Why don’t you tell her, Mother said, how much better things have gotten. Why don’t you tell her what a wonderful world this is.
Pinkus turned the lamp shade over in his hand.
It says Made in Taiwan, he said.
Well, they’re not going to write Made in Buchenwald on it, are they?
You told me it was my grandfather, Mother, said Kugel.
What’s the difference? said Mother. You’re related to that lamp shade, suddenly you care so much how?
Later, as Bree and Hannah cleaned up from dinner, Kugel went outside to the vegetable garden and picked up the produce he’d left there that morning.
When he got into bed, Bree said, They have to go.
I know, said Kugel.
All of them.
I know.
Bree turned over and closed her eyes.
Ripping off Anne Frank, said Bree. That’s a new one, even for her.
Maybe Jove was right. Maybe he wasn’t just expecting too much from people, maybe he was expecting too much from himself. Sparing Mother, shielding Anne, sheltering Jonah. Maybe he should just be an asshole. Maybe the answer to a happy life, thought Kugel, was just being a son of a bitch.
It wouldn’t be easy.
He hoped that he could be.
23.
AS KUGEL WAS DRIVING to work the following morning, he came around a corner and saw a small group of deer standing—waiting, it seemed—on the far side of the road. A buck and several does stood at the edge of the road, where the tall roadside grass gave way to the dark pine forest, with three nervous-looking fawns behind them. Kugel slowed down as he approached, expecting them to dart across the street or scatter into the woods, but none moved; even the usually skittish fawns stood frozen still. He slowly drove closer, until he was almost upon them, but the small congregation remained motionless, their attention focused on the field of brush on the far side of the road.
Kugel pulled over, came to a stop, and switched on his hazard lights. He tapped lightly on the horn. The large buck turned to him briefly, but with a dismissive twitch of an ear looked back again toward the brush. They seemed anxious, their bodies tense, unsure of whether to stay or to flee, and in anxiety and ambivalence, they stamped in place and flicked their tails.
Kugel opened his car door and stepped out.
Still they didn’t move.
Hey, he said, slamming his door to scare them off.
Nothing.
Kugel walked to the area of brush where the deer seemed to be looking; there, in the weeds and brambles, just a few feet from the side of the road where it had been struck, lay the broken, bloody body of a young fawn, a deep gash along her belly.
Kugel pushed the weeds aside and knelt beside her. Her eyes were wide, fixed straight ahead as she concentrated on the suddenly difficult task of breathing; she didn’t move, couldn’t, her legs shattered, her back broken; Kugel could see the slight pulse of her heart, and recalled with a stab in his own heart Jonah in his too-big hospital bed—it seemed long ago now, but never far away, perhaps today, perhaps tomorrow—having lost so much weight that Kugel could almost see his tiny heart pumping through his skin. It seemed such an inadequate device, the heart—so finicky, so easily stopped, so Japanese when it should be so German. One moment it’s pumping, the next it’s not. And they lived. The end. Kugel stroked the side of the fawn’s nose while whispering to her the planet’s oldest untruths: it was going to be okay, he wasn’t going to hurt her, he was going to get her help. She yelped, tried to lift her head. Shh. The deer across the way watched him closely, with—you couldn’t say it was anything less—hope in their eyes. He rested the tips of his first two fingers on the fawn’s chest—shh—feeling her heart underneath, racing, desperate; slowly, delicately, Kugel pressed his two fingers into the gash on her belly. She blinked, licked her lips. She felt warm inside, and wet; Kugel moved his fingers slightly, pressing them in deeper until he could feel her terrified heart thumping against the tips of his fingers. Kugel glanced up to the deer watching him from across the way; they seemed to think that he was helping, or that there was a chance he might, and for a moment he felt remorse for giving them such hope. Was that such a crime, though, Professor? Was a moment of false hope going to make their loss any greater? What was the greater kindness? Wasn’t pretending like this, lying, faking, his fingertips on her heart, a crease on his brow, the least he could do? The few moments he kept his fingers inside her—doing nothing—were a few moments more that they could believe in some answer; wasn’t that the kindest thing he could do for them?
The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want.
Ask and thou shall receive.
For God so loved the world that He gave His only Son, that whosoever believes in Him will not perish but will have everlasting life.
Bullshit, sure, but good bullshit. The best bullshit. A lie, but the whole thing was a lie, what was one more to ease the pain?
And then the fawn sighed deeply, and rested her head, and Kugel pressed his fingers against her heart, and it stopped. After a moment, Kugel gently removed his fingers from her wound; they were warm, wet, covered with dark red, almost black, blood. Kugel held his fingers up to his nose, inhaled deeply, and then, slowly, slowly, he placed them into his mouth and closed his eyes.
Fuck all you motherfuckers, he thought.
Toodle-oo.
And then the blare of a car horn, and the scattering of deer, and the squeal of tires and the shattering of glass.
Nobody was hurt, though Kugel was shaken and the other driver was furious. The police arrived (Are you hurt, he asked Kugel; Yes, Kugel responded; the officer glanced down at his cast and cane; From a previous accident, he asked, or this one? A previous one, said Kugel; I’m not interested in previous accidents, said the officer; Lucky you, said Kugel), insurance information was exchanged, and after writing tickets and helping Kugel load his rear bumper into the backseat of his car, the officer said they were free to go. It was, however, almost eleven o’clock, and past lunch when Kugel finally arrived at his office. His supervisor had left a note for him on his desk:
If you’re not here, read the note, we assume you don’t care.
An Indian chief named Isapwo Muksika Crowfoot said this on his deathbed: A little while and I’ll be gone from among you. Whither I cannot tell. From nowhere we come, into nowhere we go. What is life? It is the flash of a firefly in the light. It is the breath of the buffalo in the wintertime. It is as the little shadow that runs across the grass and loses itself in the sunset.
That seemed a lot to cover in a last moment. Kugel imagined he would manage to choke out the first few words—A little whi . . . —and drop dead before he could finish the rest. A little why, Bree would wonder. What did he mean by that? Remember your grandfather’s last words, Jonah would tell his children: Life is nothing more than a little why.
Kugel thought the supervisor’s note might make for a good tombstone:
SOLOMON KUGEL
Just Because I’m Not Here,
Doesn’t Mean I Don’t Care.
Born. Died.
The morning’s incident with the fawn, despite its tragic outcome, had left Kugel in a surprisingly upbeat mood. Maybe there was something to this hope thing, after all. Fuck Jove, he thought. He imagined the professor at the scene of the accident, counseling the horror-stricken buck: She’s fucked, you know, he would say. Standing here forlornly? I would advise against it. And so, though initially concerned with the threatening note from the supervisor, Kugel decided that in retrospect, it was, when you looked at it, a generally positive development. The fact is, he hadn’t been fired—he’d been warned. They could have fired him—they’d fired others for less—but they hadn’t, clearly because he was a valued employee and clearly because they understood that he was going through a difficult time at home. All goodwill has its limits, of course, he was no fool, and of course he was going to have to reapply himself, prove to them that their trust in him was warranted and we
ll deserved. Troubling? On the contrary, this was just the kick in the pants he needed. He had a family to think about, after all. Beginning Monday, he decided, he would apply himself with focus and determination; why, by the end of the following week, they’ll be leaving him letters of thanks and encouragement, he would see to that. All he needed was a bit of a push—that’s only natural, everyone does from time to time—and his supervisor, sensing that (he was a very good supervisor), had at last given him one.
Very well, he thought. Pushed I am, and pushed I shall be. A new beginning. A fresh start.
That evening, when Kugel returned home, he found Bree and the tenant arguing on the front porch. The tenant had his suitcases in hand, and Bree was trying to block his way. As Kugel made his way from the car to the porch, the tenant began calling to him, demanding to see the attic and to move some of his belongings there, or he would vacate the premises immediately.
I have paid for that space, Mr. Kugel, said the tenant as Kugel approached. This is theft, and I will no longer stand for it.
Kugel, feeling buoyed from the positive new direction he’d taken at work and determined at last to take the same step at home, tried to calm the tenant, asking politely if they could discuss this issue like adults; it quickly became clear, however, that the tenant was going to leave and leave now if he didn’t get a chance to see the attic.
Sir, said Kugel, you know that my mother lives with us because she is old and unwell.
That is not my concern, said the tenant.
It is not, that’s true, said Kugel. We have our own problems, and can’t always save the world. But the world is getting better, we are becoming better people, were you aware of that? The numbers don’t lie, they do not lie, because, after all, there is a reason for everything, wouldn’t you agree? But what is the reason for this delay? you wonder. My mother’s illness, as I just mentioned, which necessitated her moving in here, with us. No one is less happy about that than I, I assure you, but because we could not rent out the room in which my mother is now living, and because the income from that room is required for us to maintain our own expenses, I must tell you that we were forced to rent out the attic as well.
Bree turned to Kugel with surprise.
You rented out the attic, said the tenant.
I’m afraid so, said Kugel.
Bullshit.
I should have told you sooner, said Kugel. I’m sorry, but we were assured by the doctors that Mother would have passed by now, and I was hoping to move the new tenant into her room, in order to give you all the space you need and, as you point out, so rightly deserve.
The tenant folded his arms across his chest.
There’s someone in the attic, he said.
Yes.
Right now.
Absolutely.
I don’t believe you for a minute, he said.
Why is your car all smashed up? Bree asked Kugel.
Why, why—life is a little why, is it not? A little why here, a little why there. More whys than becauses, precious few becauses, and a mountain of therefores that don’t quite add up. She is quite old, Kugel said to the tenant, and rather infirm. The woman in the attic, I mean, not the car, ha ha. I had reservations about renting the space without telling you, but she seemed in quite desperate straits. Would you like to meet her? You’ll see what I mean. She hasn’t moved many of her belongings in, I doubt very much that she has many, and she sleeps most of the day on a small pile of blankets, but she’s there if you would like to see her.
I would, said the tenant. I would like that very much.
Very well, said Kugel.
Kugel headed upstairs, the tenant close behind him, with Bree, in turn, close behind the tenant. Kugel wasn’t concerned; he knew that this being daytime, Anne Frank would be sleeping, and if she wasn’t, so much the better. He could argue with the tenant afterward, they would air their respective grievances, and Kugel was certain he could convince the tenant to stay—both Mother and Anne Frank were terribly old, and as soon as one died, the tenant would have his space.
I suppose the poor woman has her own bathroom, too? the tenant asked, his voice heavy with sarcasm.
Oh, no, said Kugel. Nor a private entrance. It is not at all convenient; you’ll see soon, sir, the room you have is the best of all possible rooms.
Kugel was surprised that he hadn’t thought of this plan earlier. Sometimes problems seem quite thorny, but they have a rather simple solution that was staring you in the face the whole time. His only concern was that this would be the first time Bree was seeing Anne Frank, and he expected her reaction to be quite negative, as, admittedly, his own reaction had been. But who knew? Perhaps seeing her in the flesh would cause her to feel pity, for him if not for her, and she would then understand all that had transpired.
Kugel pulled down the attic door, held a finger to his lips to indicate silence, and then began climbing up the attic stairs. They moved slowly; Kugel pressed himself onto the attic floor, while the tenant and Bree remained, apprehensively, on the ladder, only their heads rising up into the attic space. Kugel turned to motion them up after him, glad that in a moment at least one of his problems would be resolved. And that’s when he saw her: Anne Frank, on the other side of the stairwell, very much awake, very grotesque, squatting over the heating return, her skirt lifted around her waist, her face red with exertion.
Ever since the war, said Anne Frank.
Bree and the tenant turned to look.
I’m out of here, said the tenant.
Bree stumbled down the stairs and ran to the bedroom. The tenant was not far behind her, fleeing down the stairs and out the front door.
She’s a survivor, Kugel called after him. She’s a survivor!
Kugel stood in the empty hallway, hands on his hips, and took a deep breath through his nose.
Well, at least he now knew where the rest of the smell had been coming from.
He wasn’t crazy.
That, at least, was something.
24.
SATURDAY MORNING, Kugel returned to the hardware store for some additional latex gloves and a new brush. Upon arriving, though, he realized he had forgotten his wallet, and had to return home to get it.
Perhaps he was coming down with the same forgetting disease Mother had. Perhaps soon he’d forget it all.
She did it again, didn’t she? said Vince.
Who?
The cat. She peed in the vents.
Shat.
Shat?
Shat.
You have got to get rid of that cat.
Vince recommended an industrial cleaner this time—We got Miracle-Away, he said, and Forever-Gone, but I’d go with Erase; toxic as hell, but gets rid of ’most anything, he said—and a two-pack of disposable odor-valved respirators.
And get rid of that cat, he added.
It was the last weekend in June. Next weekend would be Independence Day, the Fourth of July, and as Kugel walked back to his car, he noticed that all of town—the cars, the stores, and the homes—was festooned with flags, streamers, and large signs. July Fourth had always been one of Kugel’s favorite holidays; it had never failed to stir within him, even when he was a child, a feeling beyond patriotism—a feeling rather of belonging, of oneness with a nation of strangers.
So what had changed? he wondered as he made his way back to his car. Why did these banners and flags today suddenly make him nervous, anxious? Was it something in the country, or something in him? It seemed now the basest form of patriotism; not pride, but fear; not celebratory, but suspicious, fearful. Was it the nation—a nation at war?—or was it him? Was it Anne Frank? The signs no longer seemed to express unity; they seemed like threats, dares, provocations, a grabbing of a stranger’s shirt collar instead of a straightening of one’s own spine:
United We Stand.
These Colors Don’t Run.
Love It or Leave It.
A black silhouette of the twin towers and the words Never Forget, in blood red.
/> Why not? wondered Kugel. Why not forget? Isn’t that what they would have wanted, the terrorists, that we never forget? That’s probably what they said to one another when they came up with the whole plan: Holy shit, said one, they are NEVER going to forget this. They are NEVER, said another, going to forget this.
So forget it.
Gone.
Over.
Were there lessons to be learned? What, then? Did we know anything the day after, some kernel of wisdom or truth or knowledge that we hadn’t known the day before? That life is short? Who knew? That men kill and are killed in return? What?
Nothing.
Not a goddamned thing.
I see floods, said Nostradamus, and fires and wars.
No shit, really?
So forget it.
Me and my friend Mohammed here are going to the Giants game.
Mohammed? Don’t you remember 9/11?
No, why?
What’s the harm in forgetting? What does remembering do? Kugel had read that the war in the Balkans was referred to as the War of the Grandmothers; that after fifty years of peace, it was the grandmothers who reminded their offspring to hate each other, the grandmothers who reminded them of past atrocities, of indignities long gone. Never forget! shouted the grandmothers. So their grandchildren remembered, and their grandchildren died. He had read that Darius the Great, so as not to forget the harm done to him by the Athenians, had a page whisper three times in his ear, every time he sat down to the table, Remember the Athenians.
Asshole.
If you don’t learn from the past, said someone, you are condemned to repeat it. But what if the only thing we learn from the past is that we are condemned to repeat it regardless? The scar, it seems, is often worse than the wound. If only there was a Miracle-Away for the past. A Forever-Gone for brutalities, atrocities, indignities great and small. A lemon-scented life, that was what he wanted; for Jonah, for Bree, for Mother, for Anne. A pine-scented, cleaned, polished, revitalized life. Leaves no residue. Resists fingerprints. Sixty-four ounces of New, price on Amazon—who cares. Click to add to cart. Rush delivery.
Hope: A Tragedy: A Novel Page 19