That night when I decided that finding the lock was my ultimate raison d’être—the raison that was the master over all other raisons—I really needed to hear him.
I was extremely careful not to make any noise as I took the phone out of all of its protections. Even though the volume was way down, so Dad’s voice wouldn’t wake Mom, he still filled the room, like how a light fills a room even when it’s dim.
Message two. 9:12 A.M. It’s me again. Are you there? Hello? Sorry if. It’s getting a bit. Smoky. I was hoping you would. Be. Home. I don’t know if you’ve heard about what’s happened. But. I. Just wanted you to know that I’m OK. Everything. Is. Fine. When you get this, give Grandma a call. Let her know that I’m OK. I’ll call again in a few minutes. Hopefully the firemen will be. Up here by then. I’ll call.
I wrapped the phone back up in the unfinished scarf, and put that back in the bag, and put that back in the box, and that in the other box, and all of that in the closet under lots of junk.
I stared at the fake stars forever.
I invented.
I gave myself a bruise.
I invented.
I got out of bed, went over to the window, and picked up the walkie-talkie. “Grandma? Grandma, do you read me? Grandma? Grandma?” “Oskar?” “I’m OK. Over.” “It’s late. What’s happened? Over.” “Did I wake you up? Over.” “No. Over.” “What were you doing? Over.” “I was talking to the renter. Over.” “He’s still awake? Over.” Mom told me not to ask questions about the renter, but a lot of the time I couldn’t help it. “Yeah,” Grandma said, “but he just left. He had to go run some errands. Over.” “But it’s 4:12 A.M.? Over.”
The renter had been living with Grandma since Dad died, and even though I was at her apartment basically every day, I still hadn’t met him. He was constantly running errands, or taking a nap, or in the shower, even when I didn’t hear any water. Mom told me, “It probably gets pretty lonely to be Grandma, don’t you think?” I told her, “It probably gets pretty lonely to be anyone.” “But she doesn’t have a mom, or friends like Daniel and Jake, or even a Buckminster.” “That’s true.” “Maybe she needs an imaginary friend.” “But I’m real,” I said. “Yes, and she loves spending time with you. But you have school to go to, and friends to hang out with, and Hamlet rehearsals, and hobby shops—” “Please don’t call them hobby shops.” “I just mean you can’t be around all the time. And maybe she wants a friend her own age.” “How do you know her imaginary friend is old?” “I guess I don’t.”
She said, “There’s nothing wrong with someone needing a friend.” “Are you actually talking about Ron now?” “No. I’m talking about Grandma.” “Except actually you’re talking about Ron.” “No, Oskar. I’m not. And I don’t appreciate that tone.” “I wasn’t using a tone.” “You were using your accusatory tone.” “I don’t even know what ‘accusatory’ means, so how could that be my tone?” “You were trying to make me feel badly for having a friend.” “No I wasn’t.” She put her hand with the ring on it in her hair and said, “You know, I actually was talking about Grandma, Oskar, but it’s true, I need friends, too. What’s wrong with that?” I shrugged my shoulders. “Don’t you think Dad would want me to have friends?” “I wasn’t using a tone.”
Grandma lives in the building across the street. We’re on the fifth floor and she’s on the third, but you can’t really tell the difference. Sometimes she’ll write notes for me on her window, which I can see through my binoculars, and once Dad and I spent a whole afternoon trying to design a paper airplane that we could throw from our apartment into hers. Stan stood in the street, collecting all of the failed attempts. I remember one of the notes she wrote right after Dad died was “Don’t go away.”
Grandma leaned her head out the window and put her mouth incredibly close to the walkie-talkie, which made her voice sound fuzzy. “Is everything OK? Over?” “Grandma? Over.” “Yes? Over.” “Why are matches so short? Over.” “What do you mean? Over.” “Well, they always seem to run out. Everyone’s always rushing at the end, and sometimes even burning their fingers. Over.” “I’m not very smart,” she said, insulting herself like she always does before she gives an opinion, “but I think the matches are short so they can fit in your pocket. Over.” “Yeah,” I said, balancing my chin on my hand, and my elbow on the windowsill. “I think that, too. So what if pockets were a lot bigger? Over.” “Well, what do I know, but I think the people might have a hard time reaching the bottoms of them if they went much lower. Over.” “Right,” I said, switching hands, because that one was getting tired, “so what about a portable pocket? Over.” “A portable pocket? Over.” “Yeah. It would be sort of like a sock, but with a Velcro outside, so you could attach it to anything. It’s not quite a bag, because it actually becomes part of what you’re wearing, but it’s not quite a pocket either, because it’s on the outside of your clothes, and also you can remove it, which would have all sorts of advantages, like how you could move things from one outfit to another easily, and how you could carry bigger things around, since you can take the pocket off and reach your arm all the way in. Over.” She put her hand against the part of her nightgown that covered her heart and said, “That sounds like one hundred dollars. Over.” “A portable pocket would prevent a lot of finger burns from short matches,” I said, “but also a lot of dry lips from short ChapSticks. And why are candy bars so short, anyway? I mean, have you ever finished a candy bar and not wanted more? Over.” “I can’t eat chocolate,” she said, “but I understand what you’re telling me. Over.” “You could have longer combs, so your part could be all the way straight, and bigger mencils—” “Mencils?” “Pencils for men.” “Yes, yes.” “And bigger mencils that are easier to hold, in case your fingers are fat, like mine, and you could probably even train the birds that save you to take shiitakes in the portable pocket—” “I don’t understand.” “On your birdseed shirt”
“Oskar? Over.” “I’m OK. Over.” “What’s wrong, darling? Over.” “What do you mean what’s wrong? Over.” “What’s wrong? Over.” “I miss Dad. Over.” “I miss him, too. Over.” “I miss him a lot. Over.” “So do I. Over.” “All the time. Over.” “All the time. Over.” I couldn’t explain to her that I missed him more, more than she or anyone else missed him, because I couldn’t tell her about what happened with the phone. That secret was a hole in the middle of me that every happy thing fell into. “Did I ever tell you about how Grandpa would stop and pet every animal he saw, even if he was in a rush? Over?” “You’ve told me a googolplex times. Over.” “Oh. And what about how his hands were so rough and red from all of his sculptures that sometimes I joked to him that it was really the sculptures that were sculpting his hands? Over.” “That, too. But you can tell me again if you want. Over.” She told me again.
An ambulance drove down the street between us, and I imagined who it was carrying, and what had happened to him. Did he break an ankle attempting a hard trick on his skateboard? Or maybe he was dying from third-degree burns on ninety percent of his body? Was there any chance that I knew him? Did anyone see the ambulance and wonder if it was me inside?
What about a device that knew everyone you knew? So when an ambulance went down the street, a big sign on the roof could flash
DON’T WORRY! DON’T WORRY!
if the sick person’s device didn’t detect the device of someone he knew nearby. And if the device did detect the device of someone he knew, the ambulance could flash the name of the person in the ambulance, and either
IT’S NOTHING MAJOR! IT’S NOTHING MAJOR!
or, if it was something major,
IT’S MAJOR! IT’S MAJOR!
And maybe you could rate the people you knew by how much you loved them, so if the device of the person in the ambulance detected the device of the person he loved the most, or the person who loved him the most, and the person in the ambulance was really badly hurt, and might even die, the ambulance could flash
GOODBYE! I LOVE YO
U! GOODBYE! I LOVE YOU!
One thing that’s nice to think about is someone who was the first person on lots of people’s lists, so that when he was dying, and his ambulance went down the streets to the hospital, the whole time it would flash
GOODBYE! I LOVE YOU! GOODBYE! I LOVE YOU!
“Grandma? Over?” “Yes, darling? Over?” “If Grandpa was so great, then why did he leave? Over.” She took a little step back so that she disappeared into her apartment. “He didn’t want to leave. He had to leave. Over.” “But why did he have to leave? Over.” “I don’t know. Over.” “Doesn’t that make you angry? Over.” “That he left? Over.” “That you don’t know why. Over.” “No. Over.” “Sad? Over.” “Sure. Over.” “Hold on,” I said, and I ran back to my field kit and grabbed Grandpa’s camera. I brought it to the window and took a picture of her window. The flash lit up the street between us.
10. Walt
9. Lindy
8. Alicia
Grandma said, “I hope you never love anything as much as I love you. Over.”
7. Farley
6. The Minch / Toothpaste (tied)
5. Stan
I could hear her kissing her fingers and then blowing.
4. Buckminster
3. Mom
I blew her a kiss back.
2. Grandma
“Over and out,” one of us said.
1. Dad
We need much bigger pockets, I thought as I lay in bed, counting off the seven minutes that it takes a normal person to fall asleep. We need enormous pockets, pockets big enough for our families, and our friends, and even the people who aren’t on our lists, people we’ve never met but still want to protect. We need pockets for boroughs and for cities, a pocket that could hold the universe.
Eight minutes thirty-two seconds…
But I knew that there couldn’t be pockets that enormous. In the end, everyone loses everyone. There was no invention to get around that, and so I felt, that night, like the turtle that everything else in the universe was on top of.
Twenty-one minutes eleven seconds…
As for the key, I put it on the string next to my apartment key and wore it like a pendant.
As for me, I was awake for hours and hours. Buckminster curled up next to me, and I conjugated for a while so I wouldn’t have to think about things.
I woke up once in the middle of the night, and Buckminster’s paws were on my eyelids. He must have been feeling my nightmares.
My Feelings
12 September 2003
Dear Oskar,
I am writing this to you from the airport.
I have so much to say to you. I want to begin at the beginning, because that is what you deserve. I want to tell you everything, without leaving out a single detail. But where is the beginning? And what is everything?
I am an old woman now, but once I was a girl. It’s true. I was a girl like you are a boy. One of my chores was to bring in the mail. One day there was a note addressed to our house. There was no name on it. It was mine as much as anyone’s, I thought. I opened it. Many words had been removed from the text by a censor.
14 January 1921
To Whom Shall Receive This Letter:
My name is XXXXXXX XXXXXXXXX, and I am a XXXXXXXX in Turkish Labor Camp XXXXX, Block XX. I know that I am lucky XX X XXXXXXX to be alive at all. I have chosen to write to you without knowing who you are. My parents XXXXXXX XXX. My brothers and sisters XXXXX XXXX, the main XXXXXX XX XXXXXXXX!
I have written XXX XX XXXXX XXXXXXX every day since I have been here. I trade bread for postage, but have not yet received a response. Sometimes it comforts me to think that they do not mail the letters we write.
XXX XX XXXXXX, or at least XXX XXXXXXXXX?
XX XXXXX X XX throughout XXXXX XX.
XXX XXX XX XXXXX, and XXXXX XX XXXXX XX XXX, without once XXX XX XXXXXX, XXX XXXXXXXX XXX XXXXX nightmare?
XXX XXX, XX XXXXX XX XXXXX XX! XXXXX XX XXX XX XXX XX XXXXXX to write a few words to me I would appreciate it more than you ever could know. Several of the XXXXXX XXXX received mail so I know that XX XX XXXXXXXX. Please include a picture of yourself as well as your name. Include everything.
With great hopes,
Sincerely I am,
XXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXX
I took the letter straight to my room. I put it under my mattress. I never told my father or mother about it. For weeks I was awake all night wondering. Why was this man sent to a Turkish labor camp? Why had the letter come fifteen years after it had been written? Where had it been for those fifteen years? Why hadn’t anyone written back to him? The others got mail, he said. Why had he sent a letter to our house? How did he know the name of my street? How did he know of Dresden? Where did he learn German? What became of him?
I tried to learn as much about the man as I could from the letter. The words were very simple. Bread means only bread. Mail is mail. Great hopes are great hopes are great hopes. I was left with the handwriting.
So I asked my father, your great-grandfather, whom I considered the best, most kindhearted man I knew, to write a letter to me. I told him it didn’t matter what he wrote about. Just write, I said. Write anything.
Darling,
You asked me to write you a letter, so I am writing you a letter. I do not know why I am writing this letter, or what this letter is supposed to be about, but I am writing it nonetheless, because I love you very much and trust that you have some good purpose for having me write this letter. I hope that one day you will have the experience of doing something you do not understand for someone you love.
Your father
That letter is the only thing of my father’s that I have left. Not even a picture.
Next I went to the penitentiary. My uncle was a guard there. I was able to get the handwriting sample of a murderer. My uncle asked him to write an appeal for early release. It was a terrible trick that we played on this man.
To the Prison Board:
My name is Kurt Schluter. I am Inmate 24922. I was put here in jail a few years ago. I don’t know how long it’s been. We don’t have calendars. I keep lines on the wall with chalk. But when it rains, the rain comes through my window when I am sleeping. And when I wake up the lines are gone. So I don’t know how long it’s been.
I murdered my brother. I beat his head in with a shovel. Then after I used that shovel to bury him in the yard. The soil was red. Weeds came from the grass where his body was. Sometimes at night I would get on my knees and pull them out, so no one would know.
I did a terrible thing. I believe in the afterlife. I know that you can’t take anything back. I wish that my days could be washed away like the chalk lines of my days.
I have tried to become a good person. I help the other inmates with their chores. I am patient now.
It might not matter to you, but my brother was having an affair with my wife. I didn’t kill my wife. I want to go back to her, because I forgive her.
If you release me I will be a good person, quiet, out of the way.
Please consider my appeal.
Kurt Schluter, Inmate 24922
My uncle later told me that the inmate had been in prison for more than forty years. He had gone in as a young man. When he wrote the letter to me he was old and broken. His wife had remarried. She had children and grandchildren. Although he never said it, I could tell that my uncle had befriended the inmate. He had also lost a wife, and was also in a prison. He never said it, but I heard in his voice that he cared for the inmate. They guarded each other. And when I asked my uncle, several years later, what became of the inmate, my uncle told me that he was still there. He continued to write letters to the board. He continued to blame himself and forgive his wife, not knowing that there was no one on the other end. My uncle took each letter and promised the inmate that they would be delivered. But instead he kept them all. They filled all of the drawers in his dresser. I remember thinking it’s enough to drive someone to kill himself. I was right. My uncle, your great-grea
t-uncle, killed himself. Of course it’s possible that the inmate had nothing to do with it.
With those three samples I could make comparisons. I could at least see that the forced laborer’s handwriting was more like my father’s than the murderer’s. But I knew that I would need more letters. As many as I could get.
So I went to my piano teacher. I always wanted to kiss him, but was afraid he would laugh at me. I asked him to write a letter.
And then I asked my mother’s sister. She loved dance but hated dancing.
I asked my schoolmate Mary to write a letter to me. She was funny and full of life. She liked to run around her empty house without any clothes on, even once she was too old for that. Nothing embarrassed her. I admired that so much, because everything embarrassed me, and that hurt me. She loved to jump on her bed. She jumped on her bed for so many years that one afternoon, while I watched her jump, the seams burst. Feathers filled the small room. Our laughter kept the feathers in the air. I thought about birds. Could they fly if there wasn’t someone, somewhere, laughing?
I went to my grandmother, your great-great-grandmother, and asked her to write a letter. She was my mother’s mother. Your father’s mother’s mother’s mother. I hardly knew her. I didn’t have any interest in knowing her. I have no need for the past, I thought, like a child. I did not consider that the past might have a need for me. What kind of letter? my grandmother asked.