I wandered into my mom’s room, knowing I didn’t want to sleep there, and also knowing it was the only bed available to me.
I hauled in my backpacker’s five-day pack and pulled out my running shoes, my clean underwear, my dirty laundry from the trip.
I used my mom’s bathroom, and while I did, I looked at the oversize clawfoot tub and decided a bath would be just the thing. So I ran one. It was deep and it was hot.
I eased my tired body into it and lay back, eyes closed. I sighed.
Next thing I knew, I was bolting upright in the tub, sputtering, spitting bathwater out of my nose and mouth. So that was too dangerous. I was too sleepy for a bath.
I dried off and put on a pair of clean boxers. A tee-shirt would have been nice to sleep in, but I didn’t have one clean. I took a deep breath and climbed into my mom’s bed. Where I knew I was not allowed. With only one exception: if I’d had a nightmare.
Silently, in my head, I told my mother I believed this just might qualify.
TWO DAYS AFTER
the towers fell, I caught a ride in the dark at a little after five thirty in the morning. I knew I was on Interstate Route 70, and that I was west of Indianapolis, but I didn’t know if I was still in Indiana, or if I had passed into Illinois some time in the night.
Lots of things are a mystery in the dark. Maybe that’s why as many people are afraid of the light as the other way around.
‘I don’t usually stop for hitchhikers,’ the driver said, before I was even granted permission to get in. He was sixtyish, with hair that could have been blond, or gray, or both, shaved in an old-fashioned buzz cut. He wore a jersey in a most alarming shade of orange. ‘But I know people are still having trouble getting around. Getting home. Is that your situation?’
‘Yes, sir, it is. I’m trying to make it from New York back to Kansas for a funeral, and I booked a plane, but … well, you know.’
‘Go on and get in, then,’ he said.
We drove in silence for a time. How long a time, I’d be hard-pressed to say. Could have been ten minutes, or it could have been half an hour. Or maybe I even dozed briefly and never knew.
‘Whereabouts in Kansas?’ he asked suddenly, startling me.
‘Nowhere-ville,’ I said, forgetting, for just a brief second, to censor myself. Forgetting that some things were meant solely for the silence of the inside of my head. ‘Sorry. I meant Norville. Norville, Kansas.’
‘I wondered …’
‘When we were kids, we always called it Nowhere-ville. You know. Norville. Nowhere-ville. The temptation was irresistible.’
He didn’t comment on that, though I expected he was a man who could have resisted the temptation. Instead he just said, ‘I never heard of Norville, Kansas.’
‘Thanks for helping me prove my point.’
Another long silence. Long enough to lull me back into the hypnosis of the road.
‘Piece of tough luck,’ the man said, startling me again. ‘To have to add a funeral on top of all this. Someone close?’
‘My mom.’
‘Oh dear. Sorry I even asked.’
‘It’s OK. Yeah. Bad timing. Especially since nearly everybody I knew was in one of those towers.’
He seemed to consider that for a time. As though it were a thing that might or might not be true.
‘Which one?’ he asked, and it seemed like an odd question.
‘North Tower. One World Trade Center.’
‘Anybody you know make it out alive?’
‘Just one that I know of. He was late getting in, like me. My office was above the … you know … the floors that took a direct hit. I heard on the radio news they’re figuring nobody survived above the hit line.’
Interesting. Interesting how I talked about it as though I were describing the plot of a movie I’d seen two days previously.
We didn’t talk for a few minutes. I looked out the window to see that the stars had faded, and the barest hint of morning was glowing in the side mirror, to the east. Directly behind us.
My cell phone rang, and it felt as though someone had dropped a heavy object into my stomach from a long way up. Maybe a cinder block. Maybe an anvil.
I thought, Please don’t be Kerry. I looked. It was Kerry.
‘Mind if I get that?’ I asked my driver.
‘No, why would I mind?’
‘I don’t know. Just seemed rude.’
‘Go ahead.’
I flipped the phone open. ‘Kerry,’ I said.
My mouth felt dry. Like flannel. I could feel a pounding in my ears.
‘They found him,’ she said.
But I was already armored for it. So her words just hit the armor and slid off.
‘Jeff?’
‘Who the hell else, Russell? Who the hell else would I call you and say, “They found him” about?’
True, it had been a dumb question. But this was a new side of her. There was no reason for her to speak in anger to me. Other than having just lost her husband. I decided to consider the circumstances and let it go by.
‘They actually found his body? I thought that was impossible under—’
‘He jumped.’
I felt a pinching sensation at the very back of my tongue, on both sides, like a hit of lemon juice, and my stomach tipped dangerously. I opened my mouth to speak, but nothing came out. I closed my eyes and tried not to see the image. The view I’d seen through my telescope two days earlier. Of course, that hadn’t been Jeff. At least, reason held that it hadn’t been. But it really didn’t matter. Because it had been somebody.
‘When are you coming back?’ Kerry asked, a needy, gaping black hole in her voice that I’d never heard before. Then again, these were remarkable times.
‘I haven’t even gotten there yet.’
‘But … what do you think? How long do you think you’ll have to stay?’
‘I have no idea.’
‘It takes, like … what? Five days or so to plan a funeral?’
‘Kerry. I haven’t even figured out who’s going to take care of Ben.’
That was a lie. Actually. I had. I’d figured out that I was the only candidate.
‘I need you here,’ she said, breaking down.
My heart went out to her … then turned and ran like a spooked coyote.
I glanced at the driver in my peripheral vision. That was why I hadn’t wanted it to be Kerry. That was why I hadn’t wanted to take the call.
Well. One of the reasons.
‘Can we talk about this later?’
‘What’s going on there, Russell?’ Between sobs.
‘Nothing. Really. I just got a ride. This nice gentleman is driving me through Indiana—’
‘Illinois,’ the nice gentleman said. In case there was any doubt as to whether he was listening. How could he not hear, though? It was the front seat of a goddamn car.
‘Illinois. And I would just feel better if we could talk later, in private.’
‘This feels bad, Russell. What’re you saying? You’re coming back, right?’
‘I’d rather talk about this later.’
‘I’m going to see you again, right? Because I’ve got nothing here. I lost everything, Russell. You’re coming back. Right?’
I swallowed a little of the flannel in my mouth with great effort. The silence lasted too long, and we both knew it.
‘He was my best friend, Kerry.’
‘What are you saying?’
‘Not over his dead body. You know.’
‘I think I’m going to be sick,’ she said.
And, though it’s strange to report, I sat still in the car, my cell phone to my ear, realizing I didn’t know this woman at all. Realizing that the phenomenon of attraction – all attraction, not just mine – is a form of illusion. Under the illusion lies a real person. But which one? What person? That’s the part you don’t get to know. Until it’s too late.
‘I’ll call you when I’m in-between rides. Do you have anybody you can call? Anybody who can be with you?’
A couple of loud sniffles. ‘I could call my mother. See if she’s home.’
‘You called me before you called your mother?’
‘I thought …’
‘Never mind. I’ll call you as soon as I can.’
I flipped the phone closed. Awkward silence.
What exactly do you say to a stranger who just overheard all that? What does he say to you?
Apparently nothing.
‘You got quiet,’ I said after a while.
‘It’s none of my business,’ he said.
I watched the sky lightening.
‘I guess I should’ve let that go to voicemail.’
‘I could be wrong,’ he said, ‘and if I’m wrong I apologize. And even if I’m right, I know it’s none of my business. But it’s sounding like you were having an
affair
with your best friend’s wife. And I don’t know what to say to a man like that. Even if it
is
none of my business. It sort of found its way into my car, though. Otherwise …’
‘I never touched her. We never touched each other. In any way. Ever. It was just something that happened … you know … on a feeling level. It was just feelings.’
‘Where I come from,’ he said, his knuckles pale on the steering wheel, ‘you don’t even have
feelings
for your best friend’s wife.’
A flare of my own anger surprised me.
‘Oh, thanks,’ I said. ‘Thanks for letting me know. You seem to know everything, so … care to let me know how I go about not having feelings?’
A long silence. I watched him chew on the inside of his cheek. Then I looked in the side mirror and watched the sky reddening. I figured he was just looking for a place to pull over and let me out.
I looked back to see his right hand extended in my direction, as if he were waiting for me to shake. Which, it slowly dawned on me, he was.
‘Accept my apology?’ he asked.
‘Oh,’ I said. A bit dumbfounded.
I still had not shaken the hand.
‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘You’re absolutely right. I’m sorry. Hearts pretty well do what they do. Can’t tell ’em much of anything. I guess it’s mostly what you actually
do
that you gotta answer for. So … forgive my outburst?’
‘There’s nothing to forgive,’ I said, staring at the hand. I shook it. It felt calloused and dry. ‘Everybody’s just a little on edge. More emotional than usual.’
‘Got that right.’
We rode in silence for a long time. I watched him pull an individually wrapped toothpick from the pocket of his orange jersey and peel back the paper. I expected him to pick his teeth with it. Instead he just held one end in his mouth. The world’s smallest cigarette, without all that dangerous smoke and fire.
Insects were hitting the windshield. We were driving through an agricultural landscape, and big bug after big bug tapped the glass, each leaving a whitish splotch to mark the moment of its death.
‘Besides,’ he said, as if we’d never paused the conversation. ‘You told her just exactly the right thing. Not over his dead body.’
I stared at the bugs some more.
‘It wasn’t as noble as it sounded,’ I said.
I remembered a joke my friend Mark had told me in grade school. Well, my acquaintance Mark. I grew up next door to him. But we never really fit quite right.
What’s the last thing that goes through a bug’s head when it hits your windshield? Its ass.
I didn’t think it was funny.
Maybe it’s an overload of empathy on my part, or maybe I just have a too-well-developed sense of fairness. The problem with that joke is that it’s only funny if you’re not a bug. Call it weird, but I can’t help putting
myself
in bug shoes. Hey, that was my uncle Joe’s ass. That’s my friend Hector on that windshield. And it’s not so damn funny.
‘It’s like this,’ I said. ‘I just have this … aversion … to her. Since … you know. After what happened. It feels like one of those places you go to stop smoking, and every time you reach for a cigarette, they zap you with electricity. No. That’s not a good analogy. Because that’s a lot of little things. This is one big thing. It feels like when you eat a whole bunch of a certain kind of food and then get sick. And maybe the food didn’t even make you sick. Maybe you ate three plates of fettuccini Alfredo, and then got the stomach flu. And all night you’re up, throwing up fettuccini Alfredo. You’ll never eat it again. Guaranteed. It’s knee-jerk. So don’t give me more credit than I deserve.’
We stared out the windshield a while longer. It was light now. It was officially morning.
My driver was chewing up one end of his toothpick. I wasn’t sure how he could even see the road through all those bug splats.
As if reading my mind, he said, ‘I’ll have to stop at the next filling station. Clean the windshield proper. Won’t help to put on the washers. That only makes it worse. Smears it. Damned inconvenient.’
‘Not as inconvenient as it was for the bugs.’
He laughed, one little snort.
‘Good point.’
‘I lied to her.’ I was in full-on confession mode. And
we
both knew it. ‘She told me to go get my telescope. I have this telescope. A guy at work gave it to me. It’s not so much for astronomy. You can’t see much of the stars in the city anyway. For him I think it was a peeping Tom thing. I used to use it to look at the towers. Mostly the North Tower. My tower, I used to call it. It was such a dream for me … to actually work there. I used to find the one-hundred-and-fourth floor with the telescope, and then find my actual office window. It was just a thing I liked to do. At the beginning. I hadn’t done it for a while. So Kerry knew I had this telescope. So she told me to go get it. We were talking on the phone. She was watching on TV, and I was watching out my window. I live in Jersey City, right across the river from lower Manhattan. We watched the second plane hit. While we were talking. And we were, like … this is not happening. So she said, “Get your telescope.” And I did. And I told her I couldn’t see anything. Just smoke.’
Silence. I think he was waiting. In case I’d restart on my own.
‘But you saw something more.’
‘I watched somebody jump.’
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him quietly cross himself.
‘And I kept thinking, how hot does it have to be? In your office. How hot does it have to get? You’re more than a hundred floors up. And the certain death, well, that goes without saying. Obviously. You know you’re going to die, one way or the other. But just to be able to
push
off. Or even let go. Just to override that hard-wired survival instinct. How hot does it have to be in your office? And that was my office. I mean, not the very person I saw. But it was the same in my office. And I knew Jeff was up there, along with just about everybody else we knew. So I told her all I could see was smoke.’