Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close

hand out toward the world, then pointed her hand at her chest, “I know,” she said, “Of course I know that.” I held her hands and pretended we were behind an invisible wall, or behind the imaginary painting, our palms exploring its surface, then, at the risk of saying too much, I held one of her hands over my eyes, and the other over her eyes, “You are too good to me,” she said, I put her hands on my head and nodded yes, she laughed, I love it when she laughs, although the truth is I am not in love with her, she said, “I love you,” I told her how I felt, this is how I told her: I held her hands out to her sides, I pointed her index fingers toward each other and slowly, very slowly, moved them in, the closer they got, the more slowly I moved them, and then, as they were about to touch, as they were only a dictionary page from touching, pressing on opposite sides of the word “love,” I stopped them, I stopped them and held them there. I don't know what she thought, I don't know what she understood, or what she wouldn't allow herself to understand, I turned around and walked away from her, I didn't look back, I won't. I'm telling you all of this because I'll never be your father, and you will always be my child. I want you to know, at least, that it's not out of selfishness that I am leaving, how can I explain that? I can't live, I've tried and I can't. If that sounds simple, it's simple like a mountain is simple. Your mother suffered, too, but she chose to live, and lived, be her son and her husband. I don't expect that you'll ever understand me, much less forgive me, you might not even read these words, if your mother gives them to you at all. It's time to go. I want you to be happy, I want that more than I want happiness for myself, does that sound simple? I'm leaving. I'll rip these pages from this book, take them to the mailbox before I get on the plane, address the envelope to “My Unborn Child,” and I'll never write another word again, I am gone, I am no longer here. With love, Your father
    I want to buy a ticket to Dresden.
    What are you doing here?
    You have to go home. You should be in bed.
    Let me take you home.
    You're being crazy. You're going to catch a cold.
    You're going to catch a colder.

HEAVY BOOTS
    HEAVIER BOOTS
    Twelve weekends later was the first performance of Hamlet, although it was actually an abbreviated modern version, because the real Hamlet is too long and confusing, and most of the kids in my class have ADD. For example, the famous “To be or not to be” speech, which I know about from the Collected Shakespeare set Grandma bought me, was cut down so that it was just, “To be or not to be, that's the question.”
    Everyone had to have a part, but there weren't enough real parts, and I didn't go to the auditions because my boots were too heavy to go to school that day, so I got the part of Yorick. At first that made me self-conscious. I suggested to Mrs. Rigley that maybe I could just play tambourine in the orchestra or something. She said, “There is no orchestra.” I said, “Still.” She told me, “It'll be terrific. You'll wear all black, and the makeup crew will paint your hands and neck black, and the costume crew will create some sort of a papier-mache skull for you to wear over your head. It'll really give the illusion that you don't have a body.” I thought about that for a minute, and then I told her my better idea. “What I'll do is, I'll invent an invisibility suit that has a camera on my back that takes video of everything behind me and plays it on a plasma screen that I'll wear on my front, which will cover everything except my face. It'll look like I'm not there at all.” She said, “Nifty.” I said, “But is Yorick even a part?” She whispered into my ear, “If anything, I'm afraid you'll steal the show.” Then I was excited to be Yorick.
    Opening night was pretty great. We had a fog machine, so the cemetery was just like a cemetery in a movie. “Alas, poor Yorick!” Jimmy Snyder said, holding my face, “I knew him, Horatio.” I didn't have a plasma screen, because the costumes budget wasn't big enough, but from underneath the skull I could look around without anyone noticing. I saw lots of people I knew, which made me feel special. Mom and Ron and Grandma were there, obviously. Toothpaste was there with Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton, which was nice, and Mr. and Mrs. Minch were there, too, because The Minch was Guildenstern. A lot of the