One September Morning (15 page)

New York City
Abby

O
n the plane, Abby unzips her backpack and takes out the red jersey before stuffing her belongings under the seat in front of her. Lovingly, she opens the shirt for a quick glimpse of the number “19” before folding it neatly and pressing it to the side of her face, a reassuring pillow. It smells of soap and citrus. It smells of John.

She settles against the window, unable to believe she is on her way to claim her husband’s body.

Abby is seated on the left side of the plane, which takes off and circles south, allowing a prime view of Manhattan as it rises into the silken blue sky. Her eyes scan the green rectangle of Central Park, over the skyscrapers that once held her in awe, the Chrysler Building with its widgets and twirled ornamentation, the stoic Empire State Building, and others with curled or asymmetrical rooftops, boxes of glass and chrome. She holds her breath as the vista widens to South Ferry and the gaping hole that once held the two towers of the World Trade Center. Without the Twin Towers, the city’s skyline seems broken, like a prizefighter missing his front teeth.

Sometimes it seems her life could be divided by the fall of those towers—divided into the girl who lived before that time, without a grave concern or world consciousness, and the woman who emerged in the aftermath.

She was in her junior year at Wagner College, a small private school on Staten Island, when the attacks happened. Her dormitory, a fourteen-story building aptly named Harbor View, overlooked New York Harbor from Grymes Hill, where students could study in suburban splendor while observing the frenzied energy of the city from a distance. The morning of September 11, 2001, Abby was toweling off her hair and going over notes for a quiz on Shakespeare’s sonnets when she noticed the black smoke billowing out of the tower across the expanse of blue water. A fire in one of the Twin Towers.

When Abby turned the television on and learned that there had reports that a plane had crashed into the North Tower, she couldn’t believe it. On such a clear, sunny day, how could that happen?

Within minutes, students were sweeping down the corridor, knocking randomly on doors, moving from television sets to wide windows as the massive tragedy unfolded before their eyes. Abby never had a chance to dry her hair but sat on the windowsill of her dorm room as Hitch hunched down on the bed and Flint paced the floor, uncharacteristically quiet. Abby called John and got his voice mail, which was no surprise, as he had a mandatory football practice each morning.

When the second plane hit the South Tower, Flint stopped pacing and fell to his knees in front of the small television set. “No!”

Abby slid from her perch and stood behind Flint, her hands on his shoulders little consolation for either of them as the news network switched over to other reporters, none of them able to confirm or clarify much of anything.

“Are we under attack?” Abby asked, feeling suddenly vulnerable on the thirteenth floor of a tall building.

“Who the hell knows,” Flint muttered under his breath.

“Fannie! Oh, Lord!” Hitch bolted up and fished in his pocket for his cell phone. “She’s on her way from the U.K. Not arriving till late this afternoon, but she’s probably in the air already.” He checked the time, pacing the room feverishly as he tried to reach his girlfriend.

At one point Abby looked at the clock and realized she’d just missed her Shakespeare test, which suddenly didn’t seem to matter. If any classes were going on. If this floor of the dorm were any indication, most students were glued to the events across the harbor.

Hitch reached Fanteen’s parents and learned that she was, indeed, in the air over the Atlantic. With all air traffic currently shut off, no one could say what would happen to those flights headed this way.

Abby remained on that windowsill most of the afternoon, unable to watch but unable to look away as the huge white tower crumbled into a cloud of dust. When her cell phone rang, she almost didn’t answer, but it was John.

“John—I’ve been trying to reach you. Are you okay?”

“I can’t believe what we just saw. The South Tower went down.”

“I know,” she answered quietly. She closed her eyes against the images, but they persisted. A commercial jet plunging into a fireball. People hanging out open windows, smoke billowing out around them. And the ones who jumped…

“I feel like such a jerk,” John said. “I’m off running a football and people are dying a few miles away. Right now I know what my father’s been working toward all these years, serving our country. I get it. Those buildings were attacked, and I’m going in there. I’ll walk if I have to.”

“John, no!” Fear shot through her at the prospect. “Don’t be a fool. They’re trying to get everyone out of there.” She wanted to tell him to slow down, to stop jumping to conclusions, but the day’s events had thrown her so far off balance she couldn’t form the words.

“That was no accident, Abs. America is under attack, and we can’t sit back and let it happen.”

“What can we do?” Abby asked him.

“Fight back,” John said. “Fight for the U.S.A.”

Abby shook her head. In her mind, war was not the answer, particularly when it was not clear who the enemy was. “You’re losing me. But please, promise me you won’t go into the city.”

“If they put out a call for help, I’ll be there. I’m going to give blood now. Look, I’m losing you, too. The cell connections are overloaded, I think. I’ll call you later, okay?”

“Okay,” she said, not bothering to tell him that more was lost than a cell phone connection.

They rode out the storm together, Abby, Flint, and Hitch.

“Do you think we’re safe here?” Hitch asked.

“Probably not. I don’t think we’ll ever be safe again,” Flint answered without taking his eyes off the television. “Then again, who ever heard of attacking Staten Island?”

Abby shook her head. “You are so not funny.”

“I wasn’t trying to be.”

Late that night a call came through from Fanteen, whose plane had landed somewhere in Canada. “Some rather pastoral airport. They loaded us all onto buses and brought us to this church, and we’re to sleep in the pews. Someone is bringing us blankets and hot food shortly. Seems there are no hotels nearby, and the closest ones are booked.”

“You…in a church?” Abby teased. “That’s got to be interesting.”

“Indeed. So what’s happened there? They’ve only told us that all the airports are closed.”

Quietly Abby shared what she knew of the horrific events, feeling as if she’d fallen into some surreal nightmare.

“It’s the end of the world as we know it,” Flint said the next day when they were back at the television, sharing coffee Hitch had made from his secret stash usually reserved for finals week all-nighters. “From here on, everything changes.”

Flint with his uncanny knack for unraveling truths, proved to be right once again, as the following weeks brought about the beginnings of a metamorphosis in the city and the mind. So many families, lives, and dreams would never be the same. Everyone knew someone. A friend traveling on one of the flights. A father who worked in one of the towers. A neighbor who’d been attending an early-morning meeting there. And beyond the personal toll, there were so many questions about the future. Were the fires burning at Ground Zero hazardous? Would the downtown district ever recover? What would the next terrorist target be? Was it safe to fly? Was
anything
safe? Student life at Wagner resumed, but the tone was somber, all things shadowed by the devastation viewed daily from every harborside window.

As Abby grieved in her own quiet way, she was unable to track John’s reaction—the volatile anger he felt over the attack, and the compulsion to serve his country. It was as if a bell had begun ringing with the attacks, an alarm that was getting louder and louder with each passing day.

“I don’t know how long I can sit back and let the next guy do our country’s dirty work,” he told Abby one day as they stared across the harbor at the empty hole, now called Ground Zero. “If there’s going to be a war on terrorism, I want to be on the front lines.”

The conversation always made Abby’s throat tighten, and lately John was so hot on the topic that her throat was getting sore. “But you’ve spent so much time building a career in football,” Abby said, joining him at the windowsill of her room. “This is your senior year, your time to shine. I don’t know that much about football, but I can read, and everyone’s saying you’ll be one of the top NFL draft picks this year.”

He nodded. “So I’m good at the game. Doesn’t that seem utterly meaningless in light of everything that’s happened?”

“It’s a huge accomplishment. It’s everything you’ve worked for, John. Don’t sell yourself short.”

“Football used to mean the world to me,” he said. “But the world changed when those four planes were hijacked, Abs. This country is under siege, and I’m going to focus all my time and energy on running a football?” He tugged on her hand, pulling her into his arms. “That is pretty lame.”

And then he kissed her, a kiss that drew the breath from her body and sparked life in her heart. She loved this man. She had loved him before the world grew complicated and bleak, and now, his sudden desire to serve bowled her over with a mixture of strong feelings.

He was so bold and selfless. A true hero.

But wasn’t it foolish to think he could make a difference by joining the army? Did guns and bombs ever solve anything?

Abby slides the windowshade of the plane down, closing off the memories. She had fallen in love with a brash boy, a charming football star, and the fall was an endless tumble, head over heels with such momentum that she could only succumb and enjoy the ride.

But what happens when the person you love evolves into someone else? When he makes choices that are hard for you to swallow, puts you into a position you never wanted to be in…an officer’s wife.

A widow.

You still love him, of course. But Abby hopes it’s okay to hate some of his decisions. She hugs the jersey in the crook of her neck, inhaling his scent, which will fade and disappear all too soon, just like her husband.

Iraq
Flint

“T
he next sand I see had better be somewhere tropical, like in the Caribbean or the Hawaiian Islands.” Flint holds on to his sunglasses, a shield against the blowing sand as he jogs across the compound alongside Captain Jump.

“Right now, I’d settle for Atlantic City,” Jump says from beneath a hood he’s thrown over his helmet.

Flint would agree if he could talk without getting a mouthful of sand. Even Atlantic City would be better than working as an embed in Iraq. Last night he bunked with Alpha Company, sharing a room with five other men, and that was deluxe accommodations compared to his past few months here. In his time with the 121st Division, he’s slept in the back of Humvees, outside on sand, dust, and dirt, or inside a cramped vehicle where his restless dreams were punctuated by explosions and the grind of the turret turning to search out threats on the horizon.

His time is up here, and his body longs for a smooth, clean bed and clear running water…just as soon as he gets some answers for Abby.

He shifts the packages in his arms to block the sandstorm and follows Charles Jump into one of the many nondescript bungalows of this Forward Operating Base in Fallujah. Since his arrival he has attended John Stanton’s send-off, talked with Emjay Brown, and even had a few minutes to interview Stanton’s brother, Noah, who was not the most forthcoming subject. Like squeezing water from a stone. From Alpha Company he learned that John Stanton was a stand-up guy. “What we knew of him,” most guys said, as they aren’t in the same company.

As his last task, Flint is helping Dr. Charles Jump, Bravo Company’s resident mental health officer, deliver packages to his guys. The platoon has some free time right now, his opportunity to ask and observe.

“They’re really feeling the loss right now,” Jump says as they both bend into the wind, “but when people are grieving it’s good to get them talking, and sometimes it’s easier to open up to an outside party.”

Stepping into the bungalow used as quarters, Flint is reminded of a pitch he once made for a script he wrote in college:
Animal House
meets
Platoon
. Eight beds crowd into the small space strewn with Christmas lights. The walls display a fine selection of centerfolds, as well as the obligatory maps, military codes, and a chart explaining body language in Iraqi culture.

“We got mail!” Jump announces in a big voice, a notch too cheerful for the men stretched out on bunks or hunched against the wall in an attempt to relax. Flint notices that all the men have their boots on and their M-16s close—a reminder that attacks don’t always occur on the other side of the wire. “And if you haven’t already met him, this is Dave Flint, a media guy from the states. Did you say L.A.?”

“Seattle,” says Flint, scanning the room. From his bunk, where he’s tuned in to an iPod, Emjay’s dark eyes shine in the shadows, and Flint gets it.

Don’t acknowledge me,
those eyes are saying.
Don’t tell them we talked.

“Doc told us you were coming,” says a soldier whose shirt reads
LASSITER
. He is stretched out on his cot, leafing through a magazine. “We’re not supposed to cuss, and he wanted the pictures of the girls down, but he was overruled.”

“Good thing,” Flint says. “I like the pictures.” He had hoped to keep things casual, wing it. It wasn’t as if he was going to start whipping off the questions to these guys. They thought he was here to research a piece about the life of John Stanton, not, specifically, John Stanton’s death. On his way here he decided not to mention that he knew John, that he is trying to gather information for John’s wife, a former college roommate. Sometimes personal involvement muddies the waters.

A buff soldier with a squarish face relieves Flint of his packages. “These are probably for me,” he says. “They always are.”

“Hilliard’s wife keeps us stocked with snacks,” Jump says.

“And sheets.” Hilliard slits open one box with a penknife. “When she found out how hot it was here and that we were sleeping on wool blankets, she got half of Little Rock to pitch in and send us sheets.”

“We got like, a hundred. We gave the extras to Alpha Company,” says a short, boyish soldier who introduces himself as Gunnar McGee from Mount Carmel, Pennsylvania. He braces a box between his palms and holds it out to Hilliard. “Want me to open it for you?”

“Yeah, sure.” Hilliard pulls a container of peanut brittle from his open box.

Besides food, Hilliard’s wife has sent a DVD containing
Scrubs, Lost,
and
Desperate Housewives.

“Isn’t that a chick show?” Flint asks, but no one seems embarrassed by the question.

“Eva Longoria is hot,” insists Lassiter, a soldier with a shelf of hot sauces and a string of chili pepper lights over his bunk. Yeah, he seems to be an expert on hot.

“Spinelli?” Dr. Jump announces, reading the name on one package, and a scrawny kid pops up from one top bunk. “Looks like your mama remembered you.” The kid, who looks like he’s fourteen, catches the package in the air, then settles back into the mattress, worlds away from the rest of them.

“You’re welcome,” Doc says sarcastically, and Spinelli’s head reappears.

“I said thank you.” The boy glowers, then retreats again, and Flint wonders what his life would have been like if he’d been sent to a place like this when he was eighteen.

“I also got us a copy of yesterday’s
Today
show from the Armed Services Network,” Doc says, holding up a videotape.

A few of the guys seem interested, but Lassiter moans. “No news is good news.”

“Have a seat,” Doc offers, indicating a plastic chair next to an empty bunk. Did it belong to John and Noah Stanton? Last night, when he was looking for a place to bunk, he was told he could come here, but when Flint realized he’d be bunking in John or Noah’s spot, he declined and went over to another platoon. Flint figured it might offend some of the guys if he assumed too much.

“And this is
Today
on NBC,” Ann Curry announces.

“McGee, it’s your girlfriend,” Lassiter jokes.

“Shut up,” McGee growls.

“John slept right up there, in that bunk beside you,” Doc tells Flint, turning his back to the small television. “He’ll be sorely missed here. He was one of the rare guys that got along with everybody. Partnered with Emjay over there. Both Stantons, good people. John used to play poker with Lassiter and McGee. And John and I go way back. We played football together in college.”

“Is that right?” Flint says casually, not wanting Doc to dominate his time here. “You were on the Scarlet Knights?”

“Defensive end. I injured my knee senior year, which ended my football career. I realized I’d need a real job, so I detoured to med school instead.” As he talks, Doc plucks a gold metal piece from the mesh of his helmet. “My Purple Heart,” he says, flashing the medal at Flint. “Actually, this is just a replica of the real medal, which you don’t wear in combat, of course. I got it in Afghanistan. You ever been there?”

“I haven’t,” Flint admits. “You were injured.”

Doc frowns. “Heavy combat. Not a good scene. But that’s another story. After you finish this thing on Stanton, you get in touch and I’ll give you an exclusive on the Doc Jump story.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Flint says. “So you met John at Rutgers?”

Doc goes on to describe the different paths he and John took after college, how they’d remained friends but landed in the same platoon by chance.

Flint listens but also tries to tune in to conversations around him, about the peanut brittle Hilliard’s wife made herself, about the tightest women in a new issue of
Playbo
y, about Spinelli’s mysterious care packages from home always containing toothpaste. “How many teeth do you have in your head?” Lassiter jokes.

On the
Today
show, a chef from a New York restaurant stirs a sauce for filet mignon, and Lassiter talks of his plans to grill a “big-ass Texas steak,” when he gets home.

“Did you want to get some quotes from us about your article?” Doc asks, drawing attention to Flint. “Our memories of John.”

“That’d be great,” Flint says, “but I don’t want to force anything. If there’s something anecdotal you want to share…”

“Well, Brown over there was John’s partner whenever we were paired up in missions. Emjay, what would you say about John?”

Emjay turns toward them slowly, reluctant to be drawn in. “He was a good man,” he says slowly. “A good friend.”

“A friend to everybody,” McGee adds. “He kept us going here, kept our spirits up.”

“Every week he’d give out these bogus awards.” Lassiter points to a ribbon hanging over his cot. “Mine’s for Best Boner Move, when I nearly stepped on a land mine. Scared the shit out of me, but John knew how to turn everything around. He could make you laugh at yourself.”

Doc hands Flint a pen. “You want to write this down?”

Act like a reporter, Flint thinks. “I got it covered.” He takes a pen and pad from inside his camouflage jacket and scribbles a few notes. “Did John leave anything behind that was significant? A book he loved, or a photograph?”

“It’s all gone.” Gunnar McGee frowns at the empty bunk. “He used to write in a journal every day. Three notebooks full of stuff, but the MPs came in and took it all away. It was sent back to the States, for investigation.”

“Really?” Flint scribbles again. “So there’s going to be an inquiry into his death?”

Heads nod. “There always is,” Doc said.

“Who do you think killed John Stanton?” Flint lobs the question up casually, like a coach warming his team up.

But the response is awkward—pursed lips, reticent stares. All peripheral conversation stops.

“Didn’t you hear the whole story?” Doc asks. “There was an insurgent in the warehouse. We had him cornered, but he came out of his hiding place shooting, and John was the first one in the line of fire.”

“Is that how it happened?” Flint asks the others, but no one volunteers. “Wow…from reading the report, you get a very different picture. I guess it pays to go to the source, right?”

“I just wish we got the sniper,” Lassiter says. “Insurgent bastard.”

Flint nods at the television. “They’re showing John. Looks like they did a report on him.”

The television screen was filled with images of John racing down the football field, breaking tackles, scoring, first for the Scarlet Knights, then for the Seattle Seahawks. Lassiter turns up the volume as the voice-over about John’s life ends. The studio camera pans back to reveal a uniformed soldier and a petite woman sitting in the studio with Ann, who introduces John Stanton’s father, Ret. Capt. Jim Stanton, and John’s mother, Sharice Stanton.

“I never imagined John having a family,” Gunnar McGee says wistfully. “He fit in so well here. It was like he belonged to us.”

In his peripheral vision, Flint sees Emjay sit up to watch. Spinelli leans his head on the edge of the bed, quiet, attentive.

Flint recognizes John’s mother from the wedding, but Jim Stanton looks like every other man in uniform. John’s parents express their pride over their son’s desire to serve his country, the example he set, the courage and selflessness that made him leave his career in the NFL to enlist in a combat unit.

The interview wraps up, the light shifts on the men’s faces, sad and poignant.

“It’s weird to know someone famous who died,” Gunnar says. “It sort of makes us famous, too.”

“I wish I could go on the
Today
show,” Doc says balefully. “Nothing personal, Flint, but television’s a lot sexier than newsprint.” He chuckles, and Flint raises his hands, as if in surrender.

The sudden movement behind Flint sets off an internal alarm, until he hears Doc order the men to be at ease. The door has opened behind Flint, and he turns to see a lieutenant standing there—the name on his shirt is
CHENOWITH
.

That would be the name of the 1st Lieutenant of this platoon, the man Flint was supposed to get clearance from before he interviewed these men. Oops.

Chenowith takes in the dynamic of the moment quickly, then wheels. “Who the hell are you?” he asks.

“Dave Flint. I’m an embed.”

“With this platoon?”

“With the 121st Airborne.”

“Outside Baghdad? You’re a little far from your assignment. Are you lost?”

“I’m here for the story of an American hero,” Flint says, ready to banter all night if the lieutenant so desires. What’s the worst Chenowith can do, ask him to leave? He’s hoping to get out of Iraq in the next day or so, anyway. “It’s not every day we lose an All-American football star to the enemy.”