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A SIMPLE SOLUTION TO AN IMPOSSIBLE PROBLEM The day after the renter and I dug up Dad's grave, I went to Mr.

Publié le 06/01/2014

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A SIMPLE SOLUTION TO AN IMPOSSIBLE PROBLEM The day after the renter and I dug up Dad's grave, I went to Mr. Black's apartment. I felt like he deserved to know what happened, even if he wasn't actually a part of it. But when I knocked, the person who answered wasn't him. "Can I help you?" a woman asked. Her glasses were hanging from a chain around her neck, and she was holding a folder with lots of paper coming out of it. "You're not Mr. Black." "Mr. Black?" "Mr. Black who lives here. Where is he?" "I'm sorry, I don't know." "Is he OK?" "I assume so. I don't know." "Who are you?" "I'm a realtor." "What's that?" "I'm selling the apartment." "Why?" "I suppose the owner wants to sell it. I'm just covering today." "Covering?" "The realtor who represents this property is sick." "Do you know how I can find the owner?" "I'm sorry, I don't." "He was my friend." She told me, "They're coming by sometime this morning to take everything away." "Who's they?" "They. I don't know. Contractors. Garbage men. They." "Not moving men?" "I don't know." "They're throwing his things away?" "Or selling them." If I'd been incredibly rich, I would have bought everything, even if I just had to put it in storage. I told her, "Well, I eft something in the apartment. It's something of mine, so they can't sell it or give it away. I'm going to get it. Excuse e." went to the index of biographies. I knew I couldn't save the whole thing, obviously, but there was something I needed. I ulled out the B drawer and flipped through the cards. I found Mr. Black's. I knew it was the right thing to do, so I took it ut and put it in the pouch of my overalls. ut then, even though I'd gotten what I wanted, I went to the'S drawer. Antonin Scalia, G. L. Scarborough, Lord Leslie eorge Scarman, Maurice Scève, Anne Wilson Schaef, Jack Warner Schaefer, Iris Scharmel, Robert Haven Schaufner, Barry check, Johann Schefner, Jean de Schelandre ... And then I saw it: Schell. t first I was relieved, because I felt like everything I'd done had been worth it, because I'd made Dad into a Great Man ho was bio-graphically significant and would be remembered. But then I examined the card, and I saw that it wasn't ad. I wish I had known that I wasn't going to see Mr. Black again when we shook hands that afternoon. I wouldn't have let go. r I would have forced him to keep searching with me. Or I would have told him about how Dad called when I was home. But I didn't know, just like I didn't know it was the last time Dad would ever tuck me in, because you never know. So when e said, "I'm finished. I hope you understand," I said, "I understand," even though I didn't understand. I never went to find im on the observation deck of the Empire State Building, because I was happier believing he was there than finding out or sure. kept looking for the lock after he told me he was finished, but it wasn't the same. I went to Far Rockaway and Boerum Hill and Long Island City. I went to Dumbo and Spanish Harlem and the Meatpacking District. I went to Flatbush and Tudor City and Little Italy. I went to Bedford-Stuyvesant and Inwood and Red Hook. I don't know if it was because Mr. Black wasn't with me anymore, or because I'd been spending so much time making plans with the renter to dig up Dad's grave, or just because I'd been looking for so long without finding anything, but I no longer felt like I was moving in the direction of Dad. I'm not even sure I believed in the lock anymore. he last Black I visited was Peter. He lived in Sugar Hill, which is in Hamilton Heights, which is in Harlem. A man was sitting n the stoop when I walked up to the house. He had a little baby on his knee, who he was talking to, even though babies on't understand language, obviously. "Are you Peter Black?" "Who's asking?" "Oskar Schell." He patted the step, which eant I could sit next to him if I wanted, which I thought was nice, but I wanted to stand. "That's your baby?" "Yes." "Can pet her?" "Him." "Can I pet him?" "Sure," he said. I couldn't believe how soft his head was, and how little his eyes were, nd his fingers. "He's very vulnerable," I said. "He is," Peter said, "but we keep him pretty safe." "Does he eat normal ood?" "Not yet. Just milk for now." "Does he cry a lot?" "I'd say so. Definitely feels like a lot." "But babies don't get sad, ight? He's just hungry or something." "We'll never know." I liked watching the baby make fists. I wondered if he could ave thoughts, or if he was more like a nonhuman animal. "Do you want to hold him?" "I don't think that's a very good dea." "Why not?" "I don't know how to hold a baby." "If you want to, I'll show you. It's easy." "OK." "Why don't you sit own?" he said. "Here you go. Now put one of your hands under here. Like that. Good. Now put the other around his ead. That's right. You can kind of hold it against your chest. Right. Like that. You've got it. Just like that. He's as happy as an be." "This is good?" "You're doing great." "What's his name?" "Peter." "I thought that was your name." "We're both eter." It made me wonder for the first time why I wasn't named after Dad, although I didn't wonder about the renter's ame being Thomas. I said, "Hi, Peter. I'll protect you." hen I got home that afternoon, after eight months of searching New York, I was exhausted and frustrated and essimistic, even though what I wanted to be was happy. went up to my laboratory, but I didn't feel like performing any experiments. I didn't feel like playing the tambourine, or poiling Buck-minster, or arranging my collections, or looking through Stuff That Happened to Me. Mom and Ron were hanging out in the family room, even though he wasn't part of our family. I went to the kitchen to get some dehydrated ice cream. I looked over at the telephone. The new phone. It looked back at me. Whenever it would ring, I'd scream, "The phone's ringing!" because I didn't want to touch it. I didn't even want to be in the same room with it. I pressed the Message Play button, which I hadn't done since the worst day, and that was on the old phone. Message one. Saturday, 11:52 A.M. Hi, this is a message for Oskar Schell. Oskar, this is Abby Black. You were just over at my apartment asking about the key. I wasn't completely honest with you, and I think I might be able to help. Please give-- And then the message was cut off. bby was the second Black I had gone to, eight months before. She lived in the narrowest house in New York. I told her she was pretty. She cracked up. I told her she was pretty. She told me I was sweet. She cried when I told her about lephant E.S.P. I asked if we could kiss. She didn't say she didn't want to. Her message had been waiting for me for eight onths. Mom?" "Yes?" "I'm going out." "OK." "I'll be back later." "OK." "I don't know when. It could be extremely late." "OK." hy didn't she ask me more? Why didn't she try to stop me, or at least keep me safe? ecause it was starting to get dark, and because the streets were crowded, I bumped into a googolplex people. Who were hey? Where were they going? What were they looking for? I wanted to hear their heartbeats, and I wanted them to hear ine. he subway station was just a few blocks from her house, and when I got there the door was open a little, like she knew 'd be coming, even though she couldn't have, obviously. So why was it open? Hello? Is anyone there? It's Oskar Schell." he came to the door. was relieved, because I hadn't invented her. "Do you remember me?" "Of course I do, Oskar. You've grown." "I have?" "A lot. Inches." "I've been so busy searching that I haven't been measuring myself." "Come in," she said. "I thought you weren't going to call me back. It's been a long ime since I left that message." I told her, "I'm afraid of the phone." he said, "I've thought about you a lot." I said, "Your message." "From months ago?" "How weren't you honest with me?" I told you I didn't know anything about the key." "But you did?" "Yes. Well, no. I don't. My husband does." "Why didn't you tell me when we met?" "I couldn't." "Why not?" "I just couldn't." "That's not a real answer." "My husband and I had been having a terrible fight." "He was my dad!" "He was my husband." "He was murdered!"

« longer feltlike Iwas moving inthe direction ofDad.

I'mnot even sureIbelieved inthe lock anymore. The lastBlack Ivisited wasPeter.

Helived inSugar Hill,which isin Hamilton Heights,whichisin Harlem.

Aman wassitting on the stoop whenIwalked uptothe house.

Hehad alittle baby onhis knee, whohewas talking to,even though babies don't understand language,obviously.

"AreyouPeter Black?" "Who'sasking?" "OskarSchell." Hepatted thestep, which meant Icould sitnext tohim ifIwanted, whichIthought wasnice, butIwanted tostand.

"That's yourbaby?" "Yes.""Can I pet her?" "Him." "CanIpet him?" "Sure," hesaid.

Icouldn't believehowsofthishead was,andhow little hiseyes were, and hisfingers.

"He'sveryvulnerable," Isaid.

"Heis,"Peter said,"butwekeep himpretty safe.""Does heeat normal food?" "Notyet.Just milk fornow." "Does hecry alot?" "I'dsayso.Definitely feelslikealot." "But babies don'tgetsad, right? He'sjusthungry orsomething." "We'llneverknow." Iliked watching thebaby make fists.Iwondered ifhe could have thoughts, orifhe was more likeanonhuman animal."Doyouwant tohold him?" "Idon't thinkthat's avery good idea." "Whynot?""Idon't know howtohold ababy." "Ifyou want to,I'llshow you.It'seasy." "OK.""Why don'tyousit down?" hesaid.

"Here yougo.Now putone ofyour hands underhere.Likethat.

Good.

Nowputtheother around his head.

That's right.Youcankind ofhold itagainst yourchest.

Right.Likethat.

You've gotit.Just likethat.

He'sashappy as can be." "This isgood?" "You're doinggreat." "What's hisname?" "Peter." "Ithought thatwasyour name." "We'reboth Peter." Itmade mewonder forthe first time whyIwasn't named afterDad,although Ididn't wonder abouttherenter's name beingThomas.

Isaid, "Hi,Peter.

I'llprotect you." When Igot home thatafternoon, aftereight months ofsearching NewYork, Iwas exhausted andfrustrated and pessimistic, eventhough whatIwanted tobe was happy. I went uptomy laboratory, butIdidn't feellikeperforming anyexperiments.

Ididn't feellikeplaying thetambourine, or spoiling Buck-minster, orarranging mycollections, orlooking through Stuff ThatHappened toMe. Mom andRon were hanging outinthe family room,eventhough hewasn't partofour family.

Iwent tothe kitchen toget some dehydrated icecream.

Ilooked overatthe telephone.

Thenew phone.

Itlooked backatme.

Whenever itwould ring, I'dscream, "Thephone's ringing!" becauseIdidn't wanttotouch it.Ididn't evenwant tobe inthe same room with it. I pressed theMessage Playbutton, whichIhadn't donesincetheworst day,andthat wasonthe oldphone. Message one.Saturday, 11:52A.M.

Hi, this isamessage forOskar Schell.

Oskar, thisisAbby Black.

Youwere justover at my apartment askingaboutthekey.

Iwasn't completely honestwithyou,andIthink Imight beable tohelp.

Please give— And then themessage wascutoff. Abby wasthesecond BlackIhad gone to,eight months before.Shelived inthe narrowest houseinNew York.

Itold her she was pretty.

Shecracked up.Itold hershe was pretty.

Shetold meIwas sweet.

Shecried when Itold herabout elephant E.S.P.Iasked ifwe could kiss.Shedidn't sayshe didn't wantto.Her message hadbeen waiting forme foreight months. "Mom?" "Yes?""I'mgoing out.""OK." "I'llbeback later." "OK.""Idon't know when.

Itcould beextremely late.""OK." Why didn't sheaskmemore? Whydidn't shetrytostop me,oratleast keep mesafe? Because itwas starting toget dark, andbecause thestreets werecrowded, Ibumped intoagoogolplex people.Whowere they? Where weretheygoing? Whatweretheylooking for?Iwanted tohear their heartbeats, andIwanted themtohear mine. The subway stationwasjustafew blocks fromherhouse, andwhen Igot there thedoor wasopen alittle, likeshe knew I'd be coming, eventhough shecouldn't have,obviously.

Sowhy wasitopen? "Hello? Isanyone there?It'sOskar Schell." She came tothe door. I was relieved, becauseIhadn't invented her.. »

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