Part 3 (1/2)

Why does anyone ever make love?

We walked together to the bakery where we first met.

Together and separately.

We sat at a table. On the same side, facing the windows.

I did not need to know if he could love me.

I needed to know if he could need me.

I flipped to the next blank page of his little book and wrote, Please marry me.

He looked at his hands.

YES and NO.

Why does anyone ever make love?

He took his pen and wrote on the next and last page, No children.

That was our first rule.

I understand, I told him in English.

We never used German again.

The next day, your grandfather and I were married.

THE ONLY ANIMAL.

I read the first chapter of A Brief History of Time A Brief History of Time when Dad was still alive, and I got incredibly heavy boots about how relatively insignificant life is, and how, compared to the universe and compared to time, it didn't even matter if I existed at all. When Dad was tucking me in that night and we were talking about the book, I asked if he could think of a solution to that problem. ”Which problem?” ”The problem of how relatively insignificant we are.” He said, ”Well, what would happen if a plane dropped you in the middle of the Sahara Desert and you picked up a single grain of sand with tweezers and moved it one millimeter?” I said, ”I'd probably die of dehydration.” He said, ”I just mean right then, when you moved that single grain of sand. What would that mean?” I said, ”I dunno, what?” He said, ”Think about it.” I thought about it. ”I guess I would have moved a grain of sand.” ”Which would mean?” ”Which would mean I moved a grain of sand?” ”Which would mean you changed the Sahara.” ”So?” ” when Dad was still alive, and I got incredibly heavy boots about how relatively insignificant life is, and how, compared to the universe and compared to time, it didn't even matter if I existed at all. When Dad was tucking me in that night and we were talking about the book, I asked if he could think of a solution to that problem. ”Which problem?” ”The problem of how relatively insignificant we are.” He said, ”Well, what would happen if a plane dropped you in the middle of the Sahara Desert and you picked up a single grain of sand with tweezers and moved it one millimeter?” I said, ”I'd probably die of dehydration.” He said, ”I just mean right then, when you moved that single grain of sand. What would that mean?” I said, ”I dunno, what?” He said, ”Think about it.” I thought about it. ”I guess I would have moved a grain of sand.” ”Which would mean?” ”Which would mean I moved a grain of sand?” ”Which would mean you changed the Sahara.” ”So?” ”So? So the Sahara is a vast desert. And it has existed for millions of years. And you changed it!” ”That's true!” I said, sitting up. ”I changed the Sahara!” ”Which means?” he said. ”What? Tell me.” ”Well, I'm not talking about painting the So the Sahara is a vast desert. And it has existed for millions of years. And you changed it!” ”That's true!” I said, sitting up. ”I changed the Sahara!” ”Which means?” he said. ”What? Tell me.” ”Well, I'm not talking about painting the Mona Lisa Mona Lisa or curing cancer. I'm just talking about moving that one grain of sand one millimeter.” ”Yeah?” ”If you or curing cancer. I'm just talking about moving that one grain of sand one millimeter.” ”Yeah?” ”If you hadn't hadn't done it, human history would have been one way...” ”Uh-huh?” ”But you done it, human history would have been one way...” ”Uh-huh?” ”But you did did do it, do it, so so...?” I stood on the bed, pointed my fingers at the fake stars, and screamed: ”I changed the course of human history!” ”That's right.” ”I changed the universe!” ”You did.” ”I'm G.o.d!” ”You're an atheist.” ”I don't exist!” I fell back onto the bed, into his arms, and we cracked up together.

That was kind of how I felt when I decided that I would meet every person in New York with the last name Black. Even if it was relatively insignificant, it was something, and I needed to do something, like sharks, who die if they don't swim, which I know about.

Anyway.

I decided that I would go through the names alphabetically, from Aaron to Zyna, even though it would have been a more efficient method to do it by geographical zones. Another thing I decided was that I would be as secretive about my mission as I could at home, and as honest about it as I could outside home, because that's what was necessary. So if Mom asked me, ”Where are you going and when will you be back?” I would tell her, ”Out, later.” But if one of the Blacks wanted to know something, I would tell everything. My other rules were that I wouldn't be s.e.xist again, or racist, or ageist, or h.o.m.ophobic, or overly wimpy, or discriminatory to handicapped people or mental r.e.t.a.r.ds, and also that I wouldn't lie unless I absolutely had to, which I did a lot. I put together a special field kit with some of the things I was going to need, like a Magnum flashlight, ChapStick, some Fig Newtons, plastic bags for important evidence and litter, my cell phone, the script for Hamlet (so Hamlet (so I could memorize my stage directions while I was going from one place to another, because I didn't have any lines to memorize), a topographical map of New York, iodine pills in case of a dirty bomb, my white gloves, obviously, a couple of boxes of Juicy Juice, a magnifying gla.s.s, my I could memorize my stage directions while I was going from one place to another, because I didn't have any lines to memorize), a topographical map of New York, iodine pills in case of a dirty bomb, my white gloves, obviously, a couple of boxes of Juicy Juice, a magnifying gla.s.s, my Larousse Pocket Dictionary, Larousse Pocket Dictionary, and a bunch of other useful stuff. I was ready to go. and a bunch of other useful stuff. I was ready to go.

On my way out, Stan said, ”What a day!” I said, ”Yeah.” He asked, ”What's on the menu?” I showed him the key. He said, ”Lox?” I said, ”Hilarious, but I don't eat anything with parents.” He shook his head and said, ”I couldn't help myself. So what's on the menu?” ”Queens and Greenwich Village.” ”You mean Gren Gren-ich Village?” That was my first disappointment of the expedition, because I thought it was p.r.o.nounced phonetically, which would have been a fascinating clue. ”Anyway.”

It took me three hours and forty-one minutes to walk to Aaron Black, because public transportation makes me panicky, even though walking over bridges also makes me panicky. Dad used to say that sometimes you have to put your fears in order, and that was one of those times. I walked across Amsterdam Avenue, and Columbus Avenue, and Central Park, and Fifth Avenue, and Madison Avenue, and Park Avenue, and Lexington Avenue, and Third Avenue, and Second Avenue. When I was exactly halfway across the Fifty-ninth Street Bridge, I thought about how a millimeter behind me was Manhattan and a millimeter in front of me was Queens. So what's the name of the parts of New Yorkxactly halfway through the Midtown Tunnel, exactly halfway over the Brooklyn Bridge, the exact middle of the Staten Island Ferry when it's exactly halfway between Manhattan and Staten Islandhat aren't in any borough?

I took a step forward, and it was my first time in Queens.

I walked through Long Island City, Woodside, Elmhurst, and Jackson Heights. I shook my tambourine the whole time, because it helped me remember that even though I was going through different neighborhoods, I was still me. When I finally got to the building, I couldn't figure out where the doorman was. At first I thought maybe he was just getting some coffee, but I waited around for a few minutes and he didn't come. I looked through the door and saw that there was no desk for him. I thought, Weird. Weird.

I tried my key in the lock, but it didn't go in past the tip. I saw a device with a b.u.t.ton for each apartment, so I pressed the b.u.t.ton for A. Black's apartment, which was 9E. No one answered. I pressed it again. Nothing. I held down the buzzer for fifteen seconds. Still nothing. I sat down on the ground and wondered if it would be overly wimpy to cry in the lobby of an apartment building in Corona.

”All right, all right,” a voice said from the speaker. ”Take it easy.” I jumped up. ”h.e.l.lo,” I said, ”my name is Oskar Sch.e.l.l.” ”What do you want?” His voice sounded mad, but I hadn't done anything wrong. ”Did you know Thomas Sch.e.l.l?” ”No.” ”Are you sure?” ”Yes.” ”Do you know anything about a key?” ”What do you want?” ”I didn't do anything wrong.” ”What do you want?” ”I found a key,” I said, ”and it was in an envelope with your name on it.” ”Aaron Black?” ”No, just Black.” ”It's a common name.” ”I know.” ”And a color.” ”Obviously.” ”Goodbye,” the voice said. ”But I'm just trying to find out about this key.” ”Goodbye.” ”But ”Goodbye.” Disappointment #2.

I sat back down and started to cry in the lobby of an apartment building in Corona. I wanted to press all of the b.u.t.tons and scream curse words at everybody who lived in the stupid building. I wanted to give myself bruises. I stood up and pressed 9E again. This time the voice came out immediately. ”What. Do. You. Want?” I said, ”Thomas Sch.e.l.l was my dad.” ”And?” ”Was. Not Not is. is. He's dead.” He didn't say anything, but I knew he was pressing the Talk b.u.t.ton because I could hear a beeping in his apartment, and also windows rattling from the same breeze that I was feeling at ground level. He asked, ”How old are you?” I said seven, because I wanted him to feel more sorry for me, so he would help me. Lie #34. ”My dad's dead,” I told him. ”Dead?” ”He's inanimate.” He didn't say anything. I heard more beeping. We just stood there, facing each other, but nine floors apart. Finally he said, ”He must have died young.” ”Yeah.” ”How old was he?” ”Forty.” ”That's too young.” ”That's true.” ”Can I ask how he died?” I didn't want to talk about it, but I remembered the promises I made to myself about my search, so I told him everything. I heard more beeping and wondered if his finger was getting tired. He said, ”If you come up, I'll have a look at that key.” ”I can't go up.” ”Why not?” ”Because you're on the ninth floor and I don't go that high.” ”Why not?” ”It isn't safe.” ”But it's perfectly safe here.” ”Until something happens.” ”You'll be fine.” ”It's a rule.” ”I'd come down for you,” he said, ”but I just can't.” ”Why not?” ”I'm very sick.” ”But my dad is dead.” ”I'm hooked up to all sorts of machines. That's why it took me so long to get to the intercom.” If I could do it again, I would do it differently. But you can't do it again. I heard the voice saying, ”h.e.l.lo? h.e.l.lo? Please.” I slid my card under the apartment building door and got away from there as fast as I could. He's dead.” He didn't say anything, but I knew he was pressing the Talk b.u.t.ton because I could hear a beeping in his apartment, and also windows rattling from the same breeze that I was feeling at ground level. He asked, ”How old are you?” I said seven, because I wanted him to feel more sorry for me, so he would help me. Lie #34. ”My dad's dead,” I told him. ”Dead?” ”He's inanimate.” He didn't say anything. I heard more beeping. We just stood there, facing each other, but nine floors apart. Finally he said, ”He must have died young.” ”Yeah.” ”How old was he?” ”Forty.” ”That's too young.” ”That's true.” ”Can I ask how he died?” I didn't want to talk about it, but I remembered the promises I made to myself about my search, so I told him everything. I heard more beeping and wondered if his finger was getting tired. He said, ”If you come up, I'll have a look at that key.” ”I can't go up.” ”Why not?” ”Because you're on the ninth floor and I don't go that high.” ”Why not?” ”It isn't safe.” ”But it's perfectly safe here.” ”Until something happens.” ”You'll be fine.” ”It's a rule.” ”I'd come down for you,” he said, ”but I just can't.” ”Why not?” ”I'm very sick.” ”But my dad is dead.” ”I'm hooked up to all sorts of machines. That's why it took me so long to get to the intercom.” If I could do it again, I would do it differently. But you can't do it again. I heard the voice saying, ”h.e.l.lo? h.e.l.lo? Please.” I slid my card under the apartment building door and got away from there as fast as I could.

Abby Black lived in #1 in a townhouse on Bedford Street. It took me two hours and twenty-three minutes to walk there, and my hand got exhausted from shaking my tambourine. There was a little sign above the door that said the poet Edna Saint Vincent Millay once lived in the house, and that it was the narrowest house in New York. I wondered if Edna Saint Vincent Millay was a man or a woman. I tried the key, and it went in halfway, but then it stopped. I knocked. No one answered, even though I could hear someone talking inside, and I guessed that #1 meant the first floor, so I knocked again. I was willing to be annoying if that's what was necessary.

A woman opened the door and said, ”Can I help you?” She was incredibly beautiful, with a face like Mom's, which seemed like it was smiling even when she wasn't smiling, and huge b.o.o.bs. I especially liked how her earrings sometimes touched her neck. It made me wish all of a sudden that I'd brought some kind of invention for her, so that she'd have a reason to like me. Even something small and simple, like a phosphorus brooch.

”Hi.” ”h.e.l.lo.” ”Are you Abby Black?” ”Yes.” ”I'm Oskar Sch.e.l.l.” ”h.e.l.lo.” ”Hi.” I told her, ”I'm sure people tell you this constantly, but if you looked up 'incredibly beautiful' in the dictionary, there would be a picture of you.” She cracked up a bit and said, ”People never tell me that.” ”I bet they do.” She cracked up a bit more. ”They don't.” ”Then you hang out with the wrong people.” ”You might be right about that.” ”Because you're incredibly beautiful.”

She opened the door a bit more. I asked, ”Did you know Thomas Sch.e.l.l?” ”Excuse me?” ”Did you know Thomas Sch.e.l.l?” She thought. I wondered why she had to think. ”No.” ”Are you sure?” ”Yes.” There was something unsure about the way she said she was sure, which made me think that maybe she was keeping some sort of secret from me. So what would that secret be? I handed her the envelope and said, ”Does this mean anything to you?” She looked at it for a while. ”I don't think so. Should it?” ”Only if it does,” I told her. ”It doesn't,” she told me. I didn't believe her.

”Would it be OK if I came in?” I asked. ”Now is not really the best time.” ”Why not?” ”I'm in the middle of something.” ”What kind of something?” ”Is that any of your business?” ”Is that a rhetorical question?” ”Yes.” ”Do you have a job?” ”Yes.” ”What's your job?” ”I am an epidemiologist.” ”You study diseases.” ”Yes.” ”Fascinating.” ”Listen, I don't know what it is that you need, but if it has to do with that envelope, I'm sure I can't help ”I'm extremely thirsty,” I said, touching my throat, which is the universal sign for thirsty. ”There's a deli on the corner.” ”Actually, I'm diabetic and I need some sugar asap.” Lie #35. ”Do you mean A.S.A.P.?” ”Anyway.”

I didn't feel great about lying, and I didn't believe in being able to know what's going to happen before it happens, but for some reason I knew I had to get inside her apartment. In exchange for the lie, I made a promise to myself that when I got a raise in my allowance, I would donate part of that raise to people who in reality do do have diabetes. She took a heavy breath, like she was incredibly frustrated, but on the other hand, she didn't ask me to leave. A man's voice called something from inside. ”Orange juice?” she asked. ”Do you have any coffee?” ”Follow me,” she said, and she walked into the apartment. ”What about non-dairy creamer?” have diabetes. She took a heavy breath, like she was incredibly frustrated, but on the other hand, she didn't ask me to leave. A man's voice called something from inside. ”Orange juice?” she asked. ”Do you have any coffee?” ”Follow me,” she said, and she walked into the apartment. ”What about non-dairy creamer?”

I got a look around as I followed her, and everything was clean and perfect. There were neat photographs on the walls, including one where you could see an African-American woman's VJ, which made me feel self-conscious. ”Where are the sofa cus.h.i.+ons?” ”It doesn't have cus.h.i.+ons.” ”What is that?” ”You mean the painting?” ”Your apartment smells good.” The man in the other room called again, this time extremely loudly, like he was desperate, but she didn't pay any attention, like she didn't hear it, or didn't care.

I touched a lot of things in her kitchen, because it made me feel OK for some reason. I ran my finger along the top of her microwave, and it turned gray. ”C'est sale,” I said, showing it to her and cracking up. She became extremely serious. ”That's embarra.s.sing,” she said. ”You should see my laboratory,” I said. ”I wonder how that could have happened,” she said. I said, ”Things get dirty.” ”But I like to keep things clean. A woman comes by every week to clean. I've told her a million times to clean everywhere. I've even pointed that out to her.” I asked her why she was getting so upset about such a small thing. She said, ”It doesn't feel small to me,” and I thought about moving a single grain of sand one millimeter. I took a wet wipe from my field kit and cleaned the microwave.

”Since you're an epidemiologist,” I said, ”did you know that seventy percent of household dust is actually composed of human epidermal matter?” ”No,” she said, ”I didn't.” ”I'm an amateur epidemiologist.” ”There aren't many of those.” ”Yeah. And I conducted a pretty fascinating experiment once where I told Feliz to save all the dust from our apartment for a year in a garbage bag for me. Then I weighed it. It weighed 112 pounds. Then I figured out that seventy percent of 112 pounds is 78.4 pounds. I weigh 76 pounds, 78 pounds when I'm sopping wet. That doesn't actually prove anything, but it's weird. Where can I put this?” ”Here,” she said, taking the wet wipe from me. I asked her, ”Why are you sad?” ”Excuse me?” ”You're sad. Why?”

The coffee machine gurgled. She opened a cabinet and took out a mug. ”Do you take sugar?” I told her yes, because Dad always took sugar. As soon as she sat down, she got back up and took a bowl of grapes from her refrigerator. She also took out cookies and put them on a plate. ”Do you like strawberries?” she asked. ”Yes,” I told her, ”but I'm not hungry.” She put out some strawberries. I thought it was weird that there weren't any menus or little magnetic calendars or pictures of kids on her refrigerator. The only thing in the whole kitchen was a photograph of an elephant on the wall next to the phone. ”I love that,” I told her, and not just because I wanted her to like me. ”You love what?” she asked. I pointed at the picture. ”Thank you,” she said. ”I like it, too.” ”I said I loved loved it.” ”Yes. I it.” ”Yes. I love love it.” it.”

”How much do you know about elephants?” ”Not too much.” ”Not too much a little? Or not too much nothing?” ”Hardly anything.” ”For example, did you know that scientists used to think that elephants had esp?” ”Do you mean E.S.P.?” ”Anyway, elephants can set up meetings from very faraway locations, and they know where their friends and enemies are going to be, and they can find water without any geological clues. No one could figure out how they do all of those things. So what's actually going on?” ”I don't know.” ”How do they do it?” ”It?” ”How do they set up meetings if they don't have E.S.P.?” ”You're asking me?” ”Yes.” ”I don't know.” ”Do you want to know?” ”Sure.” ”A lot?” ”Sure.” ”They're making very, very, very, very deep calls, way deeper than what humans can hear. They're talking to each other. Isn't that so awesome?” ”It is.” I ate a strawberry.

”There's this woman who's spent the last couple of years in the Congo or wherever. She's been making recordings of the calls and putting together an enormous library of them. This past year she started playing them back.” ”Playing them back?” ”To the elephants.” ”Why?” I loved that she asked why. ”As you probably know, elephants have much, much stronger memories than other mammals.” ”Yes. I think I knew that.” ”So this woman wanted to see just how good their memories actually are. She'd play the call of an enemy that was recorded a bunch of years earlier call they'd heard only oncend they'd get panicky, and sometimes they'd run. They remembered hundreds of calls. Thousands. There might not even be a limit. Isn't that fascinating?” ”It is.” ”Because what's really really fascinating is that she'd play the call of a dead elephant to its family members.” ”And?” ”They remembered.” ”What did they do?” ”They approached the speaker.” fascinating is that she'd play the call of a dead elephant to its family members.” ”And?” ”They remembered.” ”What did they do?” ”They approached the speaker.”

”I wonder what they were feeling.” ”What do you mean?” ”When they heard the calls of their dead, was it with love that they approached the jeep? Or fear? Or anger?” ”I don't remember.” ”Did they charge?” ”I don't remember.” ”Did they cry?” ”Only humans can cry tears. Did you know that?” ”It looks like the elephant in that photograph is crying.” I got extremely close to the picture, and it was true. ”It was probably manipulated in Photoshop,” I said. ”But just in case, can I take a picture of your picture?” She nodded and said, ”Didn't I read somewhere that elephants are the only other animals that bury their dead?” ”No,” I told her as I focused Grandpa's camera, ”you didn't. They just gather the bones. Only humans bury their dead.” ”Elephants couldn't believe in ghosts.” That made me crack up a little. ”Well, most scientists wouldn't say so.” ”What would you say?” ”I'm just an amateur scientist.” ”And what would you say?” I took the picture. ”I'd say they were confused.”

Then she started to cry tears.

I thought, I'm the one who's supposed to be crying. I'm the one who's supposed to be crying.

”Don't cry,” I told her. ”Why not?” she asked. ”Because,” I told her. ”Because what?” she asked. Since I didn't know why she was crying, I couldn't think of a reason. Was she crying about the elephants? Or something else I'd said? Or the desperate person in the other room? Or something that I didn't know about? I told her, ”I bruise easily.” She said, ”I'm sorry.” I told her, ”I wrote a letter to that scientist who's making those elephant recordings. I asked if I could be her a.s.sistant. I told her I could make sure there were always blank tapes ready for recording, and I could boil all the water so it was safe to drink, or even just carry her equipment. Her a.s.sistant wrote back to tell me she already had an a.s.sistant, obviously, but maybe there would be a project in the future that we could work on together.” ”That's great. Something to look forward to.” ”Yeah.”

Someone came to the door of the kitchen who I guessed was the man that had been calling from the other room. He just stuck his head in extremely quickly, said something I didn't understand, and walked away. Abby pretended to ignore it, but I didn't. ”Who was that?” ”My husband.” ”Does he need something?” ”I don't care.” ”But he's your husband, and I think he needs something.” She cried more tears. I went over to her and I put my hand on her shoulder, like Dad used to do with me. I asked her what she was feeling, because that's what he would ask. ”You must think this is very unusual,” she said. ”I think a lot of things are very unusual,” I said. She asked, ”How old are you?” I told her twelveie #59ecause I wanted to be old enough for her to love me. ”What's a twelve-year-old doing knocking on the doors of strangers?” ”I'm trying to find a lock. How old are you?” ”Forty-eight.” ”Jose. You look much younger than that.” She cracked up through her crying and said, ”Thanks.” ”What's a forty-eight-year-old doing inviting strangers into her kitchen?” ”I don't know.” ”I'm being annoying,” I said. ”You're not being annoying,” she said, but it's extremely hard to believe someone when they tell you that.

I asked, ”Are you sure you didn't know Thomas Sch.e.l.l?” She said, ”I didn't know Thomas Sch.e.l.l,” but for some reason I still still didn't believe her. ”Maybe you know someone else with the first name Thomas? Or someone else with the last name Sch.e.l.l?” ”No.” I kept thinking there was something she wasn't telling me. I showed her the little envelope again. ”But this is your last name, right?” She looked at the writing, and I could see that she recognized something about it. Or I thought I could see it. But then she said, ”I'm sorry. I don't think I can help you.” ”And what about the key?” ”What key?” I realized I hadn't even shown it to her yet. All of that talkingbout dust, about elephantsnd I hadn't gotten to the whole reason I was there. didn't believe her. ”Maybe you know someone else with the first name Thomas? Or someone else with the last name Sch.e.l.l?” ”No.” I kept thinking there was something she wasn't telling me. I showed her the little envelope again. ”But this is your last name, right?” She looked at the writing, and I could see that she recognized something about it. Or I thought I could see it. But then she said, ”I'm sorry. I don't think I can help you.” ”And what about the key?” ”What key?” I realized I hadn't even shown it to her yet. All of that talkingbout dust, about elephantsnd I hadn't gotten to the whole reason I was there.