Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close

listening to.” The front page was spread over us like a blanket. There was a picture of a tennis player on his back, who I guess was the winner, but I couldn't really tell if he was happy or sad.
    “Dad?” “Yeah?” “Could you tell me a story?” “Sure.” “A good one?” “As opposed to all the boring ones I tell.” “Right.” I tucked my body incredibly close into his, so my nose pushed into his armpit. “And you won't interrupt me?” “I'll try not to.” “Because it makes it hard to tell a story.” “And it's annoying.” “And it's annoying.”
    The moment before he started was my favorite moment.
    “Once upon a time, New York City had a sixth borough.” “What's a borough?” “That's what I call an interruption.” “I know, but the story won't make any sense to me if I don't know what a borough is.” “It's like a neighborhood. Or a collection of neighborhoods.” “So if there was once a sixth borough, then what are the five boroughs?” “Manhattan, obviously, Brooklyn, Queens, Staten Island, and the Bronx.” “Have I ever been to any of the other boroughs?” “Here we go.” “I just want to know.” “We went to the Bronx Zoo once, a few years ago. Remember that?” “No.” “And we've been to Brooklyn to see the roses at the Botanic Garden.” “Have I been to Queens?” “I don't think so.” “Have I been to Staten Island?” “No.” “Was there really a sixth borough?” “I've been trying to tell you.” “No more interruptions. I promise.”
    When the story finished, we turned the radio back on and found someone speaking French. That was especially nice, because it reminded me of the vacation we just came back from, which I wish never ended. After a while, Dad asked me if I was awake. I told him no, because I knew that he didn't like to leave until I had fallen asleep, and I didn't want him to be tired for work in the morning. He kissed my forehead and said good night, and then he was at the door.
    “Dad?” “Yeah, buddy?” “Nothing.”
    The next time I heard his voice was when I came home from school the next day. We were let out early, because of what happened. I wasn't even a little bit panicky, because both Mom and Dad worked in midtown, and Grandma didn't work, obviously, so everyone I loved was safe.
    I know that it was 10:18 when I got home, because I look at my watch a lot. The apartment was so empty and so quiet. As I walked to the kitchen, I invented a lever that could be on the front door, which would trigger a huge spoked wheel in the living room to turn against metal teeth that would hang down from the ceiling, so that it would play beautiful music, like maybe “Fixing a Hole” or “I Want to Tell You,” and the apartment would be one huge music box.
    After I petted Buckminster for a few seconds, to show him I loved him, I checked the phone messages. I didn't have a cell phone yet, and when we were leaving school, Toothpaste told me he'd call to let me know whether I was going to watch him attempt skateboarding tricks in the park, or if we were going to go look at Playboy magazines in the drugstore with the aisles where no one can see what you're looking at, which I didn't feel like doing, but still.
    Message one. Tuesday, 8:52 A.M. Is anybody there? Hello? It's Dad. If you're there, pick up. I just tried the office, but no one was picking up. Listen, something's happened. I'm OK. They're telling us to stay where we are and wait for the firemen. I'm sure it's fine. I'll give you another call when I have a better idea of what's going on. Just wanted to let you know that I'm OK, and not to worry. I'll call again soon.
    There were four more messages from him: one at 9:12, one at 9:31, one at 9:46, and one at 10:04. I listened to them, and listened to them again, and then before I had time to figure out what to do, or even what to think or feel, the phone started ringing.
    It was 10:22:27.
    I looked at the caller ID and saw that it was him.

WHY I'M NOT WHERE YOU ARE 5/21/63
    To my unborn child: I haven't always been silent, I used to talk and talk and talk and talk, I couldn't keep my mouth shut, the silence overtook me like a cancer, it was one of my first meals in America, I tried to tell the waiter, “The way you just handed me that knife, that reminds me of—” but I couldn't finish the sentence, her name wouldn't come, I tried again, it wouldn't come, she was locked inside me, how strange, I thought, how frustrating, how