Authors: Catherine Stine
Sander's TV was busted, so he turned on the radio. The announcer said that paramedics were waiting in front of hospitals for the injured to be brought in, but there were few incoming survivors. He reported that crowds were starting to congregate downtown for impromptu memorials in Tompkins Square Park and Union Square.
The ringing of the telephone made them both jump.
While Sander talked to Pax on the phone, Dawn got up and peeked into the storage closet. Jude was curled in his sleeping bag, completely zonked. Sander's voice droned along with the news. Dawn tore a piece of musical notation paper from a pad on the coffee table and wrote:
Going out for a while—Dawn.
She left the note by the stereo, grabbed her pack, and hurried out into the street.
Having walked around for hours, Dawn now dawdled by the phones.
I'll call Jude and Sander soon,
she decided as she overheard people weeping to their families. Flyers with the numbers of the emergency information lines that had been set up had been taped to the sides of the partitions. When it was her turn to use the phone, Dawn called all the numbers and asked about Laurel Sweet. No one by that name was registered in a hospital or anywhere else. “I don't know why I thought she was here,” she muttered. She called Sander's, but the phone kept ringing. After that, she walked back west and studied the crowds in front of St. Vincent's Hospital who waited to donate blood or follow clues to their injured and lost. She asked the person in charge if more blood donations were needed, but he said no, they had enough. Dawn paused near the line. There was something comforting about the group quietly waiting to help.
The sun began to set in the smoky sky. Dawn was nauseous
from the toxic fumes that rolled up the streets from the south. She couldn't grasp the enormity of six thousand estimated missing or dead, or shake the eerie images she'd seen on a store's TV. Layers of white debris appeared to cover the whole of downtown like a dry snow. “Crowds are gathering,” she repeated like a mantra as she again walked east and approached Union Square. She climbed the stairs at the north end. Candles illuminated the entire park!
Six thousand candles for six thousand missing.
She drifted with waves of people to a stone monument of Abraham Lincoln where hundreds of origami cranes wound together in a pyramid, taped to the statue's boots. A torrent of papers fluttered around Lincoln's granite base.
On each paper an image screamed,
Look at me!
Faces beamed from graduation photos and wedding pictures. Proud fathers held babies. Hundreds of photos of missing husbands, wives, sisters, lovers, and friends.
In the World Trade Center they must have been making their first phone calls of the day, Dawn thought. Trading Snapple and Shell and Microsoft, buying stocks of Martha Stewart and spring water, discussing the latest hot tickets. There were probably workers from every country in that building exchanging rubles, yen, dinars, rials, pesos, rupees, euros.
She lingered in front of one photo: a lady in front of a Christmas tree, who held out a present. The type read:
Please help me find my mom! Gail Kalinska has brown eyes, a narrow face, is 5′ 7″ tall. She was last seen wearing a black skirt, pink knit top, and a necklace with a heart-shaped amethyst. Any information please call Nona Kalinska.
Dawn wondered if the woman's necklace had been a gift. It horrified her to think that amid the crushed metal
few bodies would be found. That amethyst necklace might be the only thing left to identify someone's mom.
Drumbeats sounded, a woodblock filling in the beats
— te-kang, te-kang.
Dawn followed the sound to a group of kids hunkered down on a picnic table—some had matted dreadlocks, others long, straight hair and jeans.
They're my age,
Dawn realized, without turning her head to meet their eyes.
I have my flute. It's in my pack. I'll take it out,
she thought, but decided against it. She wouldn't know how to approach them.
Across from the musicians a square mat of candles, about two feet by three feet covered the walkway. The candles, red, blue, and white, formed a flag. Teenagers, silent and focused, crouched around it and replaced spent candles with new ones.
One of them motioned her over. “Candle?”
“Thanks.” She took the candle and crouched tentatively along the outer rim. In the dark, the undulating flames were hypnotizing. Dawn had never considered herself a patriot. Waving the flag and pledging allegiance were so forced. But who had attacked, and why?
Whoever flew planes into buildings full of American workers must hate us a lot.
She gazed back at the kids. There were all sorts of different ones sitting vigil. Soft tears rolled down their cheeks. Dawn's eyes were dry as sand. Her left eyelid twitched, and she scratched it roughly with the nylon of her jacket, scraping the soft flesh above her eyebrow.
Dawn felt as if she were floating above the candles. She wanted someone to pull her down—to connect with someone. Maybe she could talk to the boy with the key chain dangling from his jeans. He was next to her now, lighting a red candle and placing it in the striped pattern. Or maybe
the weeping girl who sat cross-legged to her left would reach out a hand. Dawn wondered if you could be taught how to connect. She sure needed lessons. It seemed to her as if there were invisible strings that bound other people, but she never felt them. Even with Jude the string was so loose.
Louise had been bad at it too, as far as Dawn could tell. If Louise knew where Dawn was, she'd freak. Dawn wondered where Louise had been when the towers fell. It was almost morning in Pakistan. Had she heard about the tragedy?
Dawn lit the blue candle with matches that a quiet girl handed her. She tried to think of a prayer or poem—just one phrase to give meaning to the blue candle—but Dawn was too aware of the others. Their prayers were more important.
She thrust a hand in her pocket and traced around the edge of the SIM card Louise had given her. Taking out the satellite phone would attract too much attention. She got up and stumbled through the crowds to a phone across the street. She'd dealt with Victor yesterday, leaving him two messages while he was still at work. In the first, she said she'd gone to Seattle with a friend, that she needed time alone. In the second she told him not to come looking and not to tell Louise. The more Dawn thought about Victor's hateful demand
—send her back before she ruins us—
the more menacing he seemed.
Dawn's heart hammered as she picked up the receiver.
I'll just see if Louise is okay.
She'd heard on the radio that camps in Afghanistan had trained Arab terrorists and that there might be a connection between these camps and the World Trade Center strike. Maybe Louise was hurt. Maybe
terrorists had raided the Red Cross camp. Maybe terrorists had killed her because she was American!
Get off this paranoid track,
Dawn warned herself. She dialed the number.
It's not because I need to.
She immediately heard a rapid busy signal. She recalled what the suited man had said earlier about the damaged phone lines. Service would probably be spotty for days.
Should I go back to Sander's?
Jude would want her there, but his parents had probably tracked him down by now. The apartment seemed light-years away, and she had a powerful urge to stay on the street. But if she stayed out, where would she sleep? Dawn felt tense as she trudged along Fourteenth Street past the CD megastore, its oversized posters of musicians smiling supremely unaware from each window.
Her feet drove her downtown, closer and closer to where the towers had fallen, where loss was most palpable. It was strange how she felt disconnected from people yet was so aware of their pain.
Dawn pleaded her way past a police officer and then tried to persuade another one at the final checkpoint. “I live here, sir—up on Vesey.” “No, I won't go into the building.” “All right, all right, I'll leave if you say so.” She had almost given up when she saw her chance. The overwhelmed officer was dealing with two hysterical guys who were begging to get to Reade Street to find their dogs. While the officer had his back turned Dawn slipped through the opening in the makeshift gate. She hid behind the corner of a building, then stumbled along eerily silent lanes littered with bonecolored powder, papers, mismatched shoes, and smashed cars. Through the acrid haze, police lights swirled. Holding her jacket over her nose to block out the fumes, Dawn
found the limestone steps of a church—St. Peter's. She lurched down the aisle to a set of red candles and knelt down, her eyes watering from their heat. There were buttons in front of each candle. She pushed one. It lit.
It must be near midnight, she thought, and looked around. There was a lone man in the back, his gray head bowed. No one was watching. She pressed a button, and a second flame rose. “For the people,” she murmured, lighting another. “For my mother out there somewhere.” And another: “I hope Louise isn't hurt.” She lit the last one. “God, keep me safe.” With that Dawn crept back down the aisle, sneaked up the wooden stairway to the balcony, and slid under a bench for the night.
J
ohar and Bija labored up the hills of Parvan province toward Charikar—a city perched on the mighty peaks of the Panjshir. Zolar's donkey trudged bravely on from dawn until late in the day, through snow and winds that cracked lips and bit through the weave of their meager attire. Bija's coughs grew frequent. Still, it was hard to keep her from wanting to jump off the donkey to play, or to distract her from asking for Maryam.
“We'll see your mother soon,” Johar repeated over and over. He was weak with exhaustion and disgusted by his own resentment at being saddled with a child. It might have been wiser to leave his cousin with Ramila after all.
“But when is soon?” Bija would persist.
It could be months…or never. He did not answer.
By the time they reached Charikar they had been on the road for at least four days. Johar was desperate for rest, and his thighs burned from saddle sores. Their food had dwindled to bread heels and a dozen stale walnuts, and the old donkey wouldn't hold up unless he was watered. Johar guided the beast through narrow streets toward the village bazaar. As he circled around a loud clump of boys, he overheard them bragging about run-ins with Taliban soldiers.
“I outran the fat lout,” said one. “They're too slow on their feet to take Charikar.”
“Right!” said another boy. “Let them fire all the rockets they want from up on the hill, but they'll get nowhere. I threw a stone at a bazaar spy, then hid so fast he thought it was a ghost from the otherworld.” They burst into laughter.
A third boy, taking notice of Johar, shouted amiably enough, “Where's your gun? Why do you travel on the road with no gun?” When Johar didn't answer, the boy pointed a finger at him and released a pretend trigger. “B-b-bam! B-b-bam!”
“Shouldn't you be off fighting, not tending toddlers?” the boy added, apparently irritated by Johar's silence.
Johar ignored him. The group broke out in snickers, made bold by their numbers.
Bija drew a finger up to shoot them. “Boom!” she fired back. “Bija is not a baby.”
So, even Bija is better at defending our honor than I am,
thought Johar. Even total strangers could make him feel unworthy. He prodded the tired donkey to a faster pace.
The market bustled with merchants hawking carpets, bicycle parts, sandals, soap, and pans. Charikar, despite curfews and checkpoints, had a surprising wealth of goods. Johar traded a hat he had knitted for rice and a bag of
keshmesh. He and Bija were luckier than most. Some families had nothing to trade and lurked on the fringes of the bazaar, bellies empty, waiting for handouts.
Johar couldn't resist spending the last precious Afghani hidden in the heel of his sock on a branch of Charikar's luscious grapes, which launched Bija into delighted squeals between coughs. As they devoured the grapes, Johar and his cousin gawked at the rows of burlap sacks, split open to reveal wheat, walnuts, cherries, and apricots. He had been to bazaars such as this since childhood, but days of hunger made it seem as if he'd never laid eyes on such splendor.
“Colors, Jor!” Bija, wide-eyed, pointed to wooden bowls displaying curries, fennel, cardamom, and other spices. Their golden hues contrasted with the overcast sky.
“Bowls!” Bija cried. Johar nodded, slowing his gait to match hers, as they made their way to the pottery stall. He admired the merchant's bowls and cups—Charikar was famous for them—and remembered that when he was a child his uncle Tilo had brought such a bowl to his mother, who'd kept it far from Johar's reach. What had become of Tilo? The last his aunt heard, Tilo was teaching in London. For all Johar knew, his uncle might have made it to America by now. London, America—places as remote as ranches he'd seen in those fantastic cowboy movies years back.
A man in a gray turban held a contraband transistor radio at the end of the pottery booth. The crowd of men around him shook their heads. Kalashnikovs clanked against one another, and the air snapped with tension.
Better leave,
thought Johar, unnerved by the simmering anger. As he turned to go, a Talib voice broke through the radio's static. “Praise Allah, the infidels have been struck in their American homeland!” The crowd buzzed.
Johar leaned over to a wiry man whose ear was affixed to the radio. “Sahib, can you tell me what happened?”
“Pilots flew planes into American buildings,” the man replied. “The buildings burned and then fell! Thousands died.”
The Charikar grapes that had tasted like nectar moments ago stuck now in Johar's gullet. His hand gripped Bija's tightly as he pictured domed mosques caving in and worshipers crushed by giant minarets whose marble columns snapped like twigs. “But why?” he asked. The man did not reply.
“The infidels have been punished for their sins,” blared the radio.
“Sins?” Johar tapped another man's arm. “Who flew these planes?”
A muscled man spun around. “They say it was Al Qaeda pilots; some say they crashed the planes on purpose. They say it was the Al Qaeda Arabs who train in Kandahar.”