TVA BABY and Other Stories (11 page)

“I’m a Catholic priest myself,” said the fireman, extending a hand. “Partners in crime, as it were.”

“Cleverly disguised as a fireman?” said the Imam with a smile.

“NYFD Chaplain. I’m on a kind of a ceremonial mission here today. That accounts for the full dress get-up.”

“Watch the closing doors,” said the operator.

The elevator started up.

The two young men at the back held hands silently. The Marine stood beside them stiffly, as if at attention. The lawyer in the Italian suit stared curiously at the elevator operator.

The little girl covered her ears.

“My ears hurt!” she said.

“That’s because we’re going up very fast,” said the operator. “Almost a thousand feet so far. We’ll stop at the 78
^th
floor and you will change elevators. That one will take you to—”

The elevator stopped with a sickening
bump
. The lights went out.

“Mommy, it’s dark!”

“What happened?” her mother asked, alarmed.

“Not to worry,” said the operator, with a thick New York accent. She got on the phone. “It’s a power failure, temporary. They say it’ll be ten minutes.”

“It’s dark, Mommy!”

“Don’t worry, little girl,” said the priest disguised as a fireman. He found her shoulder with his hand. “Perhaps we should introduce ourselves, to pass these few minutes till we are moving again. Have you ever made friends in the dark before?”

There was no answer.

“I am Father Mychal Judge, but you can call me Father Mike.”

“Imam Habib,” said the Imam. “Visiting your beautiful city from Baghdad.”

“Another beautiful city,” said Father Mike. “And an ancient one. The cradle of civilization.”

“You are welcome in the cradle at any time,” said the Imam. “It’s a World Heritage site now, you know.”

“I been there,” said a rich black voice from the back of the car. “I was assigned to the UN Friendship Force sent to help in the Restoration.”

“An exemplary mission,” said the Imam, finding the Marine’s hand in the dark and shaking it. “Especially since so many here, as well as there, were so eager to loose the Dogs of War. And your name, young man?”

“Washington, Caleb, Master Sergeant, USMC. Proud native of Harlem, USA.”

“My brother’s a Marine,” said the little girl’s mother. “I’d be proud to shake your hand, if I could find it.”

“A pleasure, ma’am.”

“Ouch!”

“Sorry ma’am. Guess I’m a little nervous. Don’t mind choppers but don’t much like elevators.”

The elevator operator made another call. “They’re working on it,” she said. “Thank you for your patience.”

It was very dark. In the distance, they could hear an alarm bell.

“I’m not afraid,” said the little girl. “I’m five.”

“I was five once,” said Father Mike. “Long long ago.”

They all laughed. It made a nervous sound in the crowded elevator.

“I believe you mentioned a ceremonial mission,” said the Imam, restarting the conversation.

“Yes, yes, of course,” said Father Mike. “I come here once a year to bring a few flowers. And to say a prayer from the highest point in our city. It’s a personal ceremony, to honor the firefighters that we lost in the past year.”

“That’s lovely,” said the mother.

“Not so lovely this year, I’m afraid,” said Father Mike. “We lost eight this year. That’s a lot.”

“I’m sorry,” said the Imam. “But why September?”

“I come every year on September eleventh. Nine eleven, nine-one-one. It’s sort of symbolic. Emergency number. I knew these boys.”

There was a long silence. The operator made another call. “They’re working on it,” she said.

“Thank you for not thanking us for our patience again,” said Father Mike, trying to lighten the mood.

No one laughed.

It was awfully dark.

“You two are awfully quiet,” said the Imam, speaking into the darkness. “Where are you from?”

“Beirut, Imam,” answered a shy voice. “But we’re not Lebanese. I’m Ali, I’m Palestinian. Ben here is Israeli.”

“Romeo and Julio,” said Ben with a laugh. “And we’re here on a sort of ceremonial mission too. Nine eleven is also our special day.”

“Oh, really,” said Father Mike. He was hoping for more, but there was just a long dark silence.

It was broken by the elevator operator.

“I believe we have a lawyer with us,” she said. “Perhaps he’d like to testify.”

Another voice came from the darkness, with a slight Spanish accent: “She is right, I’m that dread creature, a lawyer. The name is Al. I’m from Texas, in New York working with the Human Rights Commission of the UN.”

“The new anti-torture protocols,” said the operator. “That’s good work, and about time.”

“How did you know about that? And how did you know I’m a lawyer?”

She laughed. “Your shoes. I’m a lawyer too.”

“Operating an elevator? Not that…”

“Not that there’s anything wrong with that,” quipped Father Mike.

“It’s sort of a special assignment. About a dozen years ago, some misguided souls tried to blow up this very building, and I defended them. A little too vigorously, perhaps.”

“Lynne Stewart!” the lawyer said. “I thought you looked familiar. I signed the petition in your case. It was very unfair, trying to disbar you. But …”

“I’m doing community service. It’s a penalty, but a rather enjoyable one.”

“I admire your work,” said the lawyer. “The General Amnesty especially. That got a lot of people out of prison.”

“We met in prison,” said Ali from the darkness. “Romeo here was a guard.”

“And Julio was a prisoner,” said Ben. “That was before the Peace Accords of course.”

“And before the anti-torture protocols for sure,” added Ali.

Fumbling in the darkness, they all shook hands, clumsily. “You’ll have to excuse my left,” Ben said. “Ali and I are holding hands all the way up. It’s an essential part of our private ceremony.”

“Oh, really?” said Father Mike. This time he was rewarded with an answer:

“Yes, five years ago, exactly, on nine-eleven, two thousand and one, we …”

“We’re moving again!” squealed the little girl.

And indeed they were.

The lights came on. They all looked around at one another shyly, as if they had just met, which indeed they had.

The door opened onto the 78
^th
floor skylobby.

“We’re all one party now,” said the lawyer, hesitating in the elevator door. “I wish you could join us at the top.”

“We all have our work to do,” said the operator with a smile. “The Up elevator is over there. This one’s going down.”

The top of the building was flooded with sunlight. The little girl ran and looked over the east side, at the tower’s giant twin. Her mother and the Marine followed close behind.

The lawyer stood alone in the center. “I don’t really care for heights,” he said.

Father Mike walked to the north parapet, looking overthe city. He crossed himself and wiped away a tear. The Imam stood at his side. “Mind if I join you in a prayer?” he asked.

He didn’t, and he did.

After a moment they joined Ali and Ben, who were looking out over the Hudson toward New Jersey to the west.

“You mentioned a ceremony,” Father Mike said.

They were arm in arm, no longer holding hands.

“Five years ago today,” said Ali, “we were in despair. We had run away to NY to be together but we couldn’t forget our families, our people, all that strife and sorrow.”

Ben looked around to make sure the little girl wasn’t near. “We chose nine-eleven for the same reason you did. A call for help. We were going to end it all. We came up here to jump, and die hand in hand.”

“God have mercy!” said Father Mike.

“He did,” said Ali. “Just as we were about to step off a plane passed over. A 767. A most beautiful craft.”

“Ali’s an aeronautical engineer,” explained Ben. “But even to me, it looked like an angel of mercy, reflecting the light. An angel of peace and world unity.”

The Imam nudged him. The little girl was approaching.

“And you know the rest,” finished Ali. “We decided to go home to the Middle East and work for peace.”

“Courageous work,” said the Imam. “Especially when so many there, as well as here, were so eager to loose the Dogs of War.”

“Aren’t you repeating yourself?” asked Father Mike. “Not that there’s anything wrong with that.”

The Imam shrugged extravagantly. “Religion is all about repetition.”

“So is love,” said Ben.

“Here.” The little girl held out the daisy. “Mother said you were gay!”

Her mother, behind her, blushed.

“Daisies are gay too!”

“So they are,” said Ali, taking the flower. He kissed her on the forehead and handed the daisy to Ben.

“Thank you,” said Ben. “You never told us your name.”

“It’s Veronica. I’m five.”

“You’re the hope of the world, Veronica. Now let’s give this daisy to the wind.”

And he did.

“There’s a lovely Irish bar on Chambers St,” said Father Mike, pressing the
down
button. “I don’t indulge these days, but I’d love to stand a round.”

“I’m not a drinker,” said the Imam. “But I’ll come along and have a lemonade with the ladies.”

“I like white wine,” said the little girl’s mother.

“I could stand a cold Harp,” said the Marine.

“Ditto,” said Ben and Ali, together.

“I picked up some cigars on my way through Havana last month,” said the lawyer. He reached into his Italian suit and handed one to each of the men. “We can smoke in the bar, right?”

Father Mike rolled his eyes. “This
is
New York City!” he said.

“Here’s the elevator!” said the little girl, whose name was Veronica.

Ali and Ben held hands all the way down.

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