Hope: A Tragedy (23 page)

Kugel looked down at Smiling Man. Maybe he hoped. Maybe he knew his life sentence was nearing an end. Kugel thought of the fawn. He thought of Jonah. He thought that if you’re lucky enough to live in the eye of the storm, maybe you should just live it up. Maybe the people who had lived in the storm would be pissed off to learn that you hadn’t, would be disgusted that you wasted your whole damned eye worrying about the storm to come.

Kugel got out of bed and looked out the window.

Are you even listening to me? Bree asked.

Was Wilbur out there? Kugel wondered.

He held up his middle finger, just in case he was.

Fuck you, motherfucker, said Kugel.

Excuse me? said Bree.

And then Jonah screamed, a piercing, terrified scream, a nightmare scream of panic and fear.

Kugel looked at Bree, too stunned to immediately move. Jonah never screamed like that. He screamed again, and that tore them from their shock. Kugel raced out the door, Bree right behind him, into the darkened hall.

If she’s laid one finger on him, he thought, I’ll fucking kill her.

27.

JONAH WAS SHAKING VIOLENTLY as Bree held him in her arms. His body heaved with every sob.

I heard a monster, he wept.

When Kugel was young, Mother told him that the way to survive a gas chamber is by urinating on a handkerchief and holding it over your mouth and nose when the gas starts coming out. Kugel had no idea if that was true. If it was, and you didn’t do it because you didn’t want to piss on a rag and hold it against your face for no reason, you’d die for a pretty stupid reason. If it wasn’t true, and you tried it and it didn’t work, that would actually make the death even worse, if that can be imagined, because now you didn’t just die in a gas chamber, you died in a gas chamber with a piss-soaked rag in your face.

Should he tell Jonah that trick?

How could he?

How could he not?

What if it worked?

What if it didn’t?

Bree gently rocked Jonah in her arms. There is a point at which anger cools and becomes acceptance, and at that point, it is no longer even necessary to express one’s rage; it is simply no longer worth the effort. This was the point, it seemed to Kugel, that Bree had now reached, as she didn’t even glare at him, didn’t grit her teeth or move away; she just rubbed Jonah’s back, her eyes closed, whispering,
Shh, shh
, it’s okay.

Which is exactly, Kugel thought, what he’d told the fawn.

Kugel tried to rub Jonah’s back—the boy was wearing his favorite SpongeBob SquarePants pajamas, and SpongeBob’s joy seemed, to Kugel, entirely out of place—but the boy moved away from him. Children notice everything, and Kugel’s heart broke to think that Jonah understood in general what was happening, if not in the specifics: that his father was fucking up. SpongeBob’s father had done a good job. SpongeBob was happy, confident, secure. It was hard to say what kind of job Patrick’s father had done—perhaps he had mercifully dropped him on his head—but it was clear that Squidward’s father was a failure. Squidward was bitter, angry, jealous. He didn’t want to be Mr. Squidward.

There’s no such thing as monsters, Kugel said.

Yes, there is! Jonah shouted. I heard it!

Okay, said Kugel. Okay.

Mother hurried into the bedroom, tying her robe.

I heard a scream, she said.

It’s okay, said Kugel with a nod to the ceiling. Jonah heard a monster.

Mother kissed Jonah on the head, rubbed his arm, and said, That’s not a very nice thing to say, is it?

Mother, said Kugel.

At that moment, a sound filled the room that did indeed sound like that of a monster—a loud roar, a retch—and everyone jumped. It came again, and Kugel looked up.

It was Anne Frank, he knew. And it sounded, God help him, like she was vomiting into the vents.

Jonah began to scream. Bree held him tightly, grabbed his blanket, and hurried out of the room.

Goddamn it, muttered Kugel.

He turned to go up to Anne.

It isn’t her fault, Mother begged, grabbing Kugel’s shirtsleeve. She’s old, she’s not well. My God, what that woman . . .

Kugel tore himself free and stormed into the hall, pulled down the attic stairs, and stamped heavily up them.

It was hot in there again, humid; the air felt heavy, and the attic stank of vomit and shit; Kugel gasped as he entered, nearly getting sick himself. Was this what he had allowed his home to become? He didn’t see her at first, all he saw was that she had removed the protective grate from the vent; vomit splattered the floor around it and coated the walls of the duct inside.

He pulled his shirt over his nose, and found her behind the western wall, curled in the fetal position on her mound of tattered blankets, eyes closed, a second and even larger pool of vomit beside her bed.

Anne, he said softly.

She didn’t move.

Should I call someone? he asked.

She opened her eyes for a moment but made no answer before closing them once again.

Should I call? he asked again. Who should I call? Anne, I don’t . . . who should I call?

He pulled the blanket from the bed and covered her with it, thinking perhaps that she was cold. Should he call a doctor? How? Where? He uncovered her, thinking that perhaps she was too warm. He stood there a while, stupidly, and then she retched again, and Kugel jumped backward.

I’ll get a bucket, he said. I’ll get some tea.

He hurried down the stairs, his leg aching, and he passed Bree in the hallway.

He’s asleep, said Bree.

She’s dying, he said.

He brought her up a cup of tea and a flask filled with hot water. He placed them beside her and opened one of the windows to let in some fresh air. He went back downstairs, got a bucket, some rolls of paper towels, and some cleaner. Mother paced nervously in the hallway.

Should I go to her? she asked.

Give her some space, he said.

Is she okay?

She’ll be fine.

Maybe I can just go to her.

Mother, said Kugel. Please.

It took Kugel some time to clean the vomit out of the vent and ducts. To clean beside her bed, he needed to move aside all the boxes from the western wall—using just his one good hand—and then, kneeling beside her sleeping form, mop it up as best he could. He left the bucket beside her, along with the roll of paper towels. He made a note to get another board and nail it down, too, over the vent. Afterward, he slid the boxes back into place, and switched on the small lamp beside the unused bed.

Tap if you need anything, he said. Anne? Tap if you do.

He climbed back down from the attic, but left the attic stairs down, just in case.

Just in case of what?

Just in case.

It was two o’clock in the morning.

And Bree and Jonah were gone.

28.

IN THE MORNING, Kugel went outside to Mother’s garden with a bag full of fruits and vegetables, though he could hardly afford them now. He had been as consistent as possible in leaving produce out for her every morning—there was something in the ritual, any ritual, in which he had begun to take some comfort—but he had been less so with regard to gathering it back up each evening. Now the meats, vegetables, and fruits from the previous week were rotting and turning brown; many were covered with ants and maggots. Kugel didn’t bother to kick the old aside; he simply covered the old with the new, and moved on.

Bree, Hannah had informed him, had taken Jonah and gone down to Mother’s apartment in Brooklyn.

Maybe they’ll see a show, he thought. Maybe she’ll do a little writing. Maybe she’ll run into a famous writer, who could make all her dreams come true.

He hoped that she would.

Back in his bedroom, Kugel noticed that his rash was spreading farther up his arms; the sun seemed to have made the itching worse.

He should get some calamine lotion. Or aloe. Aloe’s good for a lot of things.

He took out his Last Words notebook, turned to the last page, and added to his list:

iPod (headphones/charger)

EpiPens

Zyrtec

Papers (?)

Aloe/calamine

Kugel could hear Anne Frank coughing. It was a deep, whooping cough, and it worried him. She was dying.

We have you in a double suite, Mr. Spinoza, but I see you’ve brought your own bed. Shall we check it for you? Donald here will help you with your
bags.

Kugel pitied the dying, but he envied the dead. Whenever he looked at photos—of JFK, of Elvis, of Smiling Man—he thought, Well, at least you got it over with. At least you can cross that off your list. He imagined the scene at the gates of heaven to be not unlike that at the finish line of a long and grueling marathon: everyone high-fiving, hugging, collapsing, elated that it’s over, yes, it’s finally over, pouring cups of water over one another’s heads and saying, Holy shit, dude, that was fucking brutal. I am
never
doing that again.

The house, aside from Anne Frank’s coughing and vomiting, was miserably silent. Kugel went downstairs, desperate for company. As he was entering the kitchen, Mother was leaving.

I’m sorry, Mother said to him. I’m sure she’ll come back. She’ll like it in Brooklyn.

Kugel nodded.

Do you think she’ll phone the police? Mother asked. She wouldn’t do that, would she? Turn in Anne Frank just to get back at you?

Mother, due to Anne Frank’s impending death, moved about that day with a desperate, mournful solemnity; she wore a long black dress, her silvery hair pulled back into a tight bun; she sighed loudly, bit her fingernails, and when Kugel returned to the living room, she had hung black cloths over all the mirrors. She stood by the window, peeking through the blinds.

Have you noticed? she said to Kugel as he entered. The police, she continued without turning around. That’s the fourth time they’ve driven by.

Kugel assured her they were only keeping an eye out for Wilbur Messerschmidt Jr., but he had taken note of them earlier, too, from his bedroom window, and, privately, had similar concerns. Had a neighbor reported them? The UPS man? Anne Frank was illegal; what was the punishment for harboring an illegal? Jonah had screamed the night before, too; maybe somebody heard, maybe somebody was concerned, maybe somebody thought something was going on? Maybe Mother was right, maybe Bree had turned him in? She could have phoned the police, said she was a neighbor, said something was going on in the attic. Four times in one morning seemed excessive, didn’t it? Why would they be patrolling in the daytime if all the fires occurred at night?

He could hear Anne Frank coughing.

I think we should phone a doctor, said Kugel.

Mother turned to face him. It was clear from her expression that she disagreed.

She’s very ill, Mother.

She’s been ill before.

Mother, she needs to be seen.

And then what? asked Mother. Dragged from the attic, the only place she feels safe, the one place she wants to be? Do you know that a doctor who sees her is legally obligated to admit her to the hospital if that’s what he determines is necessary?

If it gets worse, said Kugel, we’ll have to call someone.

I’ve been charged with saving her, said Mother.

Even if it means letting her die?

Yes.

I’m going to the pharmacy.

But for what, he wondered, as he roamed the brightly lit aisles lined with brightly colored bottles. What did Anne Frank have? A flu? A cold? A virus? He was worried he would get the wrong thing, or the right thing with the wrong thing in it—a Something/Whatever with Added Who-Knows-What, when all she really needed was the Whatever, the Something could be lethal for the elderly, and she was allergic to the Who-Knows-What. When he was a child, pharmacies filled Kugel with joy and excitement. There were endless promises, countless possibilities: bottles that gave you shiny hair, fresh breath, white teeth; tubes that gave you clearer skin, longer eyelashes, rosier cheeks. We were malleable, Kugel thought, changeable, our bodies infinitely under our own control. Now those same aisles and shelves just reminded him of all the things that could go wrong. Did she need an expectorant? A suppressant? A flu remedy? A cold remedy? A hot compress? A cold compress? A hot/cold compress? A caplet? A tablet? A gel tab? An ointment? A salve? A rub? An anti-diarrheal? An anti-inflammatory? A decongestant? A dehumidifier? An enema? Oh, God, what if she needed an enema? The aisles that once seemed to hold endless promise and power—immortality!—now seemed pathetically weak and ineffective. All these balms for minor scrapes and scratches. Where was the cancer cleanser, the Alzheimer’s rub, the cardiomyopathy cream? He imagined turning a corner in the store to find an Auschwitz prisoner in prison garb and armband, carrying a shopping basket in one hand and tapping his lips with the other.

Do you know where they put the typhus gel? he inquires politely of Kugel. Have you seen the malnutrition bars? The rickets spray? Dr. Beckett’s Go On lotion, for people who just can’t go on?

This is it, Jonah, my boy, my love, my heart, my soul, my dream. This is our best shot at holding back the tide of death and disease: cherry-flavored DayQuil. That’s the best we can come up with, kid. If you’re dying, and need something fast, here it is, this is what we can muster up after hundreds of years of science: Maalox.

Tums.

Ouchless Band-Aids.

He felt dizzy upon leaving, as if he were dying himself, as if he were suffering, already succumbing, to something for which there was no tablet or caplet or liquid gel, while inside the store they were having a two-for-one special on Imodium EZ Chews. Kugel loathed going to the auto store for the same reason; he spent the week after worrying that his jets were clogged, his valves were loose, his plugs were shot.

When he got home, the house was dark, though it was only mid-afternoon. He thought for a moment that they’d had a power outage, which would be odd for the summertime, but he realized, soon after entering, that Mother, while he was gone, had hung black fabric over all the windows.

It wasn’t safe, said Hannah.

What wasn’t safe? asked Kugel.

It’s a small town, said Hannah. People talk.

Kugel could see Hannah had been crying.

Where’s Mother?

Upstairs, said Hannah.

Kugel found the attic stairs down, and climbed them, slowly, fearing the worst, fearing that he’d been too late, that Anne Frank was beyond the powers of DayQuil and Theraflu.

He found Mother kneeling quietly in front of the western wall of boxes, sobbing gently as she placed a small yellow adhesive note on the wall. There were at least a dozen other notes already on the wall, some crammed into the tiny cracks between the boxes.

She turned to Kugel, her eyes red.

She won’t respond, she said softly. She’s too weak to talk. I didn’t want to leave her alone.

We should call a doctor, said Kugel.

Mother shook her head.

It may be her only hope, said Kugel.

Our hands are tied, said Mother.

Kugel went to Mother and helped her stand. He told her not to worry, that Anne would be okay, that he’d brought her some medicine, that she just needed some rest. Mother nodded and went downstairs, and Kugel pulled the stairs up behind her.

The ghastly stench in the attic contrasted violently with the pastoral, angelic bedroom set that Mother had created in the center of the attic. Mother had dressed the bed as if Anne Frank were still a young girl, with a teddy bear propped up on the pillows, and a pair of child-size one-piece pajamas. She had placed a Hello Kitty alarm clock on the bedside table, and some children’s books as well, kept in place by a box of matzoh. A childscape, thought Kugel, a won’t-let-it-go tableau. Kugel hadn’t eaten all day, and so, intestines be damned, he took a small piece of matzoh from the box, lay down on the bed, and turned on the bedside lamp. Mother, he noticed, had replaced the pink lamp shade with Kugel’s grandfather.

He closed his eyes.

He was desperate to sleep.

Is she gone? he heard Anne Frank say.

She’s gone, said Kugel.

Anne Frank began coughing again, a violent cough that Kugel could feel through his body, his bones.

How’s the book coming? he asked when she had ceased.

She won’t leave me alone, said Anne Frank.

She’s trying to help.

I’m trying to work.

Kugel took a bite of the matzoh.

How’s the book coming? he asked.

I took your advice, she said. I gave it up.

Kugel closed his eyes and shook his head.

Okay, he said. Okay.

She coughed again, and Kugel stood and passed the bag of cold remedies and pain relievers over the wall.

Danke
, said Anne Frank.

Kugel turned and sank to the floor, his back leaning against the western wall.

Anne Frank, said Anne Frank, is the most recognizable symbol of Jewish suffering and death.

Kugel heard a book drop heavily to the floor.

The diary of Anne Frank, read Anne Frank, is the best known, and she has become a symbol of all the children who died in that genocide.

A second book dropped to the floor with a thud.

I am, she said, become death.

Kugel said nothing, but reached back and pulled one of Mother’s notes off the wall. It read: I’ve made some chicken soup.

Another read: Let me know if you want me to turn on the heat.

Helen Keller, said Anne Frank, was a socialist. Did you know that?

I didn’t know that, said Kugel, pulling off another note. It read: I’ve made some mistakes.

Kugel got to his knees and turned to face the wall.

Nobody does, said Anne Frank. She was a suffragist. A pacifist. A radical. A woman of ideas, of passions.

The notes at the top of the wall seemed to be the earlier ones. They were mostly offers of food or some kind of help or provision. Toward the middle and bottom, they took on a more personal tone. One, from the very bottom of the wall, read: I’m dying, too.

They wanted her to be their blind girl, Anne Frank continued. Their deaf angel. Me, I’m the sufferer. I’m the dead girl. I’m Miss Holocaust, 1945. The prize is a crown of thorns and eternal victimhood. Jesus was a Jew, Mr. Kugel, but I’m the Jewish Jesus.

Please answer me, read one note.

Kugel dug one of the notes from between the boxes. It read: I drove my husband away.

I did my best, read another.

Kugel began to replace the notes, delicately, using his fingers to feel for the sticky spot on the wall, trying to locate the exact spot where Mother had placed them.

I’m pro-choice, said Anne Frank, did you know that?

I didn’t know that, said Kugel.

Nobody does, said Anne Frank. I love God and hate his followers. I think America is the greatest wasted opportunity in the history of man. I think the answer to peace in the Middle East is to bomb the hell out of it; kill no one, but destroy it all—every mosque, every synagogue, all history, all the past, leave no stone unburned, leaving nothing holy behind. I think never forgetting the Holocaust is not the same thing as never shutting up about it. I’d like to scratch Abraham Foxman’s eyes out.

You’re a woman of ideas, Kugel said as he worked. Of passions.

Shall I tell you what I think, Mr. Kugel? I think that when people die and go to heaven and they throw themselves at the Almighty’s feet and beg Him, their voices choked with tears, not to send them to whatever idea of hell they arrived with, to spare them that agony and pain and suffering, God laughs and shakes His head and says, Send you to hell? Buddy, you just came from there.