The door to Mr. Brice’s room stood open, and four more parents arrived: Antony’s father, Autumn’s mother, and both of Shelby’s parents. They spoke quietly to their children and urgently to one another, and then they left in a hurry. Antony, Autumn, and Shelby didn’t even have time to push their chairs under their desks.
“Why are our parents coming?” asked Georgia, without bothering to raise her hand. At that moment her own mother hurried into the room, Henry on her hip.
“Come on, girls,” she said to Georgia and Leslie. “Let’s get Richard. We’re going home.”
“Me, too?” asked Leslie.
“But why?” asked Georgia, whose stomach was beginning to feel strange.
“I’ll explain on the way.”
* * *
Georgia didn’t understand her mother’s explanation. At least, she didn’t understand why it meant that the parents were showing up at school and why the nature walk had been canceled.
“Something is happening. It seems like some sort of attack,” said Georgia’s mom as she steered her Subaru onto Vandeventer. She turned the car so quickly that Georgia knocked her head against Leslie’s shoulder. “Two planes were flown into buildings in New York, and another plane was flown into the Pentagon in Washington. A fourth plane was hijacked —”
“Who’s attacking us?” asked Richard.
“What’s the Pentagon?” asked Georgia.
“Which buildings in New York?” asked Leslie.
Mrs. Noble glanced into the rearview mirror and her eyes briefly met Leslie’s. “I’m not sure,” she replied, and Georgia knew her mother was lying about not knowing which buildings. Then Mrs. Noble added, “Leslie, you’re going to stay with us today.”
“But who’s attacking us?” asked Richard again.
“It isn’t clear,” said Mrs. Noble. “No one knows much.”
Georgia’s stomach, which was already feeling queasy, tightened unpleasantly. “Are they going to attack Princeton? Is that why you’re bringing us home?”
Mrs. Noble pulled into the driveway and parked the car. “I think we’re safe here,” she said. “But just in case, we’ll stay inside for a while.”
“Why can’t I go home?” asked Leslie, looking across the yard at her house.
“Your mom’s busy today. She has a lot of calls to make.”
“Where’s my brother?”
“He went home with Nazim.” Mrs. Noble reached for Leslie’s hand. “Come on in. We’ll fix something special for lunch later.”
“You know, my dad works in New York,” said Leslie as she followed Georgia’s mother inside. “In one of the very, very tall buildings called the Twin Towers. I visited him there once. We went up as high as we could and we saw all the way to California.”
“You did not!” exclaimed Richard. “You can’t see California from New York.”
“Maybe it was Connecticut,” said Leslie. “Anyway, we were very high up, and that’s where my dad works. He takes the train from Princeton Junction every day,” she added.
Georgia’s mom set Henry down on the floor of the family room. “Can you be in charge of your brother, please?” she said to Richard and Georgia, and she disappeared into the kitchen. Georgia heard her turn on the little TV and she followed her mother curiously.
“Mom?” whispered Georgia.
Her mother was flicking from station to station and all Georgia could see were people running and screaming, tall buildings with smoke pouring from the upper floors, and stunned newscasters talking about the attack on the United States.
Georgia’s eyes widened. “That’s the attack?” she asked.
Her mother left the TV on and picked up the phone. She punched in a number, waited for a moment, and then said, “Damn,” very softly.
“What’s wrong?” asked Georgia. “Mom, my stomach doesn’t feel good.”
“Lie down for a bit then,” her mother replied vaguely, and walked her back into the family room. “I want to make sure Nana Dana’s okay, but the call won’t go through.”
“Why not?” asked Richard.
“Too many people trying to make calls, I guess. Everyone wants to check on the people they know in New York.”
“Do you think my dad’s okay?” asked Leslie.
Georgia’s mom punched in another number, listened, and said, “Damn,” again. She clicked the phone off and two seconds later it rang. “Hello? … Oh, Mom, thank goodness it’s you. Are you all right? … Okay…. Good …. I’m home with the kids. I just picked them up from school…. Leslie’s with us.” She paused. “I mean, she’s sitting right here — just a sec.” Mrs. Noble took the phone back into the kitchen.
“I’m going home,” Leslie announced suddenly.
Richard looked alarmed. He glanced at the kitchen, and then back at Leslie. To Georgia’s surprise, his face softened. He touched Leslie’s arm. “You’d better not,” he said. “Mom said to stay here. Come on. Let’s go to my room. We can all play with my Legos.”
“All of us?” asked Georgia. “Even Henry?”
Richard nodded. “Yup. Come on.”
* * *
Playing calmly in Richard’s room with his Legos was such a novelty that Georgia’s stomach settled, and eventually she realized she was hungry. “Can we go downstairs for lunch?” she asked Richard, as if he were in charge of the day.
Richard looked serious. He tiptoed to the top of the stairs and listened. “Yes,” he said after a moment.
Lunch was tomato sandwiches and watermelon slices eaten on the porch, which was indeed special, but as soon as it was over, Mrs. Noble reached for the phone again. “I spoke with your aunt Kaycee,” she announced to Georgia and Richard. “They’re all fine. But I still haven’t heard from — Listen, why don’t you go back upstairs?”
Georgia, who could hear the TV playing in the kitchen, even though no one was listening to it, said hastily, “Yes, let’s go back to Richard’s room.”
But at that moment the front door opened and her father strode inside.
“Daddy!” cried Georgia, and flung herself at him.
“Hi, Georgie Girl.”
The phone rang then and Mrs. Noble answered it. “I’m just going to run next door,” she whispered to Georgia’s father after she’d hung up.
There were tears in her eyes.
* * *
The rest of the day passed slowly. The phone kept ringing. Then there were long periods of time when Georgia’s father couldn’t make any calls. Toward dinnertime, Leslie began to cry. At last Mrs. Jordan arrived to take her home. Georgia’s mother remained next door.
Mr. Noble turned to Georgia and Richard once Leslie was gone. “Kids?” he said, and instructed them to sit on the couch in the living room. He sat down between them and was silent for a moment. At last he said, “Leslie’s father works in one of the buildings that was attacked.” He took their hands in his.
“One of the buildings that caught on fire and fell down?” asked Georgia.
“Yes.”
“Did all the people in those buildings die?” Richard wanted to know.
“No. But a lot of them did. And no one has heard from Mr. Jordan yet. We think he would have gotten through to Leslie’s mom somehow if he were okay. So there’s a good chance that —”
Before Georgia’s father could finish his sentence, Richard said, “Maybe he’s just in the hospital! Maybe he got hurt really badly and he can’t talk.”
“Maybe,” said Mr. Noble. “There’s always hope.”
* * *
At bedtime that night, which was later than usual, Georgia waited for her father to tuck her in.
“How long is Mom going to stay next door?” she asked as he perched beside her.
“A while longer. Maybe she’ll spend the night. Leslie’s mother needs company.”
“Is there school tomorrow?”
“There’s school for anyone who feels like going.”
“What about the cars in the parking lot?”
&nb
sp; “The cars in the parking lot?”
“When Mr. Spagnoli came by tonight, I heard him say that there were unclammed cars in the parking lot at the train station.”
Georgia’s father sighed. “Unclaimed cars. Yes. Quite a few people from Princeton commute to New York City for work, like Leslie’s father. They leave their cars in the lot at the station. Some of them didn’t come home today so their cars are still there.”
“They didn’t come home because they died in New York?”
“Probably.”
“Is Leslie’s father’s car there?”
“Yes.”
“Leslie must be very sad.”
Mr. Noble nodded.
“Maybe we’ll write our princess play tomorrow,” said Georgia. “That will cheer her up.”
But as she lay in her bed that night, she thought not about Snow White and Ariel but about burning, falling buildings, and the cars in the parking lot at the train station.
Francie Noble stood in the kitchen in the early morning quiet and stared at the calendar on the refrigerator. The world outside the windows was pitch dark, as dark as midnight. Five thirty a.m. and she was the only one awake, her husband and children sleeping soundly upstairs. She felt as if she were the only one awake on her street, in her town, in the entire world.
Francie touched her finger to the last square on the last page of the calendar. December 31st, 2001. The final day of a year she would sooner forget. She sighed, removed the calendar from the fridge, and stuck it in the recycling box in the corner. Then she looked at the 2002 calendar that Georgia had given her for Christmas. Page after page of kittens. She left the calendar lying on the table and tiptoed upstairs to her daughter’s bedroom.
Georgia always slept on her back, and under at least one blanket, no matter what the temperature.
Francie gazed at her. This girl. Her daughter. Her daughter. This little girl living in the room that had been her own when she’d been Georgia’s age.
Francie’s eyes roamed to the window by Georgia’s bed. In a flash, twenty-two years fell away, and Francie was nine again, a fourth grader in Mr. Apwell’s class. A panicked, bewildered girl checking the street below for a black station wagon, checking obsessively, over and over. Is it there? Is it there now? How about now? Is it safe to go outside?
Francie backed out of Georgia’s room, leaned against the hallway wall, and slid to the floor. She sat there, forehead resting on her knees. She had never forgotten the man in the station wagon and she had never told her parents what had happened. She hadn’t forgotten Erin Mulligan either, the girl who had been taken by the man in the station wagon just days after he had tried to lure Francie into his car. Erin, the girl Francie could have become, the girl who had captured Princeton’s attention and then, when the search for her finally ended, had faded away.
How was a mother supposed to keep her children safe?
Francie tiptoed back downstairs and looked across the side yard at the Jordans’ house. A light was on in their living room. So Francie wasn’t the only one awake after all. Right next door, someone was already up. Probably Emilie, who was packing up the house, preparing to move, even though everyone had told her not to make any rash decisions until a year after her husband’s death. But she couldn’t stand to live in the house on Vandeventer without him. She had said so on the night of September 11th.
Francie returned to the kitchen and fastened Georgia’s kitten calendar to the refrigerator.
* * *
“Mom, when will we be old enough to go to a New Year’s Eve party?” Georgia asked that evening. Then she added, “You look pretty.”
“Thank you,” said Francie, who turned around to examine herself in the bathroom mirror. “Do you think these earrings are too big?”
“No, they’re just right. But when can we go to a party?”
“You’re going to have a party tonight. With Betsy.”
Betsy was the seventeen-year-old babysitter who had a pierced nose. Even Richard liked her.
And Francie trusted her. Mostly. She had set up a Nanny Cam the first four times Betsy had babysat for Richard, Francie, and Henry. She had scrutinized the footage to make sure Betsy was following all of Francie’s safety procedures, and that she wasn’t secretly allowing strange men in the house.
“Honestly, honey, Betsy’s references are great,” George had said when Francie had first suggested the Nanny Cam to her husband. “She’s sat for the Jordans and the Mayhews. Everybody loves her.”
“You can’t be too careful,” Francie had replied.
Now Georgia began to jump up and down. “Really? We really get to have a party?”
“Absolutely,” said Francie.
“Can we stay up until midnight?”
“You and Richard may, if you can stay awake.”
“Yes!” cried Georgia, before hugging her mother around the waist.
* * *
The party at the McCloskeys’ house was just the sort that Francie enjoyed. Some people were dressed up and some weren’t. Some were standing in tight perfumy groups holding fancy cocktails, and some were sitting on the floor in front of the fireplace. Dinner was buffet style. A few people ate seated at the dining room table, but most ate in the living room, balancing plates on their laps.
Francie and her husband sat next to each other on a white couch, trying not to spill.
“Either the McCloskeys have extremely tidy, coordinated children,” said George, “or their kids aren’t allowed in the living room. Imagine a white couch in our house.”
“It would have been splooched with chocolate and grape juice five minutes after we brought it home,” replied Francie, smiling.
George laughed.
Francie looked at her watch.
George refilled their plates and announced that the McCloskeys planned to serve dessert after midnight. “White chocolate mousse. In fancy little individual parfait cups.”
Francie looked at her watch again.
“What?” said George. He checked his own watch. “It’s only nine thirty. Betsy doesn’t have to be home until two.”
Francie set her plate aside, crossed her legs, and then crossed them in the other direction. “I know. It’s just that …” She looked sideways at George.
“Oh no. What? It’s just that what?”
“It’s just that … Don’t you think tonight would be a good time for another terrorist attack? Midnight on New Year’s Eve?”
George frowned at her. “Everyone thought there would be an attack last year, for Y2K, and nothing happened.”
“That was before September eleventh, before the anthrax attacks, too. Things are different now.”
“What are you saying?”
“That I want to go home?”
“Right now?”
“Well, before midnight. So we can be with the kids, just in case.”
George set his wineglass on the end table with a bit too much force. A tiny Christmas tree that was propped in front of a lamp toppled dangerously, and one miniature glass ornament rolled to the floor. George glanced down at it, then turned back to Francie.
“This is the first time we’ve been out, just us, in weeks,” he said. “And you want to go home early on a night when we have Betsy lined up until two, so we can be with the kids in case terrorists drop a bomb on Vandeventer Avenue?”
Francie looked squarely into George’s eyes. “Yes.”
* * *
At 11:00 when Francie and George had paid Betsy for seven hours of sitting, even though she had gone home three hours early, they sat on their own living room couch, which was protected from chocolate and grape juice with an arrangement of washable towels, and looked at Georgia and Richard, who had fallen asleep on the floor.
“This is so much fun!” said George.
“Don’t be sarcastic. It feels safe,” replied Francie. She switched on CNN for news of attacks but found nothing except coverage of New Year’s celebrations around the world.
George si
ghed. “Should we put the kids to bed?”
“No. They’d be disappointed. Let’s wake them just before midnight.”
“Do you think we’ll be alive then?”
Francie turned hurt eyes on her husband. “I can’t help it!” she cried. “I’m just trying to protect them.”
“I’m sorry.” George’s face softened. He took Francie’s hands in his. “Really. I’m sorry. I know you’re doing what you think is right.”
“All I want is for them to have a nice, peaceful life without so many dangers.”
“But, honey.” George released Francie’s hands. “There’s no place without any dangers.”
“I can think of one place with a lot fewer dangers.”
“You can?”
Francie nodded. “Lewisport.”
“Maine,” said George. “The beach cottage.”
Francie turned to him, suddenly earnest. “I want us to move there.”
George laughed. “You’re kidding, right?”
“I’m totally serious.”
“Move to the beach cottage?”
“Yes.”
“Move there?”
“Yes.”
“You really are serious.”
“I really am.”
“But what about my job? And the cottage is so small. And … and we haven’t discussed this. It’s coming out of the blue. You always do this, Francie. You throw things at me —” Across the room, Richard stirred. George lowered his voice. “Do you know what this would mean? What are the job possibilities for me if we move there?”
“You can teach anywhere.”
“Lewisport doesn’t even have a school.”
“There are schools in other towns.”
George stood up. He was shaking his head. “Unbelievable.”
“I don’t see what the problem is.”
“The problem is that we have a perfectly nice life here. Our families are nearby. I love my job. We love this house. The kids love their school. They have friends here. And you’re asking us to give all that up because we live too close to Manhattan?”
“Kind of.” Francie smiled.
“This isn’t funny.”
“I know.” Francie stood up, crossed the room to Georgia and Richard, and stooped down to touch their cheeks. Then she stood and faced George again. “I can’t live here anymore,” she told him.
Home Is the Place Page 2
