Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close

been living here?” “Well,” I said, “since Dad died, I guess, so about two years.” He opened his left hand. “Where were you before that?” “Where did your grandmother tell you I was before that?” “She didn't.” “I wasn't here.” I thought that was a weird answer, but I was getting used to weird answers.
    He wrote, “Do you want something to eat?” I told him no. I didn't like how much he was looking at me, because it made me feel incredibly self-conscious, but there was nothing I could say. “Do you want something to drink?”
    “What's your story?” I asked. “What's my story?” “Yeah, what's your story?” He wrote, “I don't know what my story is.” “How can you not know what your story is?” He shrugged his shoulders, just like Dad used to. “Where were you born?” He shrugged his shoulders. “How can you not know where you were born!” He shrugged his shoulders. “Where did you grow up?” He shrugged his shoulders. “OK. Do you have any brothers or sisters?” He shrugged his shoulders. “What's your job? And if you're retired, what was your job?” He shrugged his shoulders. I tried to think of something I could ask him that he couldn't not know the answer to. “Are you a human being?” He flipped back and pointed at “I'm sorry.”
    I'd never needed Grandma more than I needed her right then.
    I asked the renter, “Can I tell you my story?”
    He opened his left hand.
    So I put my story into it.
    I pretended he was Grandma, and I started at the very beginning.
    I told him about the tuxedo on the chair, and how I had broken the vase, and found the key, and the locksmith, and the envelope, and the art supply store. I told him about the voice of Aaron Black, and how I was so incredibly close to kissing Abby Black. She didn't say she didn't want to, just that it wasn't a good idea. I told him about Abe Black in Coney Island, and Ada Black with the two Picasso paintings, and the birds that flew by Mr. Black's window. Their wings were the first thing he'd heard in more than twenty years. Then there was Bernie Black, who had a view of Gramercy Park, but not a key to it, which he said was worse than looking at a brick wall. Chelsea Black had a tan line around her ring finger, because she got divorced right after she got back from her honeymoon, and Don Black was also an animal-rights activist, and Eugene Black also had a coin collection. Fo Black lived on Canal Street, which used to be a real canal. He didn't speak very good English, because he hadn't left Chinatown since he came from Taiwan, because there was no reason for him to. The whole time I talked to him I imagined water on the other side of the window, like we were in an aquarium. He offered me a cup of tea, but I didn't feel like it, but I drank it anyway, to be polite. I asked him did he really love New York or was he just wearing the shirt. He smiled, like he was nervous. I could tell he didn't understand, which made me feel guilty for speaking English, for some reason. I pointed at his shirt. “Do? You? Really? Love? New York?” He said, “New York?” I said, “Your. Shirt.” He looked at his shirt. I pointed at the N and said “New,” and the Y and said “York.” He looked confused, or embarrassed, or surprised, or maybe even mad. I couldn't tell what he was feeling, because I couldn't speak the language of his feelings. “I not know was New York. In Chinese, ny mean 'you.' Thought was 'I love you.'” It was then that I noticed the “INY” poster on the wall, and the “INY” flag over the door, and the “INY” dishtowels, and the “INY” lunchbox on the kitchen table. I asked him, “Well, then why do you love everybody so much?”
    Georgia Black, in Staten Island, had turned her living room into a museum of her husband's life. She had pictures of him from when he was a kid, and his first pair of shoes, and his old report cards, which weren't as good as mine, but anyway. “Y'all're the first visitors in more than a year,” she said, and she showed us a neat gold medal in a velvet box. “He was a naval officer, and I loved being a naval wife. Every few years we'd have to travel to some exotic place. I never did get a chance to put down many roots, but it was thrilling. We spent two years in the Philippines.” “Cool,” I said, and Mr. Black started singing a song in some weird language, which I guess was Philippinish. She showed us her wedding album, one picture at a time, and said,