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I'd never loved Grandma more than I loved her right then.

Publié le 06/01/2014

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I'd never loved Grandma more than I loved her right then. turned around, tiptoed to the guest room door, and pressed my ear against it. I didn't hear anything. But when I got own on my knees, I saw that the light in the room was on. I stood up. Grandma?" I whispered. "Are you in there?" othing. Grandma?" heard an extremely tiny sound. I got down on my knees again, and this time I saw that the light was off. "Is someone in there? I'm eight years old and I'm looking for my grandma because I need her desperately." Footsteps came to the door, but I could only barely hear them because they were extremely gentle and because of the carpet. The footsteps stopped. I could hear breathing, but I knew it wasn't Grandma's, because it was heavier and slower. omething touched the door. A hand? Two hands? Hello?" he doorknob turned. If you're a burglar, please don't murder me." he door opened. man stood there without saying anything, and it was obvious he wasn't a burglar. He was incredibly old and had a face ike the opposite of Mom's, because it seemed like it was frowning even when it wasn't frowning. He was wearing a white hort-sleeve shirt, so you could see his elbows were hairy, and he had a gap between his two front teeth, like Dad had. Are you the renter?" e concentrated for a second, and then he closed the door. Hello?" heard him moving stuff around in the room, and then he came back and opened the door again. He was holding a little ook. He opened it to the first page, which was blank. "I don't speak," he wrote, "I'm sorry." Who are you?" He went to the next page and wrote, "My name is Thomas." "That was my dad's name. It's pretty ommon. He died." On the next page he wrote, "I'm sorry." I told him, "You didn't kill my dad." On the next page there was a picture of a doorknob, for some reason, so he went to the page after that and wrote, "I'm still sorry." I told him, Thanks." He flipped back a couple of pages and pointed at "I'm sorry." e stood there. He was in the room. I was in the hall. The door was open, but it felt like there was an invisible door etween us, because I didn't know what to say to him, and he didn't know what to write to me. I told him, "I'm Oskar," nd I gave him my card. "Do you know where my grandma is?" He wrote, "She went out." "Where?" He shrugged his houlders, just like Dad used to. "Do you know when she'll be back?" He shrugged his shoulders. "I need her." e was on one kind of carpet, I was on another. The line where they came together reminded me of a place that wasn't in any borough. "If you want to come in," he wrote, "we could wait for her together." I asked him if he was a stranger. He asked me what I meant. I told him, "I wouldn't go in with a stranger." He didn't write anything, like he didn't know if he was a stranger or not. "Are you older than seventy?" He showed me his left hand, which had YES tattooed on it. "Do you have a criminal record?" He showed me his right hand, which had NO. "What other languages do you speak?" He wrote, "German. Greek. Latin." "Parlez-vous français?" He opened and closed his left hand, which I think meant un peu. I went in. here was writing on the walls, writing everywhere, like, "I wanted so much to have a life," and "Even just once, even for second." I hoped, for his sake, that Grandma never saw it. He put down the book and picked up another one, for some eason. For how long have you been living here?" I asked. He wrote, "How long did your grandmother tell you I've been living ere?" "Well," I said, "since Dad died, I guess, so about two years." He opened his left hand. "Where were you before hat?" "Where did your grandmother tell you I was before that?" "She didn't." "I wasn't here." I thought that was a weird nswer, but I was getting used to weird answers. e wrote, "Do you want something to eat?" I told him no. I didn't like how much he was looking at me, because it made e feel incredibly self-conscious, but there was nothing I could say. "Do you want something to drink?" What's your story?" I asked. "What's my story?" "Yeah, what's your story?" He wrote, "I don't know what my story is." How can you not know what your story is?" He shrugged his shoulders, just like Dad used to. "Where were you born?" e shrugged his shoulders. "How can you not know where you were born!" He shrugged his shoulders. "Where did you row up?" He shrugged his shoulders. "OK. Do you have any brothers or sisters?" He shrugged his shoulders. "What's your ob? And if you're retired, what was your job?" He shrugged his shoulders. I tried to think of something I could ask him hat he couldn't not know the answer to. "Are you a human being?" He flipped back and pointed at "I'm sorry." 'd never needed Grandma more than I needed her right then. asked the renter, "Can I tell you my story?" e opened his left hand. So I put my story into it. I pretended he was Grandma, and I started at the very beginning. I told him about the tuxedo on the chair, and how I had broken the vase, and found the key, and the locksmith, and the nvelope, and the art supply store. I told him about the voice of Aaron Black, and how I was so incredibly close to kissing Abby Black. She didn't say she didn't want to, just that it wasn't a good idea. I told him about Abe Black in Coney Island, nd Ada Black with the two Picasso paintings, and the birds that flew by Mr. Black's window. Their wings were the first thing he'd heard in more than twenty years. Then there was Bernie Black, who had a view of Gramercy Park, but not a key to it, which he said was worse than looking at a brick wall. Chelsea Black had a tan line around her ring finger, because she got divorced right after she got back from her honeymoon, and Don Black was also an animal-rights activist, and Eugene Black also had a coin collection. Fo Black lived on Canal Street, which used to be a real canal. He didn't speak very good English, because he hadn't left Chinatown since he came from Taiwan, because there was no reason for him to. The whole time I talked to him I imagined water on the other side of the window, like we were in an aquarium. He offered me a cup of tea, but I didn't feel like it, but I drank it anyway, to be polite. I asked him did he really love New York or was he just wearing the shirt. He smiled, like he was nervous. I could tell he didn't understand, which made me feel guilty for speaking English, for some reason. I pointed at his shirt. "Do? You? Really? Love? New York?" He said, "New York?" I said, "Your. Shirt." He looked at his shirt. I pointed at the N and said "New," and the Y and said "York." He looked confused, or embarrassed, or surprised, or maybe even mad. I couldn't tell what he was feeling, because I couldn't speak the language of his feelings. "I not know was New York. In Chinese, ny mean 'you.' Thought was 'I love you.'" It was then that I noticed he "I NY" poster on the wall, and the "I NY" flag over the door, and the "I NY" dishtowels, and the "I lunchbox on the kitchen table. I asked him, "Well, then why do you love everybody so much?" NY" Georgia Black, in Staten Island, had turned her living room into a museum of her husband's life. She had pictures of him from when he was a kid, and his first pair of shoes, and his old report cards, which weren't as good as mine, but anyway. "Y'all're the first visitors in more than a year," she said, and she showed us a neat gold medal in a velvet box. "He was a naval officer, and I loved being a naval wife. Every few years we'd have to travel to some exotic place. I never did get a chance to put down many roots, but it was thrilling. We spent two years in the Philippines." "Cool," I said, and Mr. Black tarted singing a song in some weird language, which I guess was Philippinish. She showed us her wedding album, one picture at a time, and said, "Wasn't I slim and beautiful?" I told her, "You were." Mr. Black said, "And you are." She said, "Aren't you two the sweetest?" I said, "Yeah." "This is the three-wood that he hit his hole in one with. He was real proud of that. For weeks it was all I'd hear about. That's the airplane ticket from our trip to Maui, Hawaii. I'm not too vain to tell you it was our thirtieth anniversary. Thirty years. We were going to renew our vows. Just like in a romance novel. His carry-on bag was filled with flowers, bless his eart. He wanted to surprise me with them on the plane, but I was looking at the x-ray screen as his bag went through, nd don't you know there was a dark black bouquet. It was like the shadows of flowers. What a lucky girl I am." She used cloth to wipe away our fingerprints. t had taken us four hours to get to her house. Two of those were because Mr. Black had to convince me to get on the taten Island Ferry. In addition to the fact that it was an obvious potential target, there had also been a ferry accident retty recently, and in Stuff That Happened to Me I had pictures of people who had lost their arms and legs. Also, I don't ike bodies of water. Or boats, particularly. Mr. Black asked me how I would feel in bed that night if I didn't get on the erry. I told him, "Heavy boots, probably." "And how will you feel if you did?" "Like one hundred dollars." "So?" "So what bout while I'm on the ferry? What if it sinks? What if someone pushes me off? What if it's hit with a shoulder-fired issile? There won't be a tonight tonight." He said, "In which case you won't feel anything anyway." I thought about that. "This is an evaluation from his commanding officer," Georgia said, tapping the case. "It's exemplary. This is the tie he ore to his mother's funeral, may she rest in peace. She was such a nice woman. Nicer than most. And this here is a icture of his childhood home. That was before I knew him, of course." She tapped every case and then wiped away her own fingerprints, kind of like a Möbius strip. "These are his varsity let- ters. This is his cigarette case from when he used to smoke. Here's his Purple Heart." started to get heavy boots, for obvious reasons, like where were all of her things? Where were her shoes and her diploma? Where were the shadows of her flowers? I made a decision that I wouldn't ask about the key, because I anted her to believe that we had come to see her museum, and I think Mr. Black had the same idea. I decided to myself hat if we went through the whole list and still hadn't found anything, then maybe, if we had no choice, we could come ack and ask her some questions. "These are his baby shoes." ut then I started to wonder: she said we were the first visitors in a little more than a year. Dad had died a little more

« So Iput mystory intoit. I pretended hewas Grandma, andIstarted atthe very beginning. I told himabout thetuxedo onthe chair, andhow Ihad broken thevase, andfound thekey, andthelocksmith, andthe envelope, andtheartsupply store.Itold himabout thevoice ofAaron Black,andhow Iwas soincredibly closetokissing Abby Black.

Shedidn't sayshe didn't wantto,just that itwasn't agood idea.Itold himabout AbeBlack inConey Island, and Ada Black withthetwo Picasso paintings, andthebirds thatflew byMr.

Black's window.

Theirwings werethefirst thing he'dheard inmore thantwenty years.Thenthere wasBernie Black,whohadaview ofGramercy Park,butnot akey to it,which hesaid wasworse thanlooking atabrick wall.Chelsea Blackhadatan line around herring finger, because she gotdivorced rightafter shegotback from herhoneymoon, andDon Black wasalso ananimal-rights activist,and Eugene Blackalsohadacoin collection.

FoBlack livedonCanal Street, whichusedtobe areal canal.

Hedidn't speakvery good English, because hehadn't leftChinatown sincehecame fromTaiwan, because therewasnoreason forhim to.The whole timeItalked tohim Iimagined wateronthe other sideofthe window, likewewere inan aquarium.

Heoffered me a cup oftea, butIdidn't feellikeit,but Idrank itanyway, tobe polite.

Iasked himdidhereally loveNew Yorkorwas he just wearing theshirt.

Hesmiled, likehewas nervous.

Icould tellhedidn't understand, whichmademefeel guilty for speaking English,forsome reason.

Ipointed athis shirt.

"Do?You?Really? Love?NewYork?" Hesaid, "New York?" Isaid, "Your.

Shirt." Helooked athis shirt.

Ipointed atthe Nand said "New," andtheYand said "York." Helooked confused, or embarrassed, orsurprised, ormaybe evenmad.

Icouldn't tellwhat hewas feeling, because Icouldn't speakthelanguage of his feelings.

"Inot know wasNew York.

InChinese, ny mean 'you.'Thought was'Ilove you.'" Itwas then thatInoticed the "I NY" poster onthe wall, andthe"I NY" flagover thedoor, andthe"I NY" dishtowels, andthe"I NY" lunchbox onthe kitchen table.Iasked him,"Well, thenwhydoyou love everybody somuch?" Georgia Black,inStaten Island, hadturned herliving room intoamuseum ofher husband's life.Shehad pictures ofhim from when hewas akid, and hisfirst pairofshoes, andhisold report cards,which weren't asgood asmine, butanyway. "Y'all're thefirst visitors inmore thanayear," shesaid, andsheshowed usaneat goldmedal inavelvet box."Hewas a naval officer, andIloved being anaval wife.Every fewyears we'dhavetotravel tosome exotic place.Inever didget a chance toput down manyroots, butitwas thrilling.

Wespent twoyears inthe Philippines." " Cool, " Isaid, andMr.Black started singingasong insome weird language, whichIguess wasPhilippinish.

Sheshowed usher wedding album,one picture atatime, andsaid, "Wasn't Islim andbeautiful?" Itold her, "You were." Mr.Black said,"And youare." Shesaid, "Aren't youtwo thesweetest?" Isaid, "Yeah." "This isthe three-wood thathehit his hole inone with.

Hewas realproud ofthat.

Forweeks itwas allI'd hear about. That's theairplane ticketfromourtrip toMaui, Hawaii.

I'mnot too vain totell you itwas ourthirtieth anniversary.

Thirty years.

Wewere going torenew ourvows.

Justlikeinaromance novel.Hiscarry-on bagwas filled withflowers, blesshis heart.

Hewanted tosurprise mewith them onthe plane, butIwas looking atthe x-ray screen ashis bag went through, and don't youknow therewasadark black bouquet.

Itwas liketheshadows offlowers.

Whatalucky girlIam." Sheused a cloth towipe away ourfingerprints. It had taken usfour hours toget toher house.

Twoofthose werebecause Mr.Black hadtoconvince metoget onthe Staten IslandFerry.Inaddition tothe fact that itwas anobvious potential target,therehadalso been aferry accident pretty recently, andin Stuff ThatHappened toMe I had pictures ofpeople whohadlosttheir arms andlegs.

Also, Idon't like bodies ofwater.

Orboats, particularly.

Mr.Black asked mehow Iwould feelinbed that night ifIdidn't getonthe ferry.

Itold him, "Heavy boots,probably." "Andhowwillyou feel ifyou did?" "Likeonehundred dollars.""So?""Sowhat about whileI'm on the ferry? Whatifit sinks? Whatifsomeone pushesmeoff? What ifit's hitwith ashoulder-fired missile? Therewon'tbeatonight tonight." Hesaid, "Inwhich caseyouwon't feelanything anyway." Ithought aboutthat. "This isan evaluation fromhiscommanding officer,"Georgiasaid,tapping thecase.

"It'sexemplary.

Thisisthe tiehe wore tohis mother's funeral,maysherest inpeace.

Shewas such anice woman.

Nicerthanmost.

Andthishere isa picture ofhis childhood home.Thatwasbefore Iknew him,ofcourse." Shetapped everycaseandthen wiped awayher own fingerprints, kindoflike aMöbius strip."These arehisvarsity let-. »

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