Embers

by Carina Alyce

  “Fifteen minutes is long enough to know a good thing when I see it. Four days is more than enough to know when something could be forever!” He tried to hold her hand, but she yanked hers away.

  “Don't say that!” she shouted.

  “Why not? You think I'd have followed a random chick to New York after a terrorist attack just to get laid?”

  “I like you fine. You’re cute and good in bed. But you are not my family. Noah is my family. You never had a family so you can’t possibly understand what it means to face this.” Abby grew louder with every syllable.

  “Can't you accept Noah is dead?” he pleaded.

  “Leave!” she screamed, a raw sound.

  “What? You don’t mean that.”

  Abby set her jaw. “You should leave.”

  There was silence that stretched for ages after her last word.

  “You’re upset and emotional,” he tried.

  “You aren’t my family. You are nobody. Get the hell out of here!” Abby shouted.

  He grabbed his duffel bag off the floor. It took him five seconds to throw on jeans over his boxers and slip on his work boots. She stood to the side, her arms crossed over her chest.

  Hank stopped, his hand on the door handle. “Really mature, Abby.”

  “Leave.”

  “You want to be alone forever, fine. You picked this, and I'm not coming back,” he said, his brown eyes unreadable. “Sooner or later, you'll have to accept the truth about Noah and that you made sure you were alone.”

  “Fuck you, Finster. Enjoy your trip back to Michigan.” She shoved him out the door and tossed his mask into the hallway. “Goodbye, Hank.”

  The moment he cleared the frame, she slammed the door and locked it.

  On her side of the door, she could hear him breathing, waiting to see if she would change her mind.

  She wasn’t going to.

  His footsteps moved off toward the elevator.

  Alone, she grabbed the whole bottle of wine and drank it quickly. She didn't want to think. Numb was a better idea. Her clothes could wait to get washed. Everything could wait.

  Hank was wrong. Noah was alive. If she just kept hunting, she would find him.

  Even if she hunted alone.

  Monday September 17, 2021

  New York City

  The Diary of the Chaplain at MetroGen

  Monday September 17, 2021

  The site is closed to everyone without the red card. They opened the site to the construction companies. We aren’t in ‘rescue’ anymore where they expect to find anyone alive. We’re in ‘recovery’ now.

  They think it will take months, maybe years to clean this up. They’re going to use DNA to find what’s left . . . I think we’re all slowly accepting the truth. Today was hard. Tomorrow will be just as hard, but carrying on is what makes us human. And what makes us children of God.

  The capacity to hope and keep going in the face of total despair. To laugh at my failed attempts to grow a beard or how terrible I am at eating the ever present protein bars. Or wonder why a New York signature drink – the egg cream – contains neither eggs nor cream.

  Chapter 12

  True to Hank's prediction, Abby was unable to enter the site on Monday morning. The perimeter guards outside the area refused to let her pass. Word of her supposed close call had spread, so a few incoming firefighters seconded the perimeter guards’ assessment.

  With no other options, she went to the armory and dropped off a DNA sample. It was the ultimate defeat to write out on a piece of paper that Noah was dead.

  She called Firehouse 15, and the person behind the desk wasn't McClunis. Whoever it was said he had no information on Noah Baker before hanging up on her.

  At the Javits, she waited in line with the volunteers who hadn't been selected. She was not the only relative who had been displaced from the site. They took her name and information and gave her phone numbers for grief counselors and other support services.

  She tried to sneak in with the night shift but was turned away. The Pink Lady was too recognizable.

  During her call home, her father happily informed her that Noah had just called and was on his way home from school. For once, her mother was awake.

  “Did you find him?” Mary Baker asked. Unlike Dad, she was lucid and understood the answering machine message.

  “He was at a conference in a hotel between the Twin Towers. The hotel was destroyed. They're not even sure they'll find a body. I left a DNA sample, so if they ever find anything, they can call us. I'm sorry, Mom.”

  There was silence, and then her mom spoke slowly as usual. “At least we know. And I'll see him soon.”

  “I tried, Mom. I did.”

  “There was nothing anyone could do. These things happen. Come home. Dad's more confused since you left. Every phone call is Noah or you. Vicky has our car keys because he wants to drive.”

  “I'll be home soon. I promise. I love you, Mom.”

  “I love you, too.” Her mom hung up, exhausted as usual.

  After the call, Abby—for the twentieth time that day—instinctively tried to speak to Hank. But he wasn't there. She'd driven him off, burning her bridges with the only good thing she'd had.

  Upon her return to the apartment, the phone rang. She picked it up, cursing herself because she didn't know Barry's last name. “Hello, Tribeca, New York.”

  “Hi, this is Barry, Nate's cousin. Are you Mrs. Finny, the Pink Lady?”

  “I'm Abby. They called me the Pink Lady at the Pile.”

  “Hi,” he started awkwardly. “I hope this isn’t a bad time, but they opened up everything up except Ground Zero. I wanted to come home tomorrow.”

  “Thanks for the heads up,” she said. “I can be out of here tomorrow morning. No problem.”

  “You don't have to leave,” Barry said.

  “Nah. It’s your place, and they're sending lots of the volunteers home. I can go back to Wisconsin.” Abby wished it weren’t true, but it was. There was nothing for her here.

  “How is my apartment?” he asked. “I've heard it's bad in Manhattan.”

  “Not even a cracked window,” she assured him, “Though I should mention, we took thirty showers, washed the sheets, and drank two bottles of wine.”

  “Only two?” he said. “I've killed six this week in Staten. You saw Nate, right?”

  “I did.”

  “He okay?”

  “Yeah. He was on search and rescue, but he was fine.”

  “That's good, ‘cause he hasn't come home, and we're all worried, including his wife and kids,” Barry said.

  “He's not calling in?” Abby asked.

  “Not since he called on Thursday to tell me about you.”

  Abby thought back for a second. Nate had been one of the regulars who slept in the pews at St Paul's. “I saw him two days ago, and he was fine. Tired, but fine.”

  “If you see him tomorrow,” Barry said, “can you ask him to come home? Please?”

  “I'll do what I can,” Abby hedged.

  Barry thanked her and hung up.

  Resentment built up inside her. She wanted to scream or throw things or destroy something. Was anyone searching for Wills? Was his family wondering what had happened to him? Had they too been kicked off the Pile?

  Had Wills miraculously escaped and was already home with his family? Or was he doing what Nate was and refusing to leave even when hope was lost?

  Again, she wanted to ask Hank, but there was no Hank. He was in Michigan by now. Their paths had crossed briefly, but he'd move on. He always moved on, from what he said.

  But not Abby. She’d never get over losing Noah, and it was time to admit that she might not get over Hank.

  Of all the people and problems, Nate was probably one she could help.

  The problem was that she wasn't allowed on the site. The Pink Lady was barred from returning to Ground Zero.

  But what if she wasn't the Pink Lady?

  Tuesday September 18, 2001


  New York City

  Chapter 13

  The next morning, Abby waited a block from the Church Street checkpoint. As only official vehicles were allowed to cross, one particular vehicle was due at nine-thirty.

  Seeing the correct vehicle, Abby walked directly into traffic and stuck her thumb out.

  “What the hell are you doing?” The battalion chief slammed on his brakes.

  “Animal, mineral, or vegetable?” She raised her eyebrows.

  The Chief stared. “Pink Lady?”

  Abbey smiled. Her hair was shorn down to a pixie cut and she wore a Cleveland FD shirt; clearly, it had done the job of disguising her. “I need a ride.”

  “Get a red card.”

  “Who's been hugging your firefighters? Nate’s wife wants him to come home. How’s yours doing?” For once, he wasn’t wearing gloves, and she saw he had a wedding band on his left finger.

  “She told me to stay home,” he admitted. “Where'd you get that shirt?”

  “It's my brother’s. He was in World Trade 3. Please.”

  The chief’s face softened. “You put on these turnouts, and I'll leave you at the Red Cross tent. Stay there. Do not go on the Pile. You promise?”

  “I do.”

  She got in the passenger seat, and no one questioned them when they crossed the checkpoint.

  By Tuesday, Hank was asking himself why he was still at the Pile. He’d had every intention of hopping on a bus to Michigan. This was New York. Outside of the Frozen zone, he could catch a taxi or a bus to anywhere on the planet.

  Anywhere except for an apartment in Tribeca with the women who had thoroughly smashed his heart and soul to smithereens.

  She was delusional. She was insane. She said their relationship wasn't real. Yet she clung to the ridiculous idea that Noah was alive.

  Noah was a firefighter. Odds were, he refused to evacuate and insisted on helping civilians. He was probably somewhere inside World Trade 3, now a tomb for so many others. Abby would never get the closure she wanted because he was a bone fragment. She asked the impossible and, as these days had proven, humans were only flesh and blood.

  Damn it, why couldn't he just walk away? She wanted nothing to do with him. Hank’s whole life, people had left him, but he’d never been the one to leave. The idea of leaving her, now that he had found her, the person he needed…

  It was cold comfort indeed to know Abby would be safe and not allowed back on site.

  Instead, Hank flagged a taxi to the Javits Center. He waited in line with the volunteers and presented his credentials. Even more important was the presence of several firefighters, including Russell Taggert who vouched for his skills. They gave him a red card to get through the new, smaller perimeter as an independent worker. He was bused in from St. John’s University’s campus where the workers were temporarily sleeping.

  The four construction companies—Tully, Bovis, AMEC, and Turner—provided their own staffing for the heavy equipment. Hank was assigned as liaison with the firefighter groups. Specifically, the companies wanted him to find out which sections had been explored to know the extent of the debris. Joint Operations Commander Bill Keegan had multiple maps of varying quality. He had entire teams of visiting firefighters exploring the nooks and crannies around the Pile.

  Between himself and Abby, they’d had lots of contact with the bucket brigade regulars but little with these teams. There were excellent chances for new faces.

  On Monday, Hank had covered the west side and ran into teams from Florida and Georgia. More organized aid stations were popping up, including a huge tent on West Highway and Murray with the Red Cross. He grabbed his food outside St. Paul’s, checking to be sure Abby hadn’t snuck in. The volunteers swore she wasn’t there.

  After arriving on Tuesday, he took breakfast in the Red Cross tent. He almost injured himself when he saw the Battalion Chief drop off a tall, slim woman with short hair at the tent. She was wearing a Cleveland FD shirt.

  Abby had found a way to sneak back in after all.

  Putting on his mask, he stayed out of sight, confirming she stayed inside the tent. It appeared so, because she was cleaning and playing I-Spy with many of the workers.

  Based on his assessment of all things Abby, she must have realized that the Pink Lady with her game of Twenty Questions was too recognizable. I-Spy let people vent with similar effects, though.

  As much as he wanted to approach her, he had nothing to offer. The best he could do was monitor her for trouble.

  Keegan assigned him to confirm the firefighter excursions into the subway system. Hank hadn’t realized it, but the 1 Line ran along the east side of the site. The Cortlandt station was buried by rubble, but the path down to Rector Street and South Ferry stations had multiple labyrinthine openings.

  Taking a paper map of the subway system, he followed the green X’s indicating places that had been searched. It was dirty, dark, and claustrophobic, dimly lit by portable lanterns. The architecture was ruined, and he wandered until it dead-ended in a debris field. Then he turned to chase the next set of X's, following holes until they ended in wreckage. When he ran out of X’s, he almost crashed into someone wearing an OSU Buckeyes shirt.

  “O-H!” Hank shouted through his mask, even though in Michigan it was a total violation of all things holy.

  “I-O!” the man responded gamely. “Buckeye?”

  “Nah, Michigan fan,” Hank admitted. “Pity they let John Cooper go.”

  “I’m sure Tressel will do better,” the man said tiredly, his mouth covered with grime, resting his back against a stone wall.

  “He can’t do worse,” Hank said. “You from Ohio?”

  “Yep. Ohio Valley Urban Search and Rescue from Columbus.”

  “Another USAR group? I was with the Florida guys yesterday. I’m Hank Finster.” Hank stuck out a hand.

  “Pink Lady’s Finny?” the man sounded impressed.

  “Something like that,” Hank answered.

  “I heard she got sent out after a close call. Everybody says you’re the luckiest bastard here.”

  Hank scoffed since he hadn’t been very lucky for the past two days. “Have you ever met the Pink Lady?”

  “Nah. Ever since we linked up with the Cleveland guys, we’ve stayed down here, sleeping off Battery Park. Occasionally, one of us'll join the bucket brigade for change of scenery.”

  “The Cleveland guys?” Hank couldn’t believe it. Now he’d found the Cleveland guys?

  “Yeah, we’ve been down here with them since Wednesday or so. Worst cell phone reception ever.” The firefighter gestured to the ruined walls around them.

  “Got anybody from Cleveland named Wills? Heavy set huge Black guy with an Afro.” Hank figured Wills would be more recognizable than Noah.

  The firefighter pointed at his hardhat’s close fit. “Nobody like that. An Afro wouldn’t survive the hat.”

  “I’m looking for two missing guys from Cleveland.”

  True to form, the Columbus firefighter didn’t suggest checking the yellow pages. ‘Missing’ only meant one thing at the Pile. “Tough break.”

  “Can I see the Cleveland guys? Just in case.”

  “Why not, but you’re going to have to crawl. I’m Bryon Munnis, by the way.” Munnis walked by the last lamp and led him into a crevice in the wall. He got on his hands and knees with his flashlight in his hands.

  Hank followed suit, once again reminding himself that he wasn’t insane to crawl into unstable wreckage.

  The tunnel went about twenty feet, and he could feel a safety line on the ground. It opened up into a wider space, still dark but with small dancing lights ahead.

  “Who’s there?” a voice called out ahead of them.

  “It’s Munnis and Finny from Michigan.”

  “What the fuck is a Finny? Did you find a dolphin?” the loud voice cracked.

  “Shut up, Jordan. Why do we keep you around, asshole?” another voice called.

  Hank and Munnis walked t
oward the lights and found about twelve guys with pike poles and Halligan bars tapping on walls ahead of them. Three of the guys were wearing paper masks and similar shirts to Munnis. The ones wearing full respirators wore Cleveland FD T-shirts.

  All faces turned toward them, and Hank shone his flashlight directly in the eyes of the closest man. The man squinted. “Careful.”

  Hank tilted up his flashlight and grabbed at the man’s shoulder. The man, taller than Hank, had bright blue eyes.

  Blue where the sky meets the sea.

  “Noah?!”

  The man stopped struggling. “Yeah?”

  “Noah Baker! Wills?” Hank shouted and spun his flashlight.

  “Who is Wills?” Munnis asked.

  “Only that dickwad Noah calls me Wills.” A large Black man stepped forward, his features hidden by his mask.

  “I thought you were Jordan,” Munnis said.

  “His name is Jacen,” Noah said.

  “Jacen with a ‘c’ and an ‘e’, none of that dumb ‘S-O-N’ shit,” the person who was either Wills or Jordan or Jacen or Jason said. “Who are you?”

  “I’m Finny, as in Finster.”

  “Oh, I know that one. Pink Lady’s husband. She was a fine piece of ass.” Now the heads snapped toward Jacen/Wills/Whatever. “In the platonic way. I did meet her on my day with the bucket brigade.”

  “Forget about the Pink Lady. Are you Noah Baker who stayed in World Trade 3 with some guy named Wills?” Hank asked with urgency.

  “Yes.” The pair of eyes that supposedly belonged to Noah Baker were confused.

  “You got out of the hotel?”

  “Yeah. Just in time. Me and Jacen.”

  They were talking pretty normally for guys who were supposed to be dead. Hank had to be sure. “I need to confirm this. You are Noah Baker, and this is Wills, your friend from Cleveland State.”

  “That sounds about right,” Jacen said. “What of it?”

  Hank smiled, knowing they couldn't see his lips. “Your family thinks you’re dead.”