Today I clean two houses in a row, hauling laundry and ironing pillowcases, and cleaning the squared kitchen tile with a squeegee. The tile isn’t really tile; it’s linoleum. But that’s how Mrs. Chandler likes it done, and who I am to argue?
Over the next few days, when I’m not working, I carry my cleaning zeal over to Tricia’s and my tiny house, taking bleach and an old toothbrush and going at the shower grout, which has gone black with mildew. Tricia is so shocked when she sees the tiles go from gray to their previous white-and-blue state, she doesn’t even say anything sarcastic.
I keep myself busy in a frenzy until I don’t have a gig, and our house is as clean as it’s been since we moved in. I sit on my bed and organize my earnings by bill denominations: I’ve made two hundred and forty bucks this week alone. I have to give Tricia one hundred dollars for my share of bills, but that leaves me with quite a surplus, and nothing to spend it on. Theoretically, I am saving for the move to Seattle. Theoretically, I learned in physics that the universe is expanding at a rate of, like, forty-five miles a second, but it sure as shit doesn’t feel that way when you’re standing still.
I shove the money into my metal box under the bed. Tricia has been known to pilfer cash if it’s lying around. The house is quiet and stuffy, more claustrophobic than normal. I slide on my flip-flops and walk into town. Outside the Dairy Queen, I see a bunch of people I went to school with clustered on the benches under the cottonwood trees, including Troy Boggins. They wave and I wave back but they don’t invite me to sit down with them and I don’t pretend I want to.
I go to the library instead. Now that Meg is gone and her house is no longer my second home, this is my sanctuary. Plus, it has air-conditioning.
Mrs. Banks is sitting behind the reference desk, and when she sees me, she waves me over. “Cody, where have you been? I was about to send these back.” She pulls out a rubber-banded stack of books, more of the Central Europeans. Karel Capek’s War with the Newts, Bohumil Hrabal’s Too Loud a Solitude, a collection of Kafka short stories.
“Thanks,” I say. I am out of books, but as soon as I enter the cool of the library, I understand that’s not why I’m here.
I make my way to the computer terminals. I type Final Solution and suicide into the search box. It brings up mostly Hitler and neo-Nazi stuff, though there is one page that seems promising, but when I click on it, it won’t load. I try the other sites from the search, and they won’t either.
“Is there something wrong with the computers?” I ask Mrs. Banks.
“I don’t think so. Why?”
“I can’t get pages to load.”
“Cody,” she asks, “are you looking at naughty sites?”
She’s teasing, but I flush red anyway. “I’m doing a research project.”
“On what?”
“Neo-Nazi groups.” Another lie. It just pops right out.
“Ahh, that’ll do it. I can lift the filters for you if you like,” she says.
“No,” I say quickly. Nobody can know about this. And that’s when I remember I have my own computer now. And the library has free Wi-Fi. “I mean, I have to leave now. But tomorrow?”
“Anytime, Cody,” she says. “I trust you.”
x x x
The next day, I bring Meg’s laptop to the library, and before I get started, Mrs. Banks shows me how to get around the filters. Then I get to work. The Final Solution website isn’t so much a website as an entry portal. You have to click on a button claiming that you’re over eighteen. When I do, I’m redirected to an index with different topic headings. I open a few messages. A lot of them are spam. A lot more are ranting. I scroll through a few pages and it seems like a waste of time. And then I see a subject heading: What about My Wife?
The post is from some guy who claims he wants to kill himself but wonders what it would be like for his wife, whom he loves. Will it ruin her life? he writes.
There’s a string of replies below. The majority opinion is that his wife will probably be relieved, that she’s probably miserable too, and by offing himself he’ll put them both out of their misery. Women are way better at bouncing back from this kind of thing, one person writes. She’ll probably remarry within a few years and be much better off.
Who are these people? Is this who Meg was talking to?
I read the responses again, so casual that you’d think they’re offering advice on how to fix a broken carburetor, and as I do, my neck grows hot and something churns in my stomach. I don’t know if these people had anything to do with Meg. I don’t know if this guy really intended to kill himself, or if he actually did. But I know one thing: You don’t just bounce back.
16
After discovering the Final Solution boards, I spend every moment I can combing through the archives.
Shitburg’s not a very wired place, so basically all my research is done at the library, which, even with Meg’s intervention, is only open limited hours, most of which overlap with my job. If we had an Internet connection at home, I could get a lot more done, but when I raise the topic with Tricia, even offer to pay, she scoffs. “Why would we get that?”
Once upon a time, I would’ve gone to the Garcias and used their computer. But I wouldn’t feel comfortable doing that anymore, even if I weren’t digging into Meg’s suicide. So, the library it is.
“How are you liking the Czechs?” Mrs. Banks asks me one afternoon. I’m confused for a second, and then I remember the books I checked out. I haven’t cracked a single spine.
“They’re interesting,” I lie. Normally, I read two or three books a week and have very specific plot or character-related comments for her.
“Would you like me to renew them for you?”
“That would be great. Thank you.” I turn back to my computer.
“Still working on that research project?”
“Yeah,” I say.
“Anything I can help you with?” She leans in to look at the screen.
“No!” I say a little too loudly as I quickly minimize the window.
Mrs. Banks looks taken aback. “Sorry. You’ve been so focused, I thought you might need help.”
“Thanks. I’m okay. I guess I’m not sure what I’m looking for.”
This part is true. Every day more posts are added. There are the ones asking for encouragement or advice on how to tie a noose, and the ones from people with terminally ill spouses or friends who want to help them die with dignity. And then there are the completely random rants about Israel or gas prices or who won Idol. There’s a whole language that’s used, shorthand for different methods, slang, like catching the bus, which is the way people here talk about offing themselves.
Over the next few days, when I’m not working, I carry my cleaning zeal over to Tricia’s and my tiny house, taking bleach and an old toothbrush and going at the shower grout, which has gone black with mildew. Tricia is so shocked when she sees the tiles go from gray to their previous white-and-blue state, she doesn’t even say anything sarcastic.
I keep myself busy in a frenzy until I don’t have a gig, and our house is as clean as it’s been since we moved in. I sit on my bed and organize my earnings by bill denominations: I’ve made two hundred and forty bucks this week alone. I have to give Tricia one hundred dollars for my share of bills, but that leaves me with quite a surplus, and nothing to spend it on. Theoretically, I am saving for the move to Seattle. Theoretically, I learned in physics that the universe is expanding at a rate of, like, forty-five miles a second, but it sure as shit doesn’t feel that way when you’re standing still.
I shove the money into my metal box under the bed. Tricia has been known to pilfer cash if it’s lying around. The house is quiet and stuffy, more claustrophobic than normal. I slide on my flip-flops and walk into town. Outside the Dairy Queen, I see a bunch of people I went to school with clustered on the benches under the cottonwood trees, including Troy Boggins. They wave and I wave back but they don’t invite me to sit down with them and I don’t pretend I want to.
I go to the library instead. Now that Meg is gone and her house is no longer my second home, this is my sanctuary. Plus, it has air-conditioning.
Mrs. Banks is sitting behind the reference desk, and when she sees me, she waves me over. “Cody, where have you been? I was about to send these back.” She pulls out a rubber-banded stack of books, more of the Central Europeans. Karel Capek’s War with the Newts, Bohumil Hrabal’s Too Loud a Solitude, a collection of Kafka short stories.
“Thanks,” I say. I am out of books, but as soon as I enter the cool of the library, I understand that’s not why I’m here.
I make my way to the computer terminals. I type Final Solution and suicide into the search box. It brings up mostly Hitler and neo-Nazi stuff, though there is one page that seems promising, but when I click on it, it won’t load. I try the other sites from the search, and they won’t either.
“Is there something wrong with the computers?” I ask Mrs. Banks.
“I don’t think so. Why?”
“I can’t get pages to load.”
“Cody,” she asks, “are you looking at naughty sites?”
She’s teasing, but I flush red anyway. “I’m doing a research project.”
“On what?”
“Neo-Nazi groups.” Another lie. It just pops right out.
“Ahh, that’ll do it. I can lift the filters for you if you like,” she says.
“No,” I say quickly. Nobody can know about this. And that’s when I remember I have my own computer now. And the library has free Wi-Fi. “I mean, I have to leave now. But tomorrow?”
“Anytime, Cody,” she says. “I trust you.”
x x x
The next day, I bring Meg’s laptop to the library, and before I get started, Mrs. Banks shows me how to get around the filters. Then I get to work. The Final Solution website isn’t so much a website as an entry portal. You have to click on a button claiming that you’re over eighteen. When I do, I’m redirected to an index with different topic headings. I open a few messages. A lot of them are spam. A lot more are ranting. I scroll through a few pages and it seems like a waste of time. And then I see a subject heading: What about My Wife?
The post is from some guy who claims he wants to kill himself but wonders what it would be like for his wife, whom he loves. Will it ruin her life? he writes.
There’s a string of replies below. The majority opinion is that his wife will probably be relieved, that she’s probably miserable too, and by offing himself he’ll put them both out of their misery. Women are way better at bouncing back from this kind of thing, one person writes. She’ll probably remarry within a few years and be much better off.
Who are these people? Is this who Meg was talking to?
I read the responses again, so casual that you’d think they’re offering advice on how to fix a broken carburetor, and as I do, my neck grows hot and something churns in my stomach. I don’t know if these people had anything to do with Meg. I don’t know if this guy really intended to kill himself, or if he actually did. But I know one thing: You don’t just bounce back.
16
After discovering the Final Solution boards, I spend every moment I can combing through the archives.
Shitburg’s not a very wired place, so basically all my research is done at the library, which, even with Meg’s intervention, is only open limited hours, most of which overlap with my job. If we had an Internet connection at home, I could get a lot more done, but when I raise the topic with Tricia, even offer to pay, she scoffs. “Why would we get that?”
Once upon a time, I would’ve gone to the Garcias and used their computer. But I wouldn’t feel comfortable doing that anymore, even if I weren’t digging into Meg’s suicide. So, the library it is.
“How are you liking the Czechs?” Mrs. Banks asks me one afternoon. I’m confused for a second, and then I remember the books I checked out. I haven’t cracked a single spine.
“They’re interesting,” I lie. Normally, I read two or three books a week and have very specific plot or character-related comments for her.
“Would you like me to renew them for you?”
“That would be great. Thank you.” I turn back to my computer.
“Still working on that research project?”
“Yeah,” I say.
“Anything I can help you with?” She leans in to look at the screen.
“No!” I say a little too loudly as I quickly minimize the window.
Mrs. Banks looks taken aback. “Sorry. You’ve been so focused, I thought you might need help.”
“Thanks. I’m okay. I guess I’m not sure what I’m looking for.”
This part is true. Every day more posts are added. There are the ones asking for encouragement or advice on how to tie a noose, and the ones from people with terminally ill spouses or friends who want to help them die with dignity. And then there are the completely random rants about Israel or gas prices or who won Idol. There’s a whole language that’s used, shorthand for different methods, slang, like catching the bus, which is the way people here talk about offing themselves.
