also in the children’s section, the more I looked at him, the more unsure I was, the more I wanted it to be him, had he gone to work instead of to his death? My hands shook against the change in my pockets, I tried not to stare, I tried not to reach my arms out in front of me, could it be, did he recognize me, he’d written, “It is my great hope that our paths, however long and winding, will cross again.” Fifty years later he wore the same thick glasses, I’d never seen a whiter shirt, he had a hard time letting go of books, I went up to him. “I don’t speak,” I wrote, “I’m sorry.” He wrapped his arms around me and squeezed, I could feel his heart beating against my heart, they were trying to beat in unison, without saying a word he turned around and rushed away from me, out of the store, into the street, I’m almost sure it wasn’t him, I want an infinitely long blank book and the rest of time… The next day, Oskar and the old man went to the Empire State Building, I waited for them on the street. I kept looking up, trying to see him, my neck was burning, was he looking down at me, were we sharing something without either of us knowing it? After an hour, the elevator doors opened and the old man came out, was he going to leave Oskar up there, so high up, so alone, who would keep him safe? I hated him. I started to write something, he came up to me and grabbed me by the collar. “Listen,” he said, “I don’t know who you are, but I’ve seen you following us, and I don’t like it. Not a bit. This is the only time I’m going to tell you to stay away.” My book had fallen to the floor, so I couldn’t say anything. “If I ever see you again, anywhere near that boy—” I pointed at the floor, he let go of my collar, I picked up the book and wrote, “I’m Oskar’s grandfather. I don’t speak. I’m sorry.” “His grandfather?” I flipped back and pointed at what I’d been writing, “Where is he?” “Oskar doesn’t have a grandfather.” I pointed at the page. “He’s walking down the stairs.” I quickly explained everything as best I could, my handwriting was becoming illegible, he said, “Oskar wouldn’t lie to me.” I wrote, “He didn’t lie. He doesn’t know.” The old man took a necklace from under his shirt and looked at it, the pendant was a compass, he said, “Oskar is my friend. I have to tell him.” “He’s my grandson. Please don’t.” “You’re the one who should be going around with him.” “I have been.” “And what about his mother?” “What about his mother?” We heard Oskar singing from around the corner, his voice was getting louder, the old man said, “He’s a good boy,” and walked away. I went straight home, the apartment was empty. I thought about packing my bags, I thought about jumping out a window, I sat on the bed and thought, I thought about you. What kind of food did you like, what was your favorite song, who was the first girl you kissed, and where, and how, I’m running out of room, I want an infinitely long blank book and forever, I don’t know how much time passed, it didn’t matter, I’d lost all of my reasons to keep track. Someone rang the bell, I didn’t get up, I didn’t care who it was, I wanted to be alone, on the other side of the window. I heard the door open and I heard his voice, my reason, “Grandma?” He was in the apartment, it was just the two of us, grandfather and grandson. I heard him going from room to room, moving things, opening and closing, what was he looking for, why was he always looking? He came to my door, “Grandma?” I didn’t want to betray her, I turned off the lights, what was I so afraid of? “Grandma?” He started crying, my grandson was crying. “Please. I really need help. If you’re in there, please come out.” I turned on the light, why wasn’t I more afraid? “Please.” I opened the door and we faced each other, I faced myself, “Are you the renter?” I went back into the room and got this daybook from the closet, this book that is nearly out of pages, I brought it to him and wrote, “I don’t speak. I’m sorry.” I was so grateful to have him looking at me, he asked me who I was, I didn’t know what to tell him, I invited him into the room, he asked me if I was a stranger, I didn’t know what to tell him, he was still crying, I didn’t know how to hold him, I’m running out of room. I brought him over to the bed, he sat down, I didn’t ask him any questions or tell him what I already knew, we didn’t talk about unimportant things, we didn’t become friends, I could have been anyone, he began at the beginning, the vase, the key, Brooklyn, Queens, I knew the lines by heart. Poor child, telling everything to a stranger, I wanted to build walls around him, I wanted to separate inside from outside, I wanted to give him an infinitely long blank book and the rest of time, he told me
how he’d just gone up to the top of the Empire State Building, how his friend had told him he was finished, it wasn’t what I’d wanted, but if it was necessary to bring my grandson face to face with me, it was worth it, anything would have been. I wanted to touch him, to tell him that even if everyone left: everyone, I would never leave him, he talked and talked, his words fell through him, trying to find the floor of his sadness, “My dad,” he said, “My dad,” he ran across the street and came back with a phone, “These are his last words.”