Hope: A Tragedy: A Novel

by Shalom Auslander

  Forget the Alamo.

  Fuck it.

  It’s over.

  This sort of patriotism worried Kugel, a worry he had inherited from Mother, who always told him it could happen here.

  What?

  It.

  What it, Mother?

  It it.

  She seemed almost disappointed that it hadn’t.

  Kugel put his bag in the backseat of his car, and as he stood and closed the door, spotted a small For Rent sign on a high window of a small white house.

  He knocked on the front door but there was no answer. He peered into the windows, knocked again, and made his way around to the rear of the house, where he found the back door unlocked. He opened it slightly.

  Hello? he called.

  He stepped into what was the kitchen, and called again.

  Hello? I’m here about the room.

  The house was tidy and well kept, the dishes cleaned and standing upright in the rack beside the sink. He made his way into the living room and den, and out to the front foyer.

  Hello, he called up the narrow stairway.

  Hello?

  He walked slowly up the stairs. There were three bedrooms upstairs, one cleared of all furniture and smelling of fresh paint. The For Rent sign hung in the window. It was a small room but well lit, with a large central window that overlooked the street.

  Kugel sat on the floor. He lay down on his back and folded his hands across his chest. He stood. He closed the door and opened it. He went out into the hallway, looked up at the ceiling and spotted a pull-down attic door.

  Hello, he called again.

  Kugel pulled down the attic stairs and climbed up.

  The attic was small, much smaller than his own, and yet so filled with the owner’s belongings that it was difficult to maneuver past the desks, chairs, rugs, bicycles, boxes, and old steamer trunks, all piled haphazardly, one atop the other. There were no windows, and the only light came from the meager rays of sunlight peeking through the gable vent.

  Kugel found a box tied and held together with a long section of rope; he removed the rope, climbed down the stairs, and tied the rope, as he’d seen Anne Frank do, to the bottom rung. He climbed back up and pulled on the rope, and the attic door closed behind him with a satisfying thump. He made his way through the attic until he came to an old dining table standing against the back wall. He crawled underneath, lay down, closed his eyes, and fell asleep.

  It was the deepest sleep he’d had in some time.

  When he awoke sometime later, he heard voices below him. The owners. A man, a woman, their words muffled; Kugel pressed his ear against the floor, but beyond the occasional word or two, all he could make out were intonations, cadence, rhythm; he recognized the long pauses, the impassive delivery, the lackadaisical alternation of comfortable familiarity. They had been married for some time.

  HIM: Mmm mm mm mmm mm?

  Long pause.

  HER: Mmm mmm mm.

  A door closing.

  Walking.

  HER: Mmm mm mmm.

  The television coming on.

  HIM: Mmm. Mmm mmm mmm.

  They were arguing about something. Bickering.

  HER: Mmm mmm mmm?

  A cabinet door slams shut.

  HIM: Mmm! Mmm mmm mmm!

  Kugel chuckled.

  HER: Mmm mmm. Mmm!

  He held a hand over his mouth, trying not to laugh out loud, but it all seemed so comical, he was soon throwing back his head in silent uproarious laughter.

  Someone slowly walking up the stairs, down the hall, below him now.

  Silence.

  Kugel composed himself.

  A light coming on. And then, directly beneath him, groaning, farting.

  Oh, God, he heard her grunt.

  Kugel chuckled again.

  She was in the bathroom.

  More farting, more appeals to the Lord above.

  Kugel tried desperately not to laugh out loud, but the flush of the toilet killed him; he lost it. He buried his face in a quilt and hoped the sound of the flushing toilet would cover the sounds of his laughter. Tears streamed down his face and his ribs ached. Then the creak of bedsprings, a groan. Then, for a while, nothing but the tinny sound of the television downstairs.

  Minutes passed, ten, maybe fifteen.

  Kugel pressed his ear to the attic floor.

  He heard snoring.

  Kugel crawled out from beneath the table and quietly pushed some boxes into the corner until he had built a small wall, and placed behind it a number of quilts and blankets. As quietly as he could, he made his way back to the attic door, slowly pressed it open, and descended from above.

  He crept down the hallway to the bedroom; the old woman was on her side, fast asleep. Kugel smiled again, remembering it all; he tiptoed across the room and lightly, ever so lightly, kissed her on her head.

  He thought that perhaps he loved her.

  Downstairs, an old man sat sleeping in the brown recliner in front of the television. Kugel slowly moved back through the house, into the kitchen and out the back door.

  The sun was beginning to set.

  Kugel made his way around to the front of the house and knocked on the door.

  Hang on, called the old man.

  After a moment the door opened.

  I’m here about the room for rent, said Kugel.

  The old man shook his head.

  Already taken, he said. Sorry.

  Tall guy? asked Kugel. Beard?

  The old man nodded.

  Something like that, the old man said, suddenly wary.

  Kugel looked over the house.

  Well, he said, I’ll see you.

  Reckon so, said the old man.

  He closed the door and Kugel could hear the locks clicking shut behind him.

  Kugel spent most of the following day cleaning the vents and registers. He dragged a bucket of water and cleaning supplies up to the attic, scrubbed the grilles first, then the sides of the ducts, and poured the leftover mixture down into the ducts to let it make its way through the house; still the smell lingered in the air, the smell of Anne Frank, much as it did on his fingers and hands, no matter how much he scoured them.

  By the time he went to bed Sunday evening, Bree had already fallen asleep. We think of the obvious signs of love—tenderness, concern, care—and yet somehow, nothing said more about the health of a couple’s relationship than whether or not they went to bed at the same time.

  Kugel lay down on the bed, fully clothed, and closed his eyes.

  Maybe Mother was right, he thought. Maybe she shouldn’t die on a pile of rags.

  Spinoza declared: I call him free he who is led solely by reason.

  Spinoza also declared: True virtue is life under the direction of reason.

  Kugel wondered if Spinoza declared those things before or after he dragged his mother’s deathbed across the Netherlands; Kugel had read that he took it with him wherever he went. He took it from Amsterdam to Rijnsburg, from Rijnsburg to Voorburg, from Voorburg to The Hague. That didn’t seem all that reasonable to Kugel; it seemed pretty unreasonable. This was not some inflatable bed. This was not some futon. This was a full-size wooden bed. There may have been a box spring, for all we know.

  The story troubled Kugel. If she had died when Spinoza was a middle-aged man, perhaps you could say she meant the world to him, that the loss was of a mother who was more than simply a mother, but of a necessary, trusted, and wise guide who had passed on, and that Spinoza was having trouble saying good-bye. It would still be weird, frankly, damn weird, but you could cut him some slack. But Spinoza’s mother died when he was six years old. If even the High Priest of Reason could be so unreasonable about a deathbed, perhaps he should give it more thought himself. And so the following morning, on the way to work, Kugel stopped at the local mattress store.

  Everything, shouted the sign in the window, Must Go.

  You don’t know the half of it, said Kugel to the store.
>
  He wasn’t comfortable with the idea of buying Anne Frank a marked-down deathbed—it didn’t seem like the kind of thing one should go bargain-hunting for. But he didn’t feel like spending a fortune, either.

  God Bless America, shouted another sign.

  Was it God, Bless America? Like an order? Like a command? That didn’t seem wise, ordering God around like that. And didn’t that suggest that God hadn’t blessed America? That America was unblessed? If He had blessed us, we wouldn’t need another blessing, would we? Or was it God Bless, America. Like, See you later, America. Like, you’re fucked. Like, find an attic. Fast.

  A salesman quickly approached him.

  Just looking, Kugel said to the salesman.

  No problem, no problem, said the salesman. Just so you know, all sale items are marked with a yellow star.

  Perfect, thought Kugel. I’m going to buy Anne Frank a Jewed-down deathbed with a yellow Star of David on it.

  Spinoza.

  What a jackass.

  Of course, you don’t buy a deathbed. There is no such thing. You buy a regular bed and croak on it. A Sleep Master or a Dreamweaver or a NightCloud, made with Advanced PolyCarbonate Progressive Coils, BioReactive TemperPads and GermResistant PermaSoft Memory Foam, the highest tech, the cuttingest edge; even the cheapest ones were hundreds of dollars, some were thousands. It made sense, Kugel thought as he looked at the prices, that an empire in decline should spend its finest scientific and intellectual capital on sleeping. On napping. On a snooze. Why didn’t they sell deathbeds? he wondered. Specifically. A Serta PerfectDeath. A Sealy SwanSong. A Tempur-Pedic UltraPlotz with Advanced MortalCoil Technology. Something decent, something comfortable, but not something intended to last more than a few months, tops. These non-deathbeds had twenty-year warranties; why should he have to pay for nineteen and a half years of sleep he had no intention of using? He sure as hell wasn’t going to use a bed after someone died on it. Maybe he could just return it after she died? Could you return a bed someone died on? How would they know?

  Hitler was an optimist.

  The more Kugel thought about Spinoza, the angrier he became. It’s not like the guy was an idiot. What hope was there for the rest of us if a mind like that can still, when it comes to his emotions, be such a fool? And not merely a fool, but a stark, raving basket case. If the clearest logic the human mind is capable of is still woefully insufficient, why even bother? What hope is there?

  Will you be checking any luggage today, Mr. Spinoza?

  Just the two bags. I’ll be taking the deathbed as my carry-on.

  Very good, sir.

  Kugel made his way around the store. The selection was dizzying. Latex, foam, coil, twin, twin XL, queen, king. He hadn’t even considered the size. What size would she need? Queen? The twins were the least expensive, maybe he should just get that and be done with it. She was small, what did she need with a queen?

  Kugel lay down on one of the beds, rested his hands on his chest, and looked up at the ceiling.

  There might be death throes.

  Thrashing around or whatever.

  At the moment.

  Of her death.

  Maybe go with a queen.

  Stan Laurel, on his deathbed: I’d rather be skiing.

  Do you ski, Mr. Laurel? the nurse asked.

  No, he said, but I’d rather be doing that than this.

  The chaplain said to Chaplin: May the Lord have mercy on your soul?

  Said Chaplin to the chaplain: Why not? It belongs to him.

  Kugel closed his eyes. He didn’t want Anne Frank falling off the side of her own deathbed.

  I’m terribly sorry, Mr. Spinoza, that deathbed isn’t going to fit in the overhead compartment.

  Soon Kugel fell asleep. He dreamed again of the elderly terminal patients in hospital gowns and bandages hobbling up his driveway. Again they walked past him, only this time he didn’t try to stop them. He simply watched them shuffle and limp by, moaning and wheezing and bleating and farting, and he followed them, once again, out to the backyard, where they stepped, one by one, off the edge of the cliff. This time, though, Kugel pushed his way between them, made his way to the edge of the cliff, and peered over; he felt that he needed to know what became of them there, over the edge. At the base of the cliff, the dead were forming a mound of bloody, broken bodies, wooden canes, steel IV towers, bent walkers, cracked wheelchairs. Pools of blood formed around the base of the pile. Nobody made a sound, nobody struggled to get up. Kugel’s knees grew weak as he was suddenly overcome with a fear of the cliff before him, and he tried to back away from the edge of the cliff, but he couldn’t, there were too many of them now, pressing past him, nudging him closer to the cliff even as he pushed back against them.

  Kugel woke to find the salesman nudging his shoulder.

  That’s a quality product, said the salesman. Serta Perfect Sleeper with Memory Foam Topper.

  How much is it? asked Kugel.

  It’ll add years to your life, that one, said the salesman. One night and you’ll feel ten years younger.

  Kugel made a note not to get one for Mother.

  How much? he asked.

  In queen, said the salesman, you’re looking at eight hundred, eight fifty or so, and we’ll throw in the frame at no extra charge.

  Eight hundred and fifty dollars? asked Kugel. What time is it?

  Half ten, said the salesman.

  Fuck, muttered Kugel.

  We can get you wrapped up and out of here in five minutes, said the salesman.

  How much is the futon? asked Kugel.

  One fifty, said the salesman.

  I’ll take the futon, said Kugel.

  By the time the salesman tied the futon to the roof of Kugel’s car, it was close to eleven o’clock. As Kugel pulled out of the parking lot he pictured Anne Frank dying. He pictured her lying on her back, in the gloomy evening half-light of his attic, peering into the middle distance, trying to speak, trying to say one last thing, but able at last only to draw one last breath, one last time, her miserable life coming to an end at last.

  On a futon.

  Would Spinoza have carried his mother’s futon around?

  Fear cannot be without hope, nor hope without fear; now give me a hand with this futon frame, it’s heavy as fuck.

  At the next traffic light, Kugel made a U-turn, drove back to the mattress store, and laid out over a thousand dollars for the Serta Perfect Sleeper with Memory Foam Topper.

  Goddamn it, he thought.

  He pulled into the office parking lot, a queen-size mattress and box spring tied to the roof of his car, at ten minutes past twelve. He was met in his office by his supervisor, a man from security, and a woman from the human resources department. There were a number of empty cardboard boxes on his desk.

  We can no longer afford, said his supervisor, to look away.

  Last words?

  He would write those down.

  25.

  FOR ALMOST A WEEK, the fires had ceased. Kugel spent the evenings downstairs reading books about Anne Frank and the Holocaust, while Bree, upstairs, pored over the budget and bills. The police were said to have identified a suspect, though no details were being released, as the case was still under investigation and the suspect was still at large. Then, later that week, the arsonist struck again at the old farm on Sawmill Road, one of the grandest, most impressive farms in the region, setting fire to the horse stable and storage shed. Fortunately, it had been a long time since there were horses in the stable—the present owners were executives from the city who used only the main house—and the firemen arrived before too much damage could be done. Two days later, the arsonist struck the same farm, this time setting fire to the front and rear porches of the farmhouse itself. Again, the firefighters responded quickly; there were rumors of someone seen fleeing the scene, of someone being chased into the woods, of security cameras that had captured a photo of the arsonist even if the police had failed to capture him. The following day, the town
was abuzz with the police department’s public naming of a prime suspect: Wilbur Messerschmidt Jr.

  The townspeople were shocked. None could believe it. Wilbur Junior was a volunteer fireman and a beloved member of the community. The family had lived in the area for almost two hundred years. Why would he do such a thing? Senior, Will’s father, granted only one interview, with the local radio station, in which he tried to explain his son’s actions, an interview Kugel listened to as he drove home with a mattress tied to his roof and a pink slip in his pocket.

  The Messerschmidts, said Senior, had been farmers. For years, they successfully lived off the land, until industrial-scale agriculture, heavily subsidized by the government, made it impossible for them to compete. Lately, as they liked to say in the family, they lived on the land, but not off it. They began to lose their homes, one after another, defaulting on second mortgages, owing back taxes, watching as their history was sold off, piece by piece, to the young wealthy families that were beginning to leave the cities; what had once been family treasures where generations of Messerschmidts had been born and raised now sat empty all week, the owners coming up only on weekends, installing central air conditioning and in-ground pools and complaining about the slow hot-water heater. And so, said Senior, Wilbur Junior had decided that if the Messerschmidts couldn’t have their farms, well, then, nobody could.

  Wilbur Messerschmidt Jr., the interviewer noted, was still at large.

  I can return it, Kugel said.

  We’re drowning, Bree said, tears of anger in her eyes.

  We’ll be okay.

  Don’t say that.

  Okay.

  It’s not okay.

  I’m sorry.

  I don’t care.

  You don’t care?

  I don’t care, said Bree. I care that we can’t afford this house. I care that you chased away our only paying tenant. I care that you care more about them than you do about us.