Hope: A Tragedy by Shalom Auslander Read Free Book Online Page B

was Anne Frank, or might be, but how about a thought or two for the living, folks? Exactly how long were the poor Samsas obligated to keep that arthropodan pain in the ass in their home? A year? Two? Ten? Sixty? Were they supposed to find him a giant bug wife, and let them have giant bug children before they could finally, without judgment, move on with their already miserable lives? Or were they never supposed to? Were they supposed to hang pictures of vermin and lice on the walls and warn their grandchildren about how they, too, might someday turn into giant bugs?
    Kugel yanked down the attic door.
    There was a good case to be made, in fact, when you stopped to consider it, that a family who truly loved their son, who deeply cared for his well-being, would, if they found him one morning turned into a hideous bug, have killed him right away; just gone out, found a giant boot somewhere, lifted it up over him and squashed him out of his misery. Gregor’s sister could have saved the whole family—not the least of whom was Gregor himself—a world of anguish and trouble if she’d just gone into his room, day one, with a giant can of Raid and gotten it over with.
    Foosh. Aaargh.
The End.
    You move on.
    Kugel unfolded the stairs and took a deep, calming breath.
    Already he could smell her.
    He would reason with her, that’s what he would do. There is nothing higher than reason, said Kant.
    Or Spinoza.
    Or Pascal.
    Pascal’s last words were: May God never abandon me.
    A moment later, God did.
    She was damaged, surely, who wouldn’t be? But that didn’t mean she was a lunatic, it didn’t mean he couldn’t discuss the issue with her coolly, with at least some degree of lucidity. Half-crazy meant half-sane, didn’t it? She couldn’t expect him to let her stay in his attic indefinitely, after all; a day or two, sure, just to get her things together, but no more than that. Three, tops. There was Jonah to think about; surely she, once a child herself, would understand that.
    Kugel wondered, as he climbed the stairs, how Jonah would react to having to hide one day in their attic.
    In the event of what, you maniac?
    In the event of whatever.
    Would Jonah cry? Of course he would, who wouldn’t? What would Kugel tell him? How do you explain a thing like that, like hatred, like genocide?
It’s not you, it’s them
?
It’s going to be okay
, when you know perfectly well that it isn’t? Do you bring toys? All of Jonah’s toys made loud, unpredictable noise—bells, sirens, engines, music. The toys, Kugel decided, would have to stay behind. He could probably bring the iPod and some headphones; assuming the wireless wasn’t down, Jonah would be able to download movies and games. Would the wireless be down in a genocide? Would it matter? Who would help them? Who would report on them? He didn’t know the neighbors very well—maybe he should get to know them better. Maybe he shouldn’t. Maybe keeping to your damned self was the best idea.
    Kugel wouldn’t survive, he knew it. He’d last a week in that attic and kill himself. Freddie Prinze killed himself. In his suicide note, he wrote this:
    I’ll be at peace.
    Professor Jove was opposed to suicide. It wasn’t that he considered it an act of cowardice; it was that he saw it as irresponsibly hopeful to imagine a better world existed after this one, in some unnamed, unknown, unproved plane of existence. As foolish as it was to believe that this is the best of all possible worlds, said Professor Jove, it was a thousand times more foolish to believe in a best possible Afterworld.
    George Eastman’s suicide note read: Why wait?
    Well, yeah.
    Sure.
    There was always that.
    Hello? Kugel whispered as he climbed into the attic.
    Maybe, thought Kugel, I should get a gun. A small one. Everyone else has a gun. It would be stupid not to.
    Kugel stood, and though he was prepared this time for the heat and the stench, they nearly felled him.
    Hello? he whispered.
    Maybe he’d imagined