One Tuesday Morning & Beyond Tuesday Morning Compilation

by Karen Kingsbury

  There was the briefest pause. “Are you watching the news?”

  “Yes.” Laura fought back the dizziness. “I was talking to Eric when it … when the plane hit.”

  “I'm sorry, Laura.” Murphy's voice was stilted, unnatural. The entire conversation, the scenes from the television, all of it felt like it was happening to someone else.

  “Have you heard from him? Since it happened, I mean?” As the words left her mouth, she realized how crazy they sounded. Of course Murphy hadn't heard from Eric. The phones had gone out the minute the plane hit the building. Still, she waited for Murphy's response, hoping that somehow he knew something she didn't.

  “He hasn't called.” Murphy waited a moment. “But he's okay, Laura. I have to believe that.”

  A flicker of hope ignited in Laura's soul. “How … how come?”

  “The news said the plane entered at about the seventy-eighth floor. Koppel and Grant's on the sixty-fourth. I'd guess the fire's spread below the crash site, but our guys were down far enough. They should be able to get out.”

  Laura imagined Eric and Allen and the others from the company rushing for the elevator. Or maybe the elevator wasn't working. If not, then they'd be pushing frantically for the stairwell trying to walk to ground level. The notion was absurd. Sixty-four floors! Eric might be able to handle the climb down, but what about the older men and women who worked that high up. “Eric knows I'm worried. How long would it take him to get out of there?”

  “One of the reporters said the evacuation was averaging about one floor every minute. So, I don't know. An hour at least.”

  “How long's it been?” Laura steadied herself against the desk to keep from falling. The floor beneath her feet felt like it had turned to jelly, the same way it felt the last time a minor earthquake rolled through their area. Laura closed her eyes again to stave off the nausea.

  “The plane hit a little after nine.” Murphy paused. “It's a quarter past right now.”

  Laura opened her eyes and took Josh's hand in hers as she did the math. “So sometime around ten o'clock he should be calling me. Is that right?”

  Murphy was quiet. “Things are pretty crazy down there, Laura. I'd give him longer than that. Who knows, the entire phone system is probably jammed.”

  “But he has his cell phone, wouldn't you say? Eric always has his cell.”

  “Have you tried it?” Murphy sounded tired.

  “Yes.” Laura felt the room sway. Josh's eyes were wide now, but she couldn't do anything about it. She made a fist with her free hand and pressed it into her stomach, anything to ward off the nausea. This couldn't be happening. All of it seemed like something from a terrible dream. As though any minute she'd wake up and everything would be fine. She remembered Murphy on the other end. “What'd you ask?”

  “About Eric's cell phone.”

  “Oh, right. I tried. The call wouldn't go through.”

  “So maybe closer to ten you can try it again.”

  “Good. Good idea. Thanks, Murphy.” Laura looked at Josh, but he was watching the TV, his gaze fixed on the terrible pictures. “I gotta go.”

  “He's all right, Laura.”

  “Pray, Murphy. Do that for him, will you?” Laura had no idea if Murphy was a praying man, but it didn't matter. Right now she guessed just about everyone in America believed in prayer.

  “I'll pray. Call me if you hear anything.”

  Laura hung up and returned to her spot next to Josh. It didn't matter how she felt or whether she fainted. She needed to get Josh away from the television. Images like the ones that had been flashing across the screen could scar a little boy forever. Especially if Eric …

  She refused the thought. “Why don't you go get dressed, buddy?”

  He nodded absently, never taking his eyes from the TV. “When are they going to put out the fire?”

  “They're probably putting it out right now.”

  He looked at her. “From the inside, you mean?”

  “Mmmhmm.” Her stomach convulsed. They couldn't possibly have firefighters up that far into the building yet. The fire was clearly raging out of control in both towers. And if they didn't get water on it soon, it would spread to—

  “They'll get it out, though, right, Mom? Firemen always get the fires out, don't they?”

  It was the first time Laura had considered the idea. Firefighters would have water sources on the ground, but seventy floors up? Eighty or ninety? What could they possibly do to douse a fire that size so far up in the air? Josh was waiting for an answer. Laura still had hold of his hand, and she squeezed it gently. “Yes, son. They'll get it out.” She leaned forward, and against everything in her, she turned off the television. “Daddy'll call in an hour or so and tell us all about it.”

  Laura walked Josh to his room and helped him find a pair of shorts and a T-shirt. The whole time he asked questions about firefighters and mile-long hoses and ladders that could reach up to the sky. She did her best to answer him, but she was haunted by the most awful idea.

  What if the fire had spread through the stairwell? What if Eric and the others were trapped, unable to get out? And what if the flames had spread to the floors beneath the crash site. Even the sixty-fourth floor? What if an hour passed and she didn't hear from Eric?

  God … stop my terrible thoughts. Please … Help me believe that Eric's okay. Be with him, guide him down the stairs and back home, Lord. I beg You …

  Then quiet words came from someplace deep in her soul: Lean not on your own understanding, daughter …

  But the words were lost in a fog of panicky questions. What if they couldn't get water up that high? What if …

  The list would work its way through her mind and then start over again. What if the fire had spread through the stairwell? What if Eric and the others were trapped, unable to get out? And finally the worst question of all. The one that—as she made oatmeal for Josh—made her gasp for breath every minute or so.

  What if she never saw Eric again?

  TEN

  SEPTEMBER 11, 2001, 9:17 A.M.

  The orders were given just before the second plane hit. All units respond to the World Trade Center except Engine 57 and Ladder 96. Those two units would be on standby, in case a fire broke out somewhere else in the city. Jake and the rest of the men at his station were frustrated about the order from the beginning.

  But Captain Maxwell was outraged. He got on the phone immediately and called headquarters. “I don't care what the orders are, it's crazy to keep us here.” He paced the length of the station, shouting into the receiver. “The people in that building need every available firefighter on site if we're going to save lives!”

  After the south tower was struck, Maxwell became downright furious. Jake watched the man storm across the kitchen, into the dining room, out toward the front room, and back again.

  Jake understood completely. For him to sit by and watch a fire of any kind was like trying not to breathe. He sat beside Larry, his back stiff, his feet tapping out an urgent rhythm. This was the worst fire New York had ever seen. No, it was bigger than that. Jake stared at the TV screen and the thick black smoke bursting from the World Trade Center. It was one of the worst disasters in the nation's history. Jake knew the numbers; they all did. At any given time there could be as many as twenty thousand people in the World Trade Center towers. If every firefighter in a twenty-mile radius showed up at the scene, they'd still be severely stretched for manpower.

  It was all he and Larry and the others could do to obey the orders. But they had to wait until the call came in, so that's what they did. Jake and Larry and the other men—everyone from both the night and day shift—sat at the dining room picnic tables watching the unfolding terror on TV and waiting.

  Maxwell was still pacing the floor, talking on the phone, yelling at someone from headquarters. His language was worse than Jake had heard it in a while. “Listen to me, I don't care. If someone doesn't call us out, I'll send the men myself. This is our city's si
ngle worst mo–”

  Jake tuned the man out. He'd called Jamie twice and left brief messages both times, saying he'd try her again in a few minutes. She was probably at the gym with Sierra, but she should've been home by now. He slipped away from the table, snapped open his cell phone, and hit redial.

  Two rings … three … four. The answering machine clicked on, and Jamie's voice sounded over the line. At the tone Jake cleared his throat. “Hi … it's me again. Looks like we'll get the call here pretty soon, honey. Everything's going to be okay, Jamie. I love you and I'll be home tonight, I promise. God's with me. Oh yeah, and my angel. Can't forget about him.” He paused, hoping she'd walk through the door of their home any minute and pick up the phone. His throat was thick, but he kept his voice upbeat. “So, I'll see you later, all right? And, sweetheart, tell Sierra I love her.”

  He snapped the phone shut, slipped it in his pants pocket, and returned to his spot at the table next to Larry. The pictures on TV showed the score. The fire was getting worse. Jake leaned close to his friend and whispered, “We've gotta get out there.”

  “I know.” Larry glanced at him. “Did you get hold of Jamie?”

  “No.” Jake swallowed hard. “Left a better message this time, though.” He tapped his fingers on the worn wood table. “What about Sue? Did you call her?”

  “Yep. She's watching it at home.” Larry looked back at the television and squinted. “Scared to death.”

  “Wherever Jamie is, I'm sure she's panicking. Probably tearing across the island to get home. Fires scare her anyway. This one …” Jake shot a look at the screen. “This one will terrify her.”

  Larry was quiet for a moment. “Hey, JB …” He narrowed his gaze and kept it locked on the television. “Ever think about how hot jet fuel burns?”

  “Yeah.” A close-up of the fire flashed on the TV. Jake took a swig of his coffee and grimaced. “A hundred times since the first plane hit.”

  “What do you think those buildings can take, you know, heat-wise?”

  Jake turned to Larry once more. “I'm trying not to think about it. Jamie's the worrier in our family.”

  “I don't know.” Larry shook his head. “I've never seen a fire like that in my life. We wouldn't be breathing if we weren't worried.” He looked at Jake again. “What about you, JB … aren't you even a little scared?”

  “No.” Jake clenched his teeth. His answer was quick, automatic. “My family's been fighting fires since before I was born. Fear isn't part of it.”

  “You called Jamie three times in five minutes.” Larry lowered his head so the others couldn't hear him. “Come on, Jake, be honest with me, man. I mean, I want to get out there and fight the thing too. But I'm thinking about it this time.”

  Nearly a minute passed while Jake processed the idea. It wasn't fear, was it, this thing he was feeling? But then no one in three generations of Bryan firefighters had ever faced a fire like this one. A sigh came from deep within Jake. “All right.” He folded his hands so tightly his knuckles turned white. They were cold and clammy. “I feel it. I keep asking myself why this fire scares me. I'm not afraid to die, so what is it?” His hands trembled just barely as he reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet. He flipped it open. There was a picture of Sierra from a few months ago, and one of Jamie and him taken last summer. With careful fingers he traced the outline of her face and then Sierra's. “It's this. That's what scares me.”

  “Yep.” Larry nodded slow and deliberate. “I know.”

  “Back when I first joined the department, I never thought about the size of a fire or whether I was in danger. You didn't either. We didn't have wives and little girls back then.” Jake returned the wallet and let his eyes meet Larry's. “But now … we have so much to lose.”

  Larry didn't say anything, and for a moment they both were quiet. Jake remembered something. Six months ago Sierra pasted a photo of herself onto a piece of paper and then carefully printed her name beneath it. “Here, Daddy … this is for you,” she'd told him. “For your desk at work.”

  But Jake's work didn't require a desk. So he'd taped the photo complete with her printed name onto the inside of his helmet. The picture had been with him, against the top of his head, every call he'd taken since then. A reminder of why he had to be careful, why he couldn't afford a single mistake on the job.

  It was like he'd just told Larry. He had too much to lose.

  Larry broke the moment by jabbing an elbow into Jake's ribs. “Okay, JB, sorry. Enough of that.” He managed a crooked, determined grin. “No worries about the fire today, friend. You watch my back, and I'll watch yours. We'll put out some flames, save a few lives, and get back in time for dinner.”

  It was their motto, the thing they'd said to each other every time they'd taken a call together. No worries. Put out some flames … save a few lives … back in time for dinner. Jake returned the grin and settled his gaze on the TV.

  The image switched to a harried reporter who was shouting above the sirens and chaos coming from the streets of lower Manhattan. The Port Authority had closed all bridges and tunnels leading into New York City. “The latest reports say that the attacks on the World Trade Center were definitely intentional.” The man's gaze darted to a sheet of paper in his hand. “President Bush is calling it a terrorist act of unequaled proportion and—”

  Suddenly, Maxwell burst into the room, his eyes wide. “Okay, men, it's our turn. Both units to the south tower. There's a control post in the lobby. We'll report there and be assigned a floor.” He paused. “None of the elevators are working. We'll be walking up, so pace yourself. At this point everyone above the seventy-eighth floor is trapped and needs assistance.”

  The moment Maxwell stopped speaking, Jake and seventeen men seated around the two picnic tables snapped into action, racing for their respective trucks, grabbing helmets and doubling up on nearly every seat so the men from both shifts would fit. Jake stared at the picture of Sierra taped to the inside of his helmet, then he put it firmly on his head and squeezed into the backseat of Engine 57, between Larry and a guy from the night crew.

  God … be with us … get us home safely.

  I will be with you, son, always … always even until the end.

  The words were part of a verse, one Jake had memorized years ago. They flashed in his mind as the sirens on both trucks pierced the air and joined those sounding across the city. Jake steeled himself for the task ahead, for the horrific sights he would no doubt see.

  This is the big one, God … we're gonna need You.

  Always, son … I'm with you always even until the end.

  Jake clenched his fists and stared at the buildings as they rushed past. He always prayed en route to a fire. It was something that came as naturally as stepping into his turnouts or finding his place on the truck. Prayer was simply part of going to a fire. And always God's peace and strength and assurance came as he prayed, giving Jake an invisible armor to go along with his uniform.

  But rarely did a Scripture flash in his mind.

  They rounded a corner and Jake held on. The streets were empty except for emergency vehicles, so they were making better time than usual. He closed his eyes for a moment. The Scripture was from the book of Matthew, the place where Jake had been doing his morning Bible study for the past few weeks. Comforting words, words filled with promise. Jesus would be with him always even until the end of the age.

  It was the last part that seemed somehow more profound.

  The Lord would be with him until the end.

  Jake shifted and gazed out the windshield of the fire truck. Profound or maybe prophetic. The truck raced through an intersection, and Jake shook off the strange thoughts. He was psyching himself out, imagining warnings where none lay. This was a bad fire, but it was still a fire. And fighting fires was something he was trained to do. The dangers were the same as with any other call, weren't they? He glanced at Larry sitting beside him, but his friend's eyes were glazed over—the way they always were w
hen he was mentally preparing himself for the call.

  What had Larry said earlier about the temperature of jet fuel and the strength of the World Trade Center? Jake blinked and the questions disappeared. There was no point worrying. He had a job to do, and his body pulsed with adrenaline over the prospect. He couldn't wait to get it done. They were two blocks away when Maxwell—who was sitting in the front passenger seat of the fire truck—turned around and briefed them on the scene.

  “Jet fuel shot through the elevator shaft a few seconds after both crashes.” He hesitated. “Some folks fell to their deaths. Others jumped. Many of them were on fire. Falling bodies have already claimed the lives of some of our men, so watch your step.”

  Jake swallowed hard and resisted the urge to ask which men. It didn't matter. FDNY was a fraternity, and all of them were connected in one way or another. The losses they'd suffer individually and as a group that day would be too great to fathom. Especially with the fire still out of control.

  They sped the remaining distance, turned onto West Street, and pulled up alongside another engine. Maxwell's warning could not have prepared Jake for the scene at the base of the south tower. Bodies were still falling from the upper floors, and Jake caught the expression of terror on a woman as she plummeted from the building. He looked away just as a thud echoed across the street.

  The thud of her body hitting the ground.

  God … it's a nightmare. Help those people … please.

  He stared at the street around them and gritted his teeth. It looked like something from a battlefield. Bodies lay strewn along the pavement, firefighters scrambled in a dozen different directions, and burn victims on stretchers were being carried to an endless line of waiting ambulances and paramedics.

  Anger joined the emotions raging in Jake's soul. What type of monster would orchestrate mass murder on this level? And how dare they take aim at the heart of New York City? Jake and the others piled out of the truck, grabbed air tanks, and jogged toward the lobby of the south tower.

  “Watch the sky!” Maxwell shouted over his shoulder.