“May I ask what this concerns?” she asked me. “He says his dad,” she said into the phone. Then she said, “That’s what he says.” Then she said, “OK.” Then she said to me, “Go down the hallway. His door is the third on the left.”
There was art that was probably famous on the walls. There were incredibly beautiful views out of the windows, which Dad would have loved. But I didn’t look at any of it, and I didn’t take any pictures. I’d never been so concentrated in my life, because I’d never been closer to the lock. I knocked on the third door on the left, which had a sign on it that said WILLIAM BLACK. A voice from inside the room said, “Come in.”
“What can I do for you tonight?” said a man behind a desk. He was about the same age that Dad would have been, or I guess still was, if dead people have ages. He had brownish-grayish hair, a short beard, and round brown glasses. For a second he looked familiar, and I wondered if he was the person I had seen from the Empire State Building through the binocular machine. But then I realized that was impossible, because we were at Fifty-seventh Street, which is north, obviously. There were a bunch of picture frames on his desk. I looked at them quickly to make sure Dad wasn’t in any of the pictures.
I asked, “Did you know my dad?” He leaned back in his chair and said, “I’m not sure. Who was your dad?” “Thomas Schell.” He thought for a minute. I hated how he had to think. “No,” he said. “I don’t know any Schells.” “Knew.” “Excuse me?” “He’s dead, so you couldn’t know him now.” “I’m sorry to hear that.” “You must have known him, though.” “No. I’m sure I didn’t.” “But you must have.”
I told him, “I found a little envelope that had your name on it, and I thought maybe it was your wife, who I know is now your ex-wife, but she said she didn’t know what it was, and your name is William, and I wasn’t anywhere near the W’s yet—” “My wife?” “I went and talked to her.” “Talked to her where?” “The narrowest townhouse in New York.” “How was she?” “What do you mean?” “How did she seem?” “Sad.” “Sad how?” “Just sad.” “What was she doing?” “Nothing, really. She was trying to give me food, even though I told her I wasn’t hungry. Someone was in the other room while we talked.” “A man?” “Yeah.” “You saw him?” “He passed by the door, but mostly he was yelling from another room.” “He was yelling?” “ Extremely loud.” “What was he yelling?” “I couldn’t hear the words.” “Did he sound intimidating?” “I don’t know what that means.” “Was he scary?” “What about my dad?” “When was this?” “Eight months ago.” “Eight months ago?” “Seven months and twenty-eight days.” He smiled. “Why are you smiling?” He put his face in his hands, like he was going to cry, but he didn’t. He looked up and said, “That man was me.”
“You?” “Eight months ago. Yeah. I thought you were talking about the other day.” “But he didn’t have a beard.” “He grew a beard.” “And he didn’t wear glasses.” He took off his glasses and said, “He changed.” I started thinking about the pixels in the image of the falling body, and how the closer you looked, the less you could see. “Why were you yelling?” “Long story.” “I have a long time,” I said, because anything that could bring me closer to Dad was something I wanted to know about, even if it would hurt me. “It’s a long, long story.” “Please.” He closed a notebook that was open on his desk and said, “It’s too long a story.”
I said, “Don’t you think it’s so weird that we were in the apartment together eight months ago and now we’re in this office together?”
He nodded.
“It’s weird,” I said. “We were incredibly close.”
He said, “So what’s so special about the envelope?” “Nothing, exactly. It’s what was in the envelope.” “Which was?” “Which was this.” I pulled the string around my neck, and made it so the key to our apartment was on my back and Dad’s key rested on the pouch of my overalls, over Mr. Black’s biography, over the Band-Aid, over my heart. “Can I see that?” he asked. I took it off of my neck and handed it to him. He examined it and asked, “Did it say something on the envelope?” “It said ‘Black.’” He looked up at me. “Did you find it in a blue vase?” “Jose!”
He said, “I can’t believe it.” “You can’t believe what?” “This is truly the most amazing thing that’s ever happened to me.” “What is?” “I’ve spent two years trying to find this key.” “But I’ve spent eight months trying to find the lock.” “Then we’ve been looking for each other.” I was finally able to ask the most important question of my life. “What does it open?”
“It opens a safe-deposit box.” “Well, what’s it got to do with my dad?” “Your dad?” “The whole point of the key is that I found it in my dad’s closet, and since he’s dead, I couldn’t ask him what it meant, so I had to find out for myself.” “You found it in his closet?” “Yes.” “In a tall blue vase?” I nodded. “With a label on the bottom?” “I don’t know. I didn’t see a label. I don’t remember.” If I’d been alone, I would have given myself the biggest bruise of my life. I would have turned myself into one big bruise.
“My father passed away about two years ago,” he said. “He went in for a checkup and the doctor told him he had two months to live. He died two months later.” I didn’t want to hear about death. It was all anyone talked about, even when no one was actually talking about it. “I needed to figure out what to do with all of his things. Books, furniture, clothes.” “Didn’t you want to keep them?” “I didn’t want any of it.” I thought that was weird, because Dad’s things were all I wanted. “So to make a long story short—” “You don’t have to make a long story short.” “I had an estate sale. I shouldn’t have been there. I should have hired someone to take care of it. Or I should have given it all away. Instead I was in the position of telling people that the prices for his belongings weren’t negotiable. His wedding suit wasn’t negotiable. His sunglasses weren’t negotiable. It was one of the worst days of my life. Maybe the worst.”
“Are you OK?” “I’m fine. It’s been a bad couple of years. My father and I weren’t exactly close.” “Do you need a hug?” “I’ll be OK.” “Why not?” “Why not what?” “Why weren’t you and your dad exactly close?” He said, “Too long a story.” “Can you please tell me about my dad now?”
“My father wrote letters when he found out about the cancer. He wasn’t much of a letter writer before. I don’t know if he ever wrote. But he spent his last two months writing obsessively. Whenever he was awake.” I asked why, but what I really wanted to know was why I started writing letters after Dad died. “He was trying to say his goodbyes. He wrote to people he barely knew. If he hadn’t already been sick, his letters would have been his sickness. I had a business meeting the other day, and in the middle of our conversation the man asked if I was related to Edmund Black. I told him yes, he was my father. He said, ‘I went to high school with your dad. He wrote me the most amazing letter before he died. Ten pages. I only barely knew him. We hadn’t talked in fifty years. It was the most amazing letter I’d ever read.’ I asked him if I could see it. He said, ‘I don’t think it was meant to be shared.’ I told him it would mean a lot to me. He said, ‘He mentions you in it.’ I told him I understood.
“I looked through my father’s Rolodex—” “What’s that?” “Phone book. I called every name. His cousins, his business partners, people I’d never heard of. He’d written to everyone. Every single person. Some let me see their letters. Others didn’t.”
“What were they like?”
“The shortest was a single sentence. The longest was a couple dozen pages. Some of them were almost like little plays. Others were just questions to the person he was writing to.” “What kinds of questions?” “‘Did you know I was in love with you that summer in Norfolk?’ ‘Will they be taxed for possessions I leave, like the piano?’ ‘How do light bulbs work?’” “I could have explained that to him.” “‘Does anyone actually die in his sleep?’
“Some of his let
ters were funny. I mean, really, really funny. I didn’t know he could be so funny. And some were philosophical. He wrote about how happy he was, and how sad he was, and all of the things he wanted to do but never did, and all of the things he did but didn’t want to do.”
“Didn’t he write a letter to you?” “Yes.” “What did it say?” “I couldn’t read it. Not for a few weeks.” “Why not?” “It was too painful.” “I would have been extremely curious.” “My wife—my ex-wife—said I was being crazy not to read it.” “That wasn’t very understanding of her.” “She was right, though. It was crazy. It was unreasonable. I was being childish.” “Yeah, but you were his child.”
“But I was his child. That’s right. I’m babbling. To make a long story short—” “Don’t make it short,” I said, because even though I wanted him to tell me about my dad instead of his, I also wanted to make the story as long as I could, because I was afraid of its end. He said, “I read it. Maybe I was expecting something confessional. I don’t know. Something angry, or asking for forgiveness. Something that would make me rethink everything. But it was matter-of-fact. More of a document than a letter, if that makes sense.” “I guess so.” “I don’t know. Maybe I was wrong to, but I was expecting him to say he was sorry for things, and tell me he loved me. End-of-life stuff. But there was none of it. He didn’t even say ‘I love you.’ He told me about his will, his life insurance policy, all of those horrible businesslike things that feel so inappropriate to think about when someone has died.”
“You were disappointed?” “I was angry.” “I’m sorry.” “No. There’s nothing to be sorry for. I thought about it. I thought about it all the time. My father told me where he’d left things, and what he wanted taken care of. He was responsible. He was good. It’s easy to be emotional. You can always make a scene. Remember me eight months ago? That was easy.” “It didn’t sound easy.” “It was simple. Highs and lows make you feel that things matter, but they’re nothing.” “So what’s something?” “Being reliable is something. Being good.”
“And what about the key?” “At the end of his letter he wrote, ‘I have something for you. In the blue vase, on the shelf in the bedroom, is a key. It opens a safe-deposit box at our bank. I hope you’ll understand why I wanted you to have it.’” “And? What was in it?” “I didn’t read the note until after I’d sold all of his belongings. I had sold the vase. I sold it to your father.” “What the?”
“That’s why I’ve been trying to find you.” “You met my dad?” “Only briefly, but yes.” “Do you remember him?” “It was just a minute.” “But do you remember him?” “We chatted a bit.” “And?” “He was a nice man. I think he could see how hard it was for me to part with those things.” “Could you please describe him?” “Gosh, I don’t really remember much.” “Please.” “ He was maybe five foot ten. He had brown hair. He wore glasses.” “What kind of glasses?” “Thick glasses.” “What kind of clothes was he wearing?” “A suit, I think.” “What suit?” “Gray, maybe?” “That’s true! He wore a gray suit to work! Did he have a gap between his teeth?” “I don’t remember.” “Try.”
“He said he was on his way home and saw the sign for the sale. He told me that he had an anniversary coming up the next week.” “September 14!” “He was going to surprise your mom. The vase was perfect, he said. He said she’d love it.” “He was going to surprise her?” “He’d made reservations at her favorite restaurant. It was going to be some sort of fancy night out.”
The tuxedo.
“What else did he say?” “What else did he say…” “Anything.” “He had a great laugh. I remember that. It was good of him to laugh, and to make me laugh. He was laughing for my sake.”
“What else?” “He had a very discerning eye.” “What’s that?” “He knew what he liked. He knew when he’d found it.” “That’s true. He had an incredibly discerning eye.” “I remember watching him hold the vase. He examined the bottom of it and turned it around a number of times. He seemed like a very thoughtful person.” “He was extremely thoughtful.”
I wished he could remember even more details, like if Dad had unbuttoned his shirt’s top button, or if he smelled like shaving, or if he whistled “I Am the Walrus.” Was he holding a New York Times under his arm? Were his lips chapped? Was there a red pen in his pocket?
“When the apartment was empty that night, I sat on the floor and read the letter from my father. I read about the vase. I felt like I’d failed him.” “But couldn’t you go to the bank and tell them you’d lost the key?” “I tried that. But they said they didn’t have a box under his name. I tried my name. No box. Not under my mother’s name or my grandparents’ names. It didn’t make any sense.” “There was nothing the bank people could do?” “They were sympathetic, but without the key, I was stuck.” “And that’s why you needed to find my dad.”
“I hoped he would realize that there was a key in the vase and find me. But how could he? We sold my father’s apartment, so even if he went back, it would be a dead end. And I was sure he’d just throw the key away if he found it, assuming it was junk. That’s what I would have done. And there was no way I could find him. Absolutely no way. I knew nothing about him, not even his name. For a few weeks I’d go over to the neighborhood on my way home from work, even though it wasn’t on my way. It was an hour out of my way. I’d walk around looking for him. I put up a few signs when I realized what had happened: ‘To the man who bought the vase at the estate sale on Seventy-fifth Street this weekend, please contact…’ But this was the week after September 11. There were posters everywhere.”
“My mom put up posters of him.” “What do you mean?” “He died in September 11. That’s how he died.” “Oh, God. I didn’t realize. I’m so sorry.” “It’s OK.” “I don’t know what to say.” “You don’t have to say anything.” “I didn’t see the posters. If I had… Well, I don’t know what if I had.” “You would have been able to find us.” “I guess that’s right.” “I wonder if your posters and my mom’s posters were ever close to each other.”
He said, “Wherever I was, I was trying to find him: uptown, downtown, on the train. I looked in everyone’s eyes, but none were his. Once I saw someone I thought might be your father across Broadway in Times Square, but I lost him in the crowd. I saw someone I thought might be him getting into a cab at Twenty-third Street. I would have called after him, but I didn’t know his name.” “Thomas.” “Thomas. I wish I’d known it then.”
He said, “I followed one man around Central Park for more than half an hour. I thought he was your father. I couldn’t figure out why he was walking in such a strange, crisscrossing way. He wasn’t getting anywhere. I couldn’t figure it out.” “Why didn’t you stop him?” “Eventually I did.” “And what happened?” “I was wrong. It was someone else.” “Did you ask him why he was walking like that?” “He’d lost something and was searching the ground for it.”
“Well, you don’t have to look anymore,” I told him. He said, “I’ve spent so long looking for this key. It’s hard to look at it.” “Don’t you want to see what he left for you?” “I don’t think it’s a question of wanting.” I asked him, “What’s it a question of?”
He said, “I’m so sorry. I know that you’re looking for something, too. And I know this isn’t what you’re looking for.” “It’s OK.” “For what it’s worth, your father seemed like a good man. I only spoke with him for a few minutes, but that was long enough to see that he was good. You were lucky to have a father like that. I’d trade this key for that father.” “You shouldn’t have to choose.” “No, you shouldn’t.”
We sat there, not saying anything. I examined the pictures on his desk again. All of them were of Abby.
He said, “Why don’t you come with me to the bank?” “You’re nice, but no thank you.” “Are you sure?” It’s not that I wasn’t curious. I was incredibly curious. It’s that I was afraid of getting confused.
He said, “What is it?” “Nothing.” �
��Are you all right?” I wanted to keep the tears in, but I couldn’t. He said, “I’m so, so sorry.”
“Can I tell you something that I’ve never told anyone else?”
“Of course.”
“On that day, they let us out of school basically as soon as we got there. They didn’t really tell us why, just that something bad had happened. We didn’t get it, I guess. Or we didn’t get that something bad could happen to us. A lot of parents came to pick up their kids, but since school is only five blocks from my apartment, I walked home. My friend told me he was going to call, so I went to the answering machine and the light was beeping. There were five messages. They were all from him.” “Your friend?” “My dad.”
He covered his mouth with his hand.
“He just kept saying that he was OK, and that everything would be fine, and that we shouldn’t worry.”
A tear went down his cheek and rested on his finger.
“But this is the thing that I’ve never told anyone. After I listened to the messages, the phone rang. It was 10:22. I looked at the caller ID and saw that it was his cell phone.” “Oh, God.” “Could you please put your hand on me so I can finish the rest?” “Of course,” he said, and he scooted his chair around his desk and next to me.
“I couldn’t pick up the phone. I just couldn’t do it. It rang and rang, and I couldn’t move. I wanted to pick it up, but I couldn’t.
“The answering machine went on, and I heard my own voice.”
Hi, you’ve reached the Schell residence. Here is today’s fact of the day: It’s so cold in Yukatia, which is in Siberia, that breath instantly freezes with a crackling noise that they call the whispering of the stars. On extremely cold days, the towns are covered in a fog caused by the breath of humans and animals. Please leave a message.
Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close Page 23