Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close

Blacks that I had met in those twelve weekends were there. Abe was there. Ada and Agnes were there. (They were actually sitting next to each other, although they didn't realize it.) I saw Albert and Alice and Allen and Arnold and Barbara and Barry. They must have been half the audience. But what was weird was that they didn't know what they had in common, which was kind of like how I didn't know what the thumbtack, the bent spoon, the square of aluminum foil, and all those other things I dug up in Central Park had to do with each other.
    I was incredibly nervous, but I maintained my confidence, and I was extremely subtle. I know, because there was a standing ovation, which made me feel like one hundred dollars.
    The second performance was also pretty great. Mom was there, but Ron had to work late. That was OK, though, because I didn't want him there anyway. Grandma was there, obviously. I didn't see any of the Blacks, but I knew that most people go to only one show unless they're your parents, so I didn't feel too bad about that. I tried to give an extraspecial performance, and I think I did. “Alas, poor Yorick. I knew him, Horatio; a really funny and excellent guy. I used to ride on his back all the time, and now, it's so awful to think about!”
    Only Grandma came the next night. Mom had a late meeting because one of her cases was about to go to trial, and I didn't ask where Ron was because I was embarrassed, and I didn't want him there anyway. As I was standing as still as I could, with Jimmy Snyder's hand under my chin, I wondered, What's the point of giving an extremely subtle performance if basically no one is watching?
    Grandma didn't come backstage to say hi before the performance the next night, or bye after, but I saw that she was there. Through the eye sockets I could see her standing in the back of the gym, underneath the basketball hoop. Her makeup was absorbing the lighting in a fascinating way, which made her look almost ultraviolet. “Alas, poor Yorick.” I was as still as I could be, and the whole time I was thinking, What trial is more important than the greatest play in history?
    The next performance was only Grandma again. She cried at all the wrong times and cracked up at all the wrong times. She applauded when the audience found out the news that Ophelia drowned, which is supposed to be bad news, and she booed when Hamlet scored his first point in the duel against Laertes at the end, which is good, for obvious reasons.
    “This is where his lips were that I used to kiss a lot. Where are your jokes now, your games, your songs?”
    Backstage, before closing night, Jimmy Snyder imitated Grandma to the rest of the cast and crew. I guess I hadn't realized how loud she was. I had gotten so angry at myself for noticing her, but I was wrong, it was her fault. Everyone noticed. Jimmy did her exactly right—the way she swatted her left hand at something funny, like there was a fly in front of her face. The way she tilted her head, like she was concentrating incredibly hard on something, and how she sneezed and told herself, “God bless me.” And how she cried and said, “That's sad,” so everyone could hear it.
    I sat there while he made all the kids crack up. Even Mrs. Rigley cracked up, and so did her husband, who played the piano during the set changes. I didn't mention that she was my grandma, and I didn't tell him to stop. Outside, I was cracking up too. Inside, I was wishing that she were tucked away in a portable pocket, or that she'd also had an invisibility suit. I wished the two of us could go somewhere far away, like the Sixth Borough.
    She was there again that night, in the back row, although only the first three rows were taken. I watched her from under the skull. She had her hand pressed against her ultraviolet heart, and I could hear her saying, “That's sad. That's so sad.” I thought about the unfinished scarf, and the rock she carried across Broadway, and how she had lived so much life but still needed imaginary friends, and the one thousand thumb wars.
    MARGIE CARSON. Hey, Hamlet, where's Polonius?
    JIMMY SNYDER. At supper.
    MARGIE CARSON. At supper! Where?
    JIMMY SNYDER. Not where he eats, but where he's eaten.
    MARGIE CARSON. Wow!
    JIMMY SNYDER. A king can end up going through the guts of a beggar.
    I felt, that night, on that stage, under that skull, incredibly close to everything in the universe, but also extremely alone. I wondered, for the first time in my life, if life