Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close

truth?” “That he's dead.”
    After that, we met every afternoon and discussed the details, like we were planning a war. We talked about how we would get to the cemetery, and different ways of climbing fences, and where we would find a shovel, and all of the other necessary instruments, like a flashlight and wire cutters and juice boxes. We planned and planned, but for some reason we never talked about what we would actually do once we'd opened the coffin.
    It wasn't until the day before we were going to go that the renter asked the obvious question.
    I told him, “We'll fill it, obviously.”
    He asked another obvious question.
    At first I suggested filling the coffin with things from Dad's life, like his red pens or his jeweler's magnifying glass, which is called a loupe, or even his tuxedo. I guess I got that idea from the Blacks who made museums of each other. But the more we discussed it, the less sense it made, because what good would that do, anyway? Dad wouldn't be able to use them, because he was dead, and the renter also pointed out that it would probably be nice to have things of his around.
    “I could fill the coffin with jewelry, like they used to do with famous Egyptians, which I know about.” “But he wasn't Egyptian.” “And he didn't like jewelry.” “He didn't like jewelry?”
    “Maybe I could bury things I'm ashamed of,” I suggested, and in my head I was thinking of the old telephone, and the sheet of stamps of Great American Inventors that I got mad at Grandma about, and the script of Hamlet, and the letters I had received from strangers, and the stupid card I'd made for myself, and my tambourine, and the unfinished scarf. But that didn't make any sense either, because the renter reminded me that just because you bury something, you don't really bury it. “Then what?” I asked.
    “I have an idea,” he wrote. “I'll show you tomorrow.”
    Why did I trust him so much?
    The next night, when I met him on the corner at 11:50, he had two suitcases. I didn't ask him what was in them, because for some reason I thought I should wait until he told me, even though he was my dad, which made the coffin mine, too.
    Three hours later, when I climbed into the hole, brushed away the dirt, and opened the lid, the renter opened the suitcases. They were filled with papers. I asked him what they were. He wrote, “I lost a son.” “You did?” He showed me his left palm. “How did he die?” “I lost him before he died.” “How?” “I went away.” “Why?” He wrote, “I was afraid.” “Afraid of what?” “Afraid of losing him.” “Were you afraid of him dying?” “I was afraid of him living.” “Why?” He wrote, “Life is scarier than death.”
    “So what's all that paper?”
    He wrote, “Things I wasn't able to tell him. Letters.”
    To be honest, I don't know what I understood then.
    I don't think I figured out that he was my grandpa, not even in the deep parts of my brain. I definitely didn't make the connection between the letters in his suitcases and the envelopes in Grandma's dresser, even if I should have.
    But I must have understood something, I must have, because why else would I have opened my left hand?
    When I got home it was 4:22 A.M. Mom was on the sofa by the door. I thought she would be incredibly angry at me, but she didn't say anything. She just kissed my head.
    “Don't you want to know where I was?” She said, “I trust you.” “But aren't you curious?” She said, “I assume you'd tell me if you wanted me to know.” “Are you going to tuck me in?” “I thought I'd stay here for a little while longer.” “Are you mad at me?” She shook her head no. “Is Ron mad at me?” “No.” “Are you sure?” “Yes.”
    I went to my room.
    My hands were dirty, but I didn't wash them. I wanted them to stay dirty, at least until the next morning. I hoped some of the dirt would stay under my fingernails for a long time, and maybe some of the microscopic material would be there forever.
    I turned off the lights.
    I put my backpack on the floor, took off my clothes, and got into bed.
    I stared at the fake stars.
    What about windmills on the roof of every skyscraper?
    What about a kite-string bracelet?
    A fishing-line bracelet?
    What if skyscrapers had roots?
    What if you had to water skyscrapers, and play classical music to them, and know if they like sun or shade?
    What about a teakettle?
    I got out of bed and ran to the door in my undies.
    Mom was