The next morning, Ethan and I went back to the hospital early—we both had to teach at ten. No one else was there yet. The doctor from the day before had left a note with a list of names. We were to be allowed back, any of us, whenever we came. Atlas still seemed too small, warm, and lethargic, with half closed lids and a slack little mouth but, the nurse told us, “not worse,” which evidently counts as “responding.”
I was skeptical. Regardless, I went to class anyway. The thing about teaching is you just go and do it somehow, and while you do, there’s nothing else. You find yourself in front of the classroom performing the role of a sane, held-together adult, and so you become one, at least for the duration of the period. No matter what else is going on in your life, if you have to get up in front of a group of people and say something, you are likely to think of something to say.
Since I had genre on the brain, we started there. As my grandmother pointed out, just because a story is sad doesn’t make it a tragedy. All stories are sad, at least a little bit. I told my students to think about all the tears shed during the happiest moments of people’s lives—graduating from school, falling in love, getting married, having babies—not all of those tears are tears of joy. All stories have sad; tragedy is something else altogether. Stories exist on their own, outside of everything. The business of their telling is searching for a genre to call home.
So how do we find home?
“It depends on what happens in them,” Sarah Iverson guessed.
Brent Haddon echoed, “When sad things happen, it’s a tragedy. When funny things happen, it’s a comedy.”
“When there’s lots of sex, it’s a romance,” Pete Fansom piped in from the back.
By the fourth week of summer term, engaged, creative insight is a lot to ask. But I pressed them. The vast majority of stories are none of the above I insisted. Endings are ambiguous. Mostly we see how quick bright things come to confusion. So often, characters go from a state of being settled, where they more or less feel they understand and have a handle on things, to being sadder, more confused, more at sea, more unsure. And then it ends. Obviously, literature is like this because life is too.
With film, it’s easier. In most genres, we know how movies will end. The joy is watching those ends play out. The joy is we know when we watch movies that all the angst, indecision, misery, heartache, injustice, and torture will turn out okay. Most movies aren’t tragedies. Most movies are redemptive. We see their characters going through the hard parts knowing that it will turn out well for them, that they will learn from their pain what they wouldn’t without it. And it is nice to see this play out and to live vicariously, for a few hours, a life where, unlike yours, this is the case. My hip, savvy students named exceptions—there are lots, of course—but we noted they were exceptions indeed. So my gripe was that it seemed unfair that though my life was very filmic (dying relatives, rare diseases, blood feuds, warrantless arrests), my ending wouldn’t be.
“Maybe it will be,” said Ethan on the way back to the hospital after class.
“No it won’t. It can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because I can’t even imagine it. That all this mess, this heartbreak, this anger and fear could mean something good and useful? No way. Even in my fantasy, I can’t write this so it all works out. There’s too many pieces. It’s too big. That’s my point—it’s only in the movies that it all comes together in the end, and you realize it was worth it, and you learn important somethings and become a better person. I don’t see how that could happen here.”
“Of course you don’t,” said Ethan. “Not now. But it’s not over yet. You won’t know until the end.”
“I don’t get to see the end. I’m not an omniscient narrator. This is first person all the way.”
“Clearly.”
“At the end, I’ll be dead.”
“This is not a tragedy, Janey,” Ethan said, suddenly serious.
“How do you know?” I whispered.
“It has none of the markings. It doesn’t feel like tragedy. It feels like trial, but not tragedy.”
“Life doesn’t work like that. Literature doesn’t even work like that.”
“In this case,” he promised, “it does. It will.”
When I got home after the hospital, Katie was standing in the middle of our living room, looking lost.
“Hey.”
“Hey.”
“How was your trip?”
“Great. How’s Atlas?”
“Responding evidently. You can go visit anytime.”
“How’s your grandma?”
“Also better, thanks.”
“I’m on my way to the hospital in just a sec.”
“Good. Atlas could use more company. I’ll join you again later.”
“Yeah, for sure. We should get a pizza and a movie or something tonight.”
“Sounds good.”
“Uh, Janey?”
“Yeah?”
“Where’s our furniture?”
There was a note of course. There usually is in the movies. No loose ends here. In fairness though, I knew the contents before I even found the letter, and though it offered explanation, it lacked reasons or even reason. Worst of all, it was from Daniel. Even via letter, evidently, Jill wasn’t speaking to me. To us.
Dear K&J,
Don’t worry—everything’s fine. But this arrangement, if it was ever working, isn’t anymore. Jill is moving in with me. We belong together—we know that now. As you can see, we have already moved most of her stuff. We know much of the furniture was shared, but we feel that Atlas should have as many remnants of home as possible to ease the transition. Of course, Atlas will be with us, and I know you would want him to be as comfortable as possible. We will be in touch soon and let you know where we are and how to contact us but not yet. I think we all agree we could all use some space. I have learned, more than you can know but as you will observe, what problems time and distance can mend.
See you soon,
Dan (and Jill)
“What an asshole,” said Katie.
Then the blessed phone rang. We both leapt for it, afraid it was the hospital and things had turned for the worse again, afraid it was Jill calling to regret, apologize, make amends, afraid it was the police and they had decided to arrest me after all. But instead it was my father calling to tell me that my grandmother had died.