by Carina Alyce
They woke up together and got dressed with a couple kisses, but no morning stress relief. The sun was up, and the cocoon was gone.
Leaving Hank to work on the Pile, she returned to St. Paul's and helped serve lunch, as an impromptu meal service was slowly emerging. The plan was to have a working hot meal kitchen by the weekend. There were other tent refreshment stations set up but none closer than St. Paul’s. Protein bars and something called New York Egg Creams were very popular, though it was milk, seltzer, and chocolate syrup without eggs or cream.
A Red Cross volunteer stopped by and asked for a hand at delivering water bottles to workers on the Pile. Even though Hank and the firefighters had warned her not to venture to the Pile, the discussion had explicitly been about night. Nothing about being forbidden during the day.
Bethany from Harlem gave Abby a Red Cross vest and temporary ID tag. She checked Abby’s mask and hair, her own braids secured by a scarf. Like Abby, she too had a respirator, a disposable one. Abby re-affixed hers without asking for instructions. The men were more flexible about using them, but they’d give women hell about not having theirs on.
They climbed into a small gator-ATV with a load of two hundred water bottles. As they drove, Abby finally saw the Pile, which she had only glimpsed in shadows last evening.
She couldn't find the words to describe the blocks of destruction. It wasn’t an octopus; that implied it had a shape. Neither gelatinous or solid, it was a mass of pointy and dull edges like someone had dropped an Escher painting in a blender.
Her brain kept trying to reject what it saw. Even the air she breathed took on an even more acid quality, though the respiratory was doing its job.
They parked, and the Escher painting was moving because there were hundreds of people on top of it. Squads of firefighters armed with hoses and fire extinguishers put out spot fires that intermittently flared. Heavy equipment operators with cranes tried to shift partially buried firetrucks out of the heap of steel. They had help from construction workers with blowtorches of large and small varieties cutting through beams.
By far, the most active groups were the bucket brigades. Five or six men stood on the Pile, filling five gallon buckets by hand. When full, the buckets were passed man by man to the back and then a second line carried the empties to the front again. They continued their cyclical journey, moving two 110 story buildings five gallons at a time.
Courtesy of a talkative chaplain she’d met last night, she knew what the sorting area was for. The buckets were dumped out to be examined for human remains. A chaplain stood by each sorting site to bless anything that had been human before collection. Remains were then moved to the Burger King freezer next to the Brooks Brothers store before being transported to the DMORT team.
Hundreds and thousands of people, all moving parts. Her supply of two hundred water bottles seemed like nothing.
Tears sprang to her eyes; it was overwhelming. Never had she felt more helpless. New York, the Pentagon, a field in Pennsylvania. Had the world ended and she hadn't noticed? Not only would she likely never find Noah, did it matter if she did?
"Come on," Bethany said. "Start at the back of the line and work toward the Pile."
"Wait until they stop?" Abby asked.
“They never stop, Pink Lady,” Bethany said.
“It never stops?”
“No. They won't quit. They keep going. After a while at the front of the line, they rotate to the back, and it’s our best chance to get them to re-hydrate.”
Abby brushed away that tear forming on her cheek with a dusty hand. “Never quit?”
“This is New York; this is my fucking city. My city doesn’t quit. America doesn’t quit.” Bethany jerked her head at the firefighters. “They didn’t quit when they went up the stairs. The rest of them won’t quit now. No fucking quitting.”
“No quitting,” Abby agreed.
“Also, no punching or screaming, Pink Lady. The FBI has sharpshooters posted on the buildings on the perimeter.”
On cue, a set of fighter planes jetted over the area. Abby had heard the noise before but hadn’t put two and two together to remember the military was patrolling the skies.
They made three runs to distribute food and water to the workers. One the second trip, Abby taped her ‘Free Hugs’ sign on her vest above the Red Cross. The chaplains were particularly happy to have someone else to give out the hugs since they were hugged out. They took turns blessing everyone in the line and often offered similar comfort. The firefighters tended to be less careful with the men than they were with ‘the Pink Lady.’
She returned to St. Paul's before lunch to start handing out boxes of food. Hank returned looking like a chimney sweep. Ironworkers who were willing to climb into the voids must have been in short supply. The North Dakota guys stopped by. They were working the Pile today but were assigned to sort debris tomorrow in New Jersey at the Fresh Kills landfill.
Who came up with that name?
Abby played Twenty Questions over lunch. Invariably, three-quarters of them selected saber-tooth tiger. The game often devolved into a discussion of whom each man was hunting for. There were missing neighbors, coworkers, mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, cousins, and everyone in between. More than one firefighter unburdened himself that there were entire companies missing. They’d lost the Fire Chief, the Fire Marshall, the Fire Commissioner, and the heads of the Port Authority Police Department.
Once or twice an hour, she’d have to take someone out of the sanctuary to give them privacy to cry on her shoulder. Everyone was focused on being strong; she’d have to pretend to need help ‘carrying something’ from another room. The rescuers needed rescuing too.
Afterward, they’d wipe off their tears and thank the ‘Pink Lady’ for helping them. If it happened during one of Hank’s visits, he’d accept their thanks with a smile. Though usually it was a smile with his eyes because he never removed his mask except to eat.
When he did come by to eat, he removed the mask and practically pressured washed his face. For good measure, he gave her a very thorough and theatrical kiss to the tune of wolf-whistles from the other volunteers. He had no problem leaning her over his arm and reenacting a scene from Titanic.
While Abby should have picked a movie with a more upbeat tone, their audience appreciated it. It was a rare moment for everyone to pretend they were in a rom-com set against the relentlessly grim scenery.
Further excitement came in the late afternoon. Everyone was invited to the Pile because the President had arrived. He climbed up on the Pile with some of the firefighters and a bullhorn. Somehow, Hank was beside her with his hand in hers.
“I want you all to know that America today is on bended knee, in prayer for the people whose lives were lost here, for the workers who work here, for the families who mourn. The nation stands with the good people of New York City and New Jersey and Connecticut as we mourn the loss of thousands of our citizens.”
Someone shouted, “I can’t hear you!”
“I can hear you! I can hear you! The rest of the world hears you! And the people—and the people who knocked these buildings down will hear all of us soon. The nation sends its love and compassion to everybody who is here. Thank you for your hard work. Thank you for making the nation proud, and may God bless America.”
When he was finished, there was not a dry eye among the chants of ‘USA! USA!’ Or at least Abby thought so. It was yet another chaotic event in the insanity of these past three days. There was a small lightening in her chest. Everything that could be done, was being done.
What would be, would be. She would find Noah, and he would think it was hilarious. Her drive to New York fearing the worst was ridiculous.
The crowd dissipated, and Hank told her not to return to the Pile, promising to see her soon. Returning to St. Paul’s, she added new notes to her list of possible places that Noah could be working. Missing persons papers now covered the sides of every building, and there was a place where they were r
eporting the missing at the 69th armory on Lexington Ave.
She called home again, and her dad answered. He told her Noah was inside playing chess and hung up on her. Abby wished Mom had answered, but it was unlikely she would have been more help. Her calls to the day nurse confirmed that Noah wasn't playing chess, at the movies, or watching Star Trek. They had taken Mom to the neurologist while Vicky stayed home with Dad.
Her phone calls to the cell phones of the Cleveland firefighters went unanswered. McClunis confirmed they did arrive in New York by Tuesday night, but she hadn’t heard from them since.
The night shift began to arrive around 9:00 pm, but there was a long overlap. The day shift kept stretching out its time, even though the goal was twelve-hour days. Everyone wanted to believe the next bucket would lead to a friend or family member.
She understood because she did the same thing. The next face could be Noah’s or whoever the heck Wills was. Not many guys had Afros, which gave her better chances of finding him before Noah.
This time, on their walk to Tribeca after ten, Abby found a ‘not supposed to be open’ drug store to buy condoms. The first one was put to good use in the shower as Abby gave Hank the blowjob she’d promised. He returned the favor by cutting a condom into a dental dam and proving he had a talented tongue when he went down on her. They finished the night with a similar not-sex bump and grind session as the night before but with the condom and the top sheet separating their waists instead of Hank's jeans.
Saturday September 15, 2001
New York City
The Diary of the Chaplain at MetroGen
Saturday September 15, 2001
Today, I got to join the bucket brigade and pray over remains as we found them. They don't let me hold the bucket very much. In fact, they shoved me to the end and had me mostly say prayers over each worker for good measure. I should have worked out more at the MetroGen gym.
The remains are mostly in pieces, and I hope that my prayers are heard somewhere.
Sure, it’s awful, yet there are pockets of hope in places you weren’t expecting. It’s not just the cross, it’s the people. Not everyone is digging, some people are there listening, sharing the pain of others.
It’s hard to find the strength, but we cannot give up . . .
Chapter 10
The following morning was Saturday, and Abby called home on the way to the 69th armory. Hank had gone to the Pile again.
Her mom was awake and asked when Abby was coming home. In her absence, Dad had more difficulty staying grounded. The nurse had to keep Dad from getting into the car to pick up Abby from her ice skating lessons and Noah from preschool. It was painfully comical because her ice-skating phase had lasted about six months. Any dream of being the next Peggy Fleming had ended when she’d stabbed herself in the foot with her own skate and required stitches.
Mom asked about Noah. Abby honestly said she was leaving no stone unturned.
At the armory, she got information on how to register for a missing person. She stared at the paperwork for a long time before crumpling it up. She didn’t know Wills’ name and couldn't write a physical description of her own brother.
The walk back took two hours, and she instinctively wore her gas mask. She was one of the more pessimistic people since most others wore surgical masks or bandannas.
The national guard stopped her on her way south of Canal Street. Giuliani had opened-up 14th to Canal Street, and she couldn't prove she lived in Tribeca which was inside the new perimeter. Fortunately, the Red Cross temporary badge allowed her through.
Back on boxed lunch and egg cream duty, she, swept the floor at St Paul's over and over. Dust came in, she collected it, dumped it out in the trash, and started over again. Then she went to the serving line, sharing a hug and a water bottle with anyone who needed it.
It wasn’t enough.
She drove the gator back to the Pile for water rounds. Twilight was upon the site, earlier than sundown because of the buildings. They were turning on the stadium lights, bringing forth the gray shadow. Despite wearing her mask, the smell was getting to her. The air reeked of fuel, mortar, and death.
Using energy she wasn’t sure how she found, she passed out snacks and hugs and worked her way to the center of the Pile where the wreckage of the North and South Tower converged. There was an odd-pointed bump sticking out between them. That was where she ran into the chief they’d met at St. Paul's.
“Mrs. Finny? You’re the Pink Lady?” She’d kept wearing her pink flannels because it made her visible.
“I guess so, Chief.” She had no clue what his name was. His only badge of office was his white helmet since he’d discarded his turnouts. Most everyone else wore a black helmet, and the chaplains wore yellow ones.
“I’m surprised your husband lets you out here.”
“You should be surprised I let him go under the Pile.” She pointed at the bump. “What was that?”
“That was World Trade 3. Used to be a Marriott hotel. Very nice place with a running track and swimming pool on the top floor.”
Abby’s heart went cold. “Hotel?”
“Yeah, twenty floors or so. When the South Tower went down at 9:59, it cut the hotel in half. The rest got crushed at 10:28 with the North Tower.” He made a smashing motion each time he mentioned a collapse. “Only that stairwell made it. It survived because it was reinforced after the 1993 bombing.”
“The 1993 bombing?” Abby didn’t remember the details, only the surprise and panic.
“Those assholes parked their explosives in the parking lot under the hotel. Thought they could knock the North Tower into the South Tower. Killed six people, including a pregnant woman. But we learned our lesson; we didn’t have evac plans back then.”
“Evacuation plans?”
“The bombing knocked out the power in both buildings. People got smoke inhalation, trapped in elevators. Evac and emergency protocols got put in place after that. Those six people gave their lives and hopefully saved thousands.”
“Did anyone… make it out of the hotel?”
“After both towers went, there were fourteen people in the stairs. Don’t know how many people were in the hotel. Hopefully, someone’ll track down the computer logs. Lost some of our guys in there. Hope they cleared clear out the convention in time.”
“What convention?”
“An economic convention, business type thing. Turned it over to the people at the armory to try to find all of the attendees.” He handed her a beat-up green piece of paper reading ‘NABE.’
“National Association for Business Economics,” Abby whispered.
“You okay, ma'am? Mrs. Finny?” he asked.
“Sorry about your men lost in the hotel. I'm sure they were very brave.” She wavered on the last note and was glad he couldn’t see her face, only her eyes.
“Why don't you go back into St Paul's? It's too much. No shame in that. If these weren't my people, I don't know if I'd be here every day. I keep telling myself I can stay home, but at 9:30 am sharp, I’m at the Church Street checkpoint again. I can’t stay away.”
She gave him a hug. “You can only do what you can do.”
The chief was staring at the stairwell when she climbed back into the gator, not even bothering to hand out water.
By ten o’clock when Hank came to retrieve her, Abby couldn't make herself speak. Their walk back to the apartment was spent with Hank talking. No one had been found alive since Wednesday, and he was struggling to enter the voids. He was thinking of joining the bucket brigades rather than go back under the Pile.
When she still hadn’t spoken after getting into the apartment, he asked, “You hear from your brother yet? Did he check in at the armory?”
“The armory is for reporting the missing. No one’s heard from Noah. My dad doesn’t count since he thinks it’s 1986. Why don't you go wash up? I'll come later.”
They showered separately; Abby went second. Hank broke their rule and poured glasses of red wine prov
ided by their host. He was waiting on the couch when she came out.
She downed most of the glass while listening to him. “I borrowed a cell phone and called home. Finster Construction is doing fine without me. Jerry was surprised I hitchhiked the wrong way to New York.”
“Better than getting killed by a hook-hand,” Abby said weakly, unable to come up with anything funnier.
Hank knew her too well now to let it go, though. “I'm worried about you, Abby. You're not yourself today.”
“It's okay. I'm tired.” She drank a second glass of wine.
He finished his first. “Have you gotten a hold of any of the Cleveland people?”
Abby shook her head. “I've called, and no one answered. They could be working any shift anywhere. McClunis told me they arrived, but she doesn’t know more.”
“Noah and Wills could be anywhere in the city. You know guys. I’ve called back home twice. You get in this zone where you forget there’s anything else… Maybe we should think about heading back,” he ventured.
“Back to where? Cleveland? Or Wisconsin where he belongs?”
“Abby, he’s a grown man. If he wants to work search and rescue here, he can. You can’t make him do anything.”
“No. I’m not leaving until they find him.” Abby realized her error too late.
Hank cocked his head. “What do you mean by that?”
Her wording had been the terms they used on the Pile for bodies.
She opened-up her black duffel bag and took out her parents’ answering machine. She plugged it in and hit play.
“Tuesday September 11, 2001. The time is 8:58 AM Central Time,” the answering machines electronic voice said.
Then the tape clicked on.
“Mom, Dad. There’s something going on at our hotel. I don’t want you to worry, just wanted to tell you we are fine, and I love you all. The firefighters are here. Everything is under control. Wait, there’s—”
