The Book of Why by Nicholas Montemarano Read Free Book Online Page B

strangest names: Surprise, Arizona; What Cheer, Iowa; Come by Chance, New South Wales; Truth or Consequences, New Mexico; Hell, Michigan; Paradise, Pennsylvania; Ecstasy, Texas. Most of the notes were cheerful, overexclamatory, but in some, usually near the end, I detected a hint of sadness; these were the ones I tended to reread most. A man named Steven told a woman named Lee about a play he saw in Chicago called When Three Become Two , how it made him miss her, how he’d keep his promise, but in his PS, which was written in tiny cursive, he mentioned the despair he felt on the Skydeck of the Sears Tower, not because it was windy and he could feel the tower swaying, but because the sky was clear and he could see across Lake Michigan to Indiana, where he knew she was. It was, for a while, my favorite postcard. I had rotating favorites, which I’d bring to school and keep inside my books and read throughout the day; I’d daydream during class, wondering what Lee looked like, what Steven’s promise had been.
    There was a Rita who wrote from Richmond that she was considering giving up, that she had tried and tried, but her prayers hadn’t been answered. There was a John in Austin who’d had the best day of his life with a girl named Linda he’d just met, and a Jon without an h in Vancouver who’d lost his wallet and had to sleep in a park and was about to hitch his way to Walla Walla, he might miss the funeral, please give his apologies to the kids. In my mind Rita hadn’t given up, John had married Linda, Jon had made it to Walla Walla for the funeral, and all these people knew each other, and they knew Steven and Lee, and somehow everything and everyone were connected, we were all part of the same story, and I wanted it to have a happy ending. I imagined that if I brought the right postcard to school, if I reread it often enough and sent the person who had written the note my best wishes and played out in my mind a happy ending for whatever story I had created, then all would be well.
    But the next week my father would bring me a new postcard from Salem or St. Paul or Baton Rouge, another note filled with exclamation points but with a passing sadness or regret, a parenthetical or PS that said, though not always directly, help me, love me, don’t leave me, come back, don’t give up, don’t let me give up, I’m sorry, I’ll try harder, do better, be better.
    Â * * *
    It was the year of hearing voices.
    My father brought me a transistor radio he’d found in good condition, batteries included. In bed at night, I would roam the AM dial until a voice compelled me to stop; it could have been a word or phrase that stopped me, or just the tone or conviction of the person’s voice.
    â€œThe chaos around you has been put there by design.”
    â€œYou’re the boss, you’re the chief. I see bright skies for you. But you’re standing in your own way, man. Give up that negativity—dump it.”
    â€œDoesn’t it seem true that we wouldn’t get into so many tight spots if we asked for God’s help a little sooner?”
    â€œShe set fire to the garage because she believed Satan was inside.”
    â€œYou’re lucky there isn’t a bullet in your heart.”
    â€œI am protected and guided by the Divine at all times. Let us step into the Light together.”
    I fell asleep with the radio pressed to my ear. Some nights I woke afraid someone was in the room with me; I would lie still, trying to locate the voice—closet, attic, under the bed.
    â€œOne son put him in the grave,” a man’s voice said. “The other wants to raise him from it.”
    I felt the radio under my pillow, brought it to my ear, and waited, but there was only silence. I thought the batteries had died, but when I tried other stations, my room filled with voices again.
    â€œShe’s a happy, satisfied camper with the Lord,” a woman said.