The world has no choice but to go on with life. A psychologist friend told me that in one way, recovering from this disaster will actually be easier than recovering from the individual tragedies that plague our mortal lives. In this disaster, everyone lost someone: a relative, a friend or a neighbor. At the very least they know someone who knew someone who died. In that way this bears some resemblance to soldiers marching into fearsome battle, each drawing strength from the others and from the fact that they are not alone.
As I write this I cannot help but think of each of the relatives, friends, and coworkers I’ve lost. As I picture their faces and remember events where our lives intersected, I notice that many of them are smiling. It seems that is how I usually saw them in life, but maybe that is just how I choose to remember them. For many, I am gnawed by regret that I did not treat them more kindly, that I did not get to know them better, that I did not give them more of myself while I had the chance.
I know my regrets are shared by many who are reading these words. What wouldn’t any of us give for the chance to spend just one more day with those we lost? If we could just go back to one day before the Disaster, how different we would seem, how differently we would behave, how much kinder we would be. But there is nothing we can do to bring back that day. There is nothing we can do to bring back into our lives those who died.
I wonder about the children. How will their lives be affected? Many of the children of the Great Depression, remembering their parents’ reaction to sudden poverty, went through their entire lives in imagined financial insecurity, holding so tightly to every penny that they denied themselves much of what they wanted or needed. What will children of this generation remember when they look back at how we handled this tragedy? What will they carry with them for having experienced this event?
Regret is natural, but if we allow it to rule our lives, how many more regrets will we pile up? How many more missed opportunities will there be with others whom one day we will wish we had treated with more kindness or gotten to know better or given more of ourselves to? Let us then not flounder in our regrets, but rather let us carry them as reminders to cherish every day we have, to value everyone we meet.
As we lick our wounds in the wake of any new tragedy, we all believe it when we hear the words, “None of us will ever be the same,” but inside we know better. Our experience tells us we forget all too quickly. Each time we vow “This time will be different,” but we are a resilient lot. We may carve words like “We will never forget” into limestone or granite to remind us, but carving them into the human soul is not so easy. It is made of much more pliable stuff, easily impressed but quick to rebound. And while we may curse that stuff for its conspiracy with time to steal from us the only thing we have left of those who died—our pain—without that resiliency our species would have died out millennia ago.
In a few years our lives may give every appearance of being unchanged by the event we now call the Disaster. But having lived through it, can any of us ever greet another day without the thought that this may be our last? Will any of us ever pass children playing or a flower growing or friends chatting and not look back and thank our lucky stars that we’re still alive to witness it?
Perhaps this time it will be different. Perhaps this blow has come with sufficient force to make an impression that will endure. Only time will tell. All we can say for now is none of us will ever be the same.
This was not the typical biting editorial by Hank Asher that Decker was used to reading. He sat quietly for a few minutes, considering Asher’s words. Then the phone rang.
“Mr. Hawthorne’s residence,” Christopher answered, sounding more like a domestic servant than a fourteen-year-old boy. “Yes, just a moment. I’ll get him for you.” Decker got up and headed for the phone as Christopher reported that it was Mr. Asher calling from NewsWorld.
“Hank, how are you?” Decker asked warmly.
“I’m fine. How are you?” Asher’s voice made it clear he was willing to listen to a detailed response.
“Much better, actually. Really, I’m doing all right,” Decker said resolutely.
Asher understood the determination in his voice. Decker was probably a long way from being all right, but he was determined to be all right and that in itself was a major step in the right direction. “Good,” Asher said. “How’s the boy?”
“Oh, he’s great. He’s been a big help around here.”
“Look, I know we haven’t really talked about your plans on getting back to work, but I need a favor. I need you in New York on Monday for a story.”
“Monday!” Decker blurted. “If you’ve got a story in New York why not just have someone from the New York office cover it?”
“The New York office is understaffed since the Disaster. And really, it’s just a small assignment. It’ll be good for you. You’ll be in and out in one day. I’d send someone else, but it’s an interview with Jon Hansen and you’re the only one I could get him to talk to.”
“The British ambassador to the UN?” Decker asked, more out of surprise than for confirmation.
“I’ve already set up the interview for Monday afternoon and bought your plane ticket.”
“I don’t know, Hank,” Decker said reluctantly, although yielding a little ground to the man to whom he owed so much. “What’s this all about? What’s the story?”
“It’s about Hansen’s report on the situation in the Middle East. The UN lost nearly two thousand men assigned to that area in the Disaster. They’ve tried to replace them with reinforcements but many of the countries that provide the UN with soldiers were hit just as badly. The U.S., Britain, Germany, Switzerland—all have major losses. With the threat of war in the Middle East because of the Jews building a temple on the site of the Dome of the Rock, there’s serious doubt that the UN forces can maintain the peace.
“We have a tip that Hansen is going to recommend that unless Israel agrees to halt construction of the Temple, the UN should immediately withdraw its remaining thirteen-thousand-man force from around Israel’s borders. If the UN removes its troops, war is almost certain.”
“How many people know about this?” Decker asked, as he felt his resistance slipping away.
“There are a lot of rumors and suspicions, but no one knows the facts. Hansen has refused to talk to the press, but I was able to get him to agree to talk to you. Come on, Decker. This is the quintessential ‘right place at the right time’ scenario if I’ve ever seen one.”
Decker laughed to himself, but his pause made Asher think he needed to push for the answer he wanted. “So … will you do it or not?” he asked finally.
“Yeah, I’ll do it.” Decker looked over at Christopher, who had been listening quietly to Decker’s end of the conversation. “But, I’ll need two tickets instead of one.” Christopher understood and nodded with great enthusiasm. “And can you set up a tour of the UN for Christopher?”
“That’s a great idea,” Asher said. “The kid must be going crazy with cabin fever by now. I’ll even make reservations for you in the Delegates Dining Room for lunch. Your appointment with Hansen is set for two o’clock Monday afternoon.”
New York, New York
“Where to?” the cabby asked.
“The UN building,” Decker answered. Christopher got in first. When Decker joined him he noticed a very strange look on the boy’s face. Something was not quite right. It took only an instant for Decker to understand. Sealed in the cab, a strange but familiar smell made its way into their lungs. It was not overpowering, but it was definitely there and it wasn’t pleasant. Decker thought about getting out and hailing another cab, but it was too late. The driver punched the gas pedal, pulled his cab across two lanes of traffic and was off.
Decker and Christopher looked at each other. Christopher silently mouthed, “May I roll down the window?”
Decker held up his hand with his thumb and forefinger spread apart, indicating that about three inches would be acceptable. It was pretty cold
outside but that seemed a good compromise with the smell.
After a few minutes, Decker cracked his window as well. It was then that he noticed the driver looking at them in his rearview mirror. He seemed to be studying them. If he asks me to roll up my window, Decker thought, I’ll make him stop and let us out. Their eyes met in the mirror and the cabby realized Decker had been watching him looking at them. He quickly reached up, as if he had been checking the adjustment on the mirror.
“So what ya goin’ to the UN for?” he asked a moment later.
“Just a visit,” Decker answered.
“Oh, yeah?” he said. “Ain’t been too many tourists around here lately.”
Decker chose not to respond.
A moment later the driver added, “Well, ya wanna be careful over there.”
“Why do you say that?” Decker asked.
“Call me paranoid, but I wouldn’t go in there widdout a gas mask on.”
Decker found it almost impossible not to respond with a crack about needing one to ride in the cabby’s car. “I don’t follow you,” he answered instead.
“Well, I don’t care what anyone says. The way I see it, it was definitely Arab terrorists that caused the Disaster. Or if not, then it was the Russians, ’cause no way you’re gonna tell me all those people just dropped dead for no reason. And, well, I don’t know if you ever been to the UN before, but they got foreigners crawlin’ all over the place over there. ’Course, that’s true everywhere in New York, only especially at the UN.”
“If the Arabs or Russians are responsible for the Disaster,” Decker responded, “why would they release it on their own people?”
“Yeah, that’s what they say, but how can we really know how many of them died? They could be lyin’ through their teeth. And besides, accidents happen.”
Decker realized there was no sense in trying to reason with the driver, so he settled back in his seat for the ride and kept silent. The cabby, however, didn’t need an active partner to carry on a conversation.
“’Course, I wanna get the creeps that did it as much as the next guy—and I don’t mean to be cruel or nuthin’—but if ya ask me, I’d tell ya we wuz better off widdout so many people in the world. ’Course, there ain’t near as many fares on the streets nowadays. Not live ones, anyway. But an entrepreneur like me, well, I figure there’s a green linin’ to every cloud. So I asked myself, how can a guy like me make some money when the fares’re down. An’ it didn’t take no time till it comes to me. If there ain’t as many live ones around, haul the dead ones! So I called up this guy I know who works at a landfill in Jersey. And next thing ya know, I’m in business.”
If Decker needed any confirmation of what the smell was, he now had it.
“Yeah, I figured it was a great idea,” the cabby said, continuing his discourse. “The wife says it makes the car stink. So, I just stopped at the 7-11 and bought this air freshener.” The cabby pointed to a cardboard pine tree dangling from the rearview mirror. “And I ain’t had no more problem with it. ’Course it was a little creepy at first, but I can make upta two hundred dollars a head for haulin’ off bodies, dependin’ on how bad a shape they’re in. ’Course, most of the stiffs from the Disaster have been hauled off by now. Still, I get a call maybe two or three times a day, mostly to haul off suicides—folks that lost everybody in the Disaster and decided ta join ’em. But for a while there, I was rakin’ it in. One time I got twelve stiffs in here all at the same time.”
The cabby paused just long enough for Decker to get his hopes up that he would remain silent. “And then there’s another thing,” he said, after catching his breath. “It sure is easier to get apartments around here now. ’Course, most of the apartments that ya find still smell like dead folks, but, hey, ya just let it air out a few hours an’ it’s jus’ like home.”
The cabby looked over and nodded toward a pawn shop as they passed. “I tell ya another guy that’s makin’ a buck on the dead besides the grave digger and me: the pawn broker. Ya see this ring,” he said, holding his right hand up for them to see. “Pretty nice, huh? I picked this up dirt cheap from a pawn shop last week. But I bet I paid four times what the pawn broker had ta give for it. An’ the guy he got it from probably got it for free off some stiff. Some people don’t like wearin’ dead folk’s stuff, but I figure, hey, they don’t need it no more.”
“Was there a lot of looting?” Christopher asked the driver, apparently unaware that Decker was hoping the driver would just be quiet and drive.
“Oh, yeah, plenty. Let me tell ya, the looters wuz breakin’ windows an’ rippin’ off stores left and right. A bunch of ’em got shot by shop owners, but then pretty soon the looters started shootin’ back. But that only lasted a few days. Then Hizzoner, the mayor, declared open season on anyone on the streets after curfew. So far, I hear the cops have shot more than thirty of ’em.
“Well, here we are,” the cabby concluded as he pulled up to the UN General Assembly building.
Decker paid quickly, not wanting to spend an extra moment in that car. The driver thanked him and warned them again to be careful.
“I hope you know that that cabby didn’t know his head from a hole in the ground,” Decker told Christopher as the two walked toward the entrance of the UN.
“You mean about the Russians and Arabs?” Christopher asked.
“Well, yes, that too. But not just that.”
“Sure, Mr. Hawthorne, I know that. But, still, it was an interesting experience.”
Decker laughed to himself. “You’d make a good reporter,” he said.
Decker and Christopher walked across the North Courtyard to the entrance to the UN General Assembly building. After going through the security check, they went to the information and security desk to get visitor’s badges for the Delegates Dining Room. Both enjoyed the lunch buffet immensely. There was more variety than either had seen before at one meal and they liked almost everything they tried.
After their meal, as they were in the lobby returning their badges, someone called to Decker. They turned toward the voice and, through a group of colorfully clothed people, saw a tall blond man who smiled at them and gave a nod of recognition. It was Jon Hansen.
Decker smiled back and made his way across the lobby toward him.
“Mr. Ambassador,” Decker said as he approached and extended his hand. “It’s good to see you again. But I certainly didn’t expect you to come to greet me.”
“No problem,” Hansen answered with a friendly smile. “But to be honest, I had some business in the building. How have you been? You look much improved over our first meeting.”
“Yeah, well, that’s not necessarily saying very much,” Decker joked. “But I have been eating a lot better. Christopher here is a pretty good cook.”
Hansen looked curiously at Christopher, who was listening intently to their conversation.
“Ambassador Hansen, this is Christopher Goodman,” Decker responded in answer to Hansen’s glance. “He’s been staying with me since the Disaster. His granduncle was Professor Harry Goodman of UCLA, who before his death was scheduled to be awarded the Nobel Prize in medicine.”
“Well, it’s very nice to meet you, Christopher,” Hansen said as he shook Christopher’s hand. “I’ve read about your uncle’s work in cancer research. He was a brilliant scientist. The world will miss him. Maybe someday you’ll continue his work.”
“Professor Goodman and I were friends from my college days,” Decker continued. “I lost—” Decker bit his lower lip to get a grip on his emotions. For a brief moment he thought he would be able to just say it, but as the words approached his lips, they began to quiver and his cheeks began to ache. Releasing his bite, he tried again. “I lost my wife and two daughters.” He paused briefly and took a breath. “So when Christopher showed up on my doorstep, I invited him to stay. The professor and Mrs. Goodman were his only family.”
“I’m terribly sorry about your families,” Hansen offered. Decker nodded appreciation.
“Mr. Ambassador,” Christopher said politely, waiting for permission before continuing.
“Yes, Christopher,” Hansen replied.
“I’m very interested in what the World Health Organization is doing to help find the cause of the Disaster. Are they any closer to finding an answer?”
“Well, Christopher,” Hansen began, pleased at the boy’s interest, “they tell me they’ve been able to determine several hundred things that it was not. So I guess that’s progress. But they still don’t know what it was. I have faith in them, though. They’ll figure it out soon, I’m sure.”
Christopher seemed satisfied with the answer.
“So,” Hansen asked Christopher, “is this your first trip to the United Nations?”
“Yes, sir,” Christopher answered. “Is your office in this building?”
“Oh, no. I think most people assume that the delegates’ offices are here at the UN, but actually each country has its own mission elsewhere in the city. The British Mission is about four blocks from here on Dag Hammarskjöld Plaza, which is really the same as Second Street.”
“Christopher is quite a big fan of the UN, so I brought him along,” Decker interjected. “He’s scheduled for the one-thirty tour.”
“Well, why don’t we walk Christopher over to where the tour starts, and then we can go over to my office.”
When Decker and Hansen reached the British Mission on the twenty-eighth floor of One Dag Hammarskjöld Plaza, they were met at the door by an attractive blond woman in her late twenties who stood at least six feet two inches tall, just two inches shorter than Hansen. Decker was struck not only by her height, but also by her remarkable resemblance to the ambassador. The features were softer, the skin smoother and younger, but there was no mistaking the kinship.
In His Image Page 17
