Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close

“Do you remember him?” “It was just a minute.” “But do you remember him?” “We chatted a bit.” “And?” “He was a nice man. I think he could see how hard it was for me to part with those things.” “Could you please describe him?” “Gosh, I don't really remember much.” “Please.” “He was maybe five foot ten. He had brown hair. He wore glasses.” “What kind of glasses?” “Thick glasses.” “What kind of clothes was he wearing?” “A suit, I think.” “What suit?” “Gray, maybe?” “That's true! He wore a gray suit to work! Did he have a gap between his teeth?” “I don't remember.” “Try.”
    “He said he was on his way home and saw the sign for the sale. He told me that he had an anniversary coming up the next week.” “September 14!” “He was going to surprise your mom. The vase was perfect, he said. He said she'd love it.” “He was going to surprise her?” “He'd made reservations at her favorite restaurant. It was going to be some sort of fancy night out.”
    The tuxedo.
    “What else did he say?” “What else did he say...” “Anything.” “He had a great laugh. I remember that. It was good of him to laugh, and to make me laugh. He was laughing for my sake.”
    “What else?” “He had a very discerning eye.” “What's that?” “He knew what he liked. He knew when he'd found it.” “That's true. He had an incredibly discerning eye.” “I remember watching him hold the vase. He examined the bottom of it and turned it around a number of times. He seemed like a very thoughtful person.” “He was extremely thoughtful.”
    I wished he could remember even more details, like if Dad had unbuttoned his shirt's top button, or if he smelled like shaving, or if he whistled “I Am the Walrus.” Was he holding a New York Times under his arm? Were his lips chapped? Was there a red pen in his pocket?
    “When the apartment was empty that night, I sat on the floor and read the letter from my father. I read about the vase. I felt like I'd failed him.” “But couldn't you go to the bank and tell them you'd lost the key?” “I tried that. But they said they didn't have a box under his name. I tried my name. No box. Not under my mother's name or my grandparents' names. It didn't make any sense.” “There was nothing the bank people could do?” “They were sympathetic, but without the key, I was stuck.” “And that's why you needed to find my dad.”
    “I hoped he would realize that there was a key in the vase and find me. But how could he? We sold my father's apartment, so even if he went back, it would be a dead end. And I was sure he'd just throw the key away if he found it, assuming it was junk. That's what I would have done. And there was no way I could find him. Absolutely no way. I knew nothing about him, not even his name. For a few weeks I'd go over to the neighborhood on my way home from work, even though it wasn't on my way. It was an hour out of my way. I'd walk around looking for him. I put up a few signs when I realized what had happened: 'To the man who bought the vase at the estate sale on Seventy-fifth Street this weekend, please contact...' But this was the week after September 11. There were posters everywhere.”
    “My mom put up posters of him.” “What do you mean?” “He died in September 11. That's how he died.” “Oh, God. I didn't realize. I'm so sorry.” “It's OK.” “I don't know what to say.” “You don't have to say anything.” “I didn't see the posters. If I had ... Well, I don't know what if I had.” “You would have been able to find us.” “I guess that's right.” “I wonder if your posters and my mom's posters were ever close to each other.”
    He said, “Wherever I was, I was trying to find him: uptown, downtown, on the train. I looked in everyone's eyes, but none were his. Once I saw someone I thought might be your father across Broadway in Times Square, but I lost him in the crowd. I saw someone I thought might be him getting into a cab at Twenty-third Street. I would have called after him, but I didn't know his name.” “Thomas.” “Thomas. I wish I'd known it then.”
    He said, “I followed one man around Central Park for more than half an hour. I thought he was your father. I couldn't figure out why he was walking in such a strange, crisscrossing way. He wasn't getting anywhere. I couldn't figure it out.” “Why didn't you stop him?” “Eventually I did.” “And what