“Starved,” I reply, holding onto the back of his t-shirt so we don’t get separated in the crowd hustling out the door.
“That may be a problem.” He heads toward the right side of the tiered steps, and I follow.
“Why’s that?” I raise my voice to compete with the noise of the street.
“It’s a holiday, and we don’t have a dinner reservation.” He gives me a sheepish look. “I know you’re overdressed for it, but how do you feel about grabbing a hot dog in Central Park?”
“I’d love to.” A gust of wind sends my skirt flying, and I try to keep it in place. “I wish I didn’t wear this though. It’s so impractical.”
Unconsciously, Connor’s eyes travel down the length of my legs. Quickly, he brings back his gaze to mine but it’s too late. I catch him checking me out. Usually I’d call him on it, but I choose not to. I don’t want him to know how much I enjoy capturing his undivided attention.
“Uh yeah, it’s—a pretty dress.” Hearing him stumble over his words makes me laugh.
“Always keep that smile, honey,” a homeless woman encamped at the entrance of the park calls out to me as we walk by. Sitting on a piece of cardboard, she’s positioned next to a shopping cart that contains all of her belongings. A bandana is covering her hair, and she’s wearing a ripped plaid shirt that swallows up her tiny frame. I can’t tell if the lines on her face are from age or the hard conditions of life on the street.
“We’re going to get some hot dogs. Would you like one?” I don’t know what possesses me. I usually don’t engage with the city’s homeless population. I was trained to avert my eyes and keep walking, for my own safety. But Connor’s here with me, and something about this woman calls out to me.
Connor shoots me an amused look, but he doesn’t interfere, waiting to see how this is going to play out.
“You bet your ass I would,” she responds, displaying a grin that’s missing several teeth.
“Anything on it?” Waitressing really is becoming like second nature to me.
“Onions and a little mustard,” she calls out as we proceed toward the vendor on the corner.
“You got it,” I yell back.
“Next time I compliment you, I’m going to expect to be rewarded with food, too,” Connor jokes, pulling out his wallet as we take our place in line.
“Ut uh, your money’s no good here. It’s my treat.” Signaling him to put it away, I dig some bills out of my purse. “It’s the least I can do for your birthday.”
I can sense that he doesn’t want to give in, debating inwardly what he should do. But we’re next, and I step right up and place our order, handing the cart worker the exact change. Resigned, he gives me an exasperated pout.
“I know it sucks, but you better get used to it.” I wink at him, and he smiles despite himself.
With our hands full, we meander back to our new friend, who’s eagerly awaiting our return. Hands extended, she relieves me of part of my burden before chowing down. She’s done before I’m on my second bite.
“That was deee-licious.” Smacking her lips, she wipes her mouth on her sleeve. Connor ordered two, and I try not to laugh knowing he can get pretty territorial when it comes to his food. Pretending not to notice her, he continues eating. It’s not until she’s inches from his face that he breaks.
“Well, do you want it or not?” he asks, trying to be a tough guy.
She nods, grabbing it without any hesitation.
“What’s your name anyway?” Connor asks, switching to interrogation mode.
As she bristles at his demeanor, her protective instincts kick in. “What’s it to you? Are you a cop?”
“No, but we’d like to know who we have the pleasure of dining with this evening.” I ease the tension, letting him know he needs to back off.
“Name’s Loretta,” she mumbles with her mouth full.
“Well, I’m going to need your help, Loretta.” I keep my voice playful as she looks at me suspiciously.
“For what?” She downed the second hot dog, and now she’s taking a swig from Connor’s Pepsi can as he looks at her in disbelief.
“Well, today’s Connor’s birthday, Loretta, and I need someone to help me sing ‘Happy Birthday’ to him. Think you can help me out?”
Without further prompting, she bursts into song, singing at the top of her lungs. People walking by stare in our direction. Some even stop and start singing along with her. I try to sing, but I can’t. I’m laughing too hard. Connor stands there, beet red, as Loretta and Company break into a second chorus. We could be here all night.
Getting control of myself, I pat Loretta on the arm, urging her to stop as a cop saunters by to disperse the crowd surrounding us. “Keep moving,” he intones. I breathe deeply as he continues on. The last thing I want is to get Loretta in trouble with the police.
Some people even threw coins and dollar bills onto Loretta’s cardboard mat during the performance, and she bends down to scoop everything up.
Connor nudges me, indicating it’s time to go.
“Thanks, Loretta, for helping me out,” I say, giving her a thumbs up.
“This is a hard city. You keep that lovely smile. You hear me?” She waves until I can’t see her anymore.
“Are you mad?” I might as well ask him.
He sighs, running his hand through his hair. “No, that was a very Danny thing to do.”
“Yeah?” I ask encouraging him to go on.
“You and him, you both have this thing where you engage people, take them in. The same thing with Miguel and how you befriended him. Caring about people because it’s just a part of who you are.” It’s probably the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me, but he’s focused on the pavement in a world of his own.
“Is that why he wanted to be a fireman?” We keep walking, skimming the outside of the park bordering Fifth Avenue.
“We’d always see them hanging around the pub. Dad’s brother was a firefighter so he’d always invite the guys from his house down. We grew up listening to the stories of Uncle Shane and his friends. And Danny knew without a doubt that’s what he wanted to do someday.”
“Is your uncle still a firefighter?”
“No, he retired almost a year ago. He got out just in time.” And there’s our roadblock, but I’m determined to ignore it. I want him to keep going.
“Was Danny a part of his firehouse?”
“Nah. I mean, Danny and I visited a bunch of times when we were kids, and he showed us the ropes, but when Danny graduated from the academy, he was assigned to a ladder company downtown. Uncle Shane didn’t have enough pull to get him with him up in Midtown.” Connor is chatting normally, so it seems anything pre-9/11 is easier for him to talk about.
“When did he graduate?”
Rubbing his temples, he does the math in his head. “Let’s see. He was twenty-two at the time, so that would’ve made it 1999.”
“I bet it wasn’t easy getting through the academy.”
“No way. The training kicked Danny’s ass. He went in as a scrawny kid and came out all muscle. The ladies definitely noticed.”
“Had to settle for being his wingman, huh?”
“I’m more of a player than Danny ever was. He didn’t even have to work at it, but he was in love with Christine. No one else ever stood a chance.”
“Was she his girlfriend?”
“Yeah.” I can feel him closing off from me again. I give him a minute.
“I haven’t seen her since Danny’s funeral. All of us would always hang out, but after what happened it was just too hard. I remind her of Danny, and vice versa.” He pulls a pack of cigarettes out of his back pocket. He pauses to light one, his hands shaking. I stop alongside of him as people brush past us. Inhaling a drag, he regains his composure. “And you know what I can’t get out of my head? Those fucking bagpipes they played at his funeral.”
“Really?” I can’t help it. I wasn’t expecting him to say that.
“Yeah. Who has ever met an Irish k
id who didn’t love the pipes? Just goes to show how messed up I am.” He exhales a ring of smoke out the side of his mouth.
“I don’t think you’re messed up, I think you need help.” There, I said it.
He glares at me, but I hold my ground, refusing to break his gaze.
“I want you to come with me to a support group meeting.”
“What is it with you people and these damn meetings? How is talking with a group of strangers supposed to help me? Tell me, Michelle, since you’re apparently such an expert.” The rage is boiling beneath the surface. He’s ready to go off on me. Maybe I should stop right here.
We’re at Terrace Drive, which cuts through the park to the Upper West Side. We can catch a cab here and head back downtown. I don’t want to end our night on a bad note.
“I’m not an expert. You know I’m not. I just care about you. That’s all. Can you at least think it over? If you absolutely hate it, we can get up and leave after the first five minutes. We don’t have to stay.” I put every ounce of my heart into my plea, begging him to reconsider. He’s come so far over the course of the day. I can’t let him slip back, not now. Then I know what to say, as if Danny had whispered in my ear. “Please, Connor. Do it for me.”
His eyes turn sorrowful. I’ve cracked the barrier he has surrounding himself. “I think you have some issues you need to address too. I’ll only go if you participate and don’t just sit there.”
His father must have told him about witnessing my panic attack. Shit. Now he has a card to play as well. I bite the bullet. If it will ultimately help him, I’m willing to do whatever it takes. “Okay, deal,” I say, extending my hand.
“Deal,” he responds, sealing our bargain with a shake.
I’m in over my head, but there’s no turning back now.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
I glance at Connor’s profile. He’s intently looking at the woman sitting across from us in the circle as she tells her story. Chewing gum, his jaw moves rapidly. His left leg fidgets. He’s so tightly wound, I’m afraid he’s going to explode. But he’s here, and it’s a start.
I don’t think he’s going to speak to the support group, at least not tonight. We walked through the door of the YMCA thirty minutes ago, and he’s still here, which is a good sign. I wasn’t sure if he was going to bolt, but he took a seat and hasn’t said a word since introducing himself. This is agonizing for him, but he’s hanging with it so far.
I’m debating whether or not to address the group. I can’t remember anyone’s name for the life of me, but if Connor isn’t going to chime in, I should fulfill our obligation. I want us to be able to come back. Maybe it’ll be easier the next time if I open up for the both of us. We’re the newbies, and I need to make some kind of effort if we’re going to move forward with this.
The leader conducted phone interviews with us prior to letting us join since members are sorted into particular groups based on the level of trauma they experienced. There’s a circle for those who were at the World Trade Center that day. There’s another for the family members of deceased victims, and yet another for those currently working at the site. Finally, there’s a miscellaneous grouping for those without any direct ties to the tragedy.
Miguel is a regular in the workers’ circle. He comes every week. When setting up our placements, he recommended that I stick close to Connor until he has a chance to loosen up a bit. He didn’t think it was a good idea to split us up, and judging by Connor’s body language, neither do I. He needs me with him—that much is certain.
But I feel uncomfortable talking about how scared I was watching these things happen on TV when the people in front of me have lost someone. The magnitude of pain doesn’t match up. I’m like an imposter attempting to impose on their grief. It isn’t right.
The woman speaking now is talking about how her sister worked that morning in the Windows on the World restaurant on the top of the North Tower. The young man who spoke before her can’t get the final phone message from his father out of his head. Our group leader is the widow of a police officer who lost his life. Listening to their testimony is gut-wrenching, but if I can sit here and show my solidarity, I’ll do it. I’ll do anything in my power to alleviate their suffering.
As the woman recounts reading a newspaper article on what the final moments were like for her sister, she stops mid-sentence as her lip trembles. She apologizes that she is unable to go on and collapses onto her chair. The group leader tells her it’s all right, and the rest of us nod in agreement, trying not to look at her as she breaks down.
If there is any danger of Connor fleeing the scene, it’s now. Slowly, I turn my head in his direction. His breathing is unsteady and he is leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. I rub his back and whisper his name, but he doesn’t respond. It’s like he’s closed himself off behind some internal barricade. I can’t bear to watch him like this. It’s too much.
“Connor, c’mon. Let’s go,” I urge, tugging his arm.
Hoping to get the meeting back on track, the group leader asks if anyone else would like to share a story. I want to get out of here before the next person begins, but I’m startled when Connor stands up.
“Hi, my name’s Connor Donnelly, and I lost my best friend, Danny, on 9/11.” His voice quivers, but he gets it out.
In a sing-song voice, everyone responds, “Hi Connor.”
“Tell us about Danny.” The group leader smiles, and I breathe a sigh of relief when Connor responds to her encouragement.
“He was a part of the FDNY. He went into the South Tower, but he never came out.” He stops, clearing his throat. “I don’t want to go into detail about it, if that’s okay.”
“That’s fine, Connor. You have the floor. Say whatever you want to say, no more, no less.” The group leader’s good. She knows what she’s doing.
“Danny was a good guy, the best. All he ever wanted to do was help people. And if he gave his life in order to save others by getting them out of the building, then I think he’d be all right with it. Even if I’m not all right with it. Even if I’ll never be all right with it.”
All of the people are riveted to what Connor is saying, and even the woman before him has stopped crying.
“I’m here today with Michelle.” He points at me and I raise my hand. “She was just starting off as a freshman at NYU, locked in an apartment by herself. For days, she didn’t have another human being to talk to. She was so new to the city, she didn’t know anybody.” I blush to the roots of my hair as everyone’s attention switches to me.
“Yeah, it’s a different kind of trauma than losing someone you care about, but the events of that day screwed her up too. She had to drop out of school, give up on the dream she worked so hard for. When I heard about what happened to her, it infuriated me. And you wanna know why? Because the far-reaching effect of that evil scares the shit out of me…”
Connor and I haven’t really talked about what happened to me since New Year’s Eve. It’s an out-of-body experience hearing him tell my story and what it means to him.
“How that poison spread so far and affected so many people, I knew I had to stop it. I had to help someone the way I knew Danny would want me to. That his death wasn’t in vain, and that evil would never win.”
Without another word, Connor sits down. Our group is silent, taking in what he said. It’s a powerful declaration with so much meaning behind it.
My back is turned, but I can hear the other circles dispersing for the night as chairs scrape across the floor and people shuffle out the door. But our group remains where it is. When we’re the only ones left, the group leader rises to her feet.
“Connor, I want to thank you for joining our group, and I hope you’ll come back again next week.” He gives an imperceptible nod, and she continues. “And I want to thank everyone who shared tonight…”
But I miss the rest of her announcement as the implications of Connor’s response sink in.
He not only opened up. He
wants to come back.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
It’s a Friday night, and once again the bar is packed. A sweltering heat wave has settled upon the city, and tempers are short. Everyone’s looking to cool off. But as luck would have it, the air conditioning system hit the fritz yesterday. And it’s as hot as hell in here.
I’m wearing shorts and a tank top, something Connor doesn’t ordinarily allow, but the conditions warrant a change in attire. Tammy takes it a step further, wearing a short black skirt over a one-piece bathing suit. It figures that tonight’s crowd is predominantly male. The majority of my tables are taken over by a bachelor party that’s getting more raucous by the minute. Customers are lined up at the bar three deep, and if I need assistance fending off their advances, there’s no way Connor’s going to see me.
Balancing eight shot glasses and a pitcher of beer, I hoist my tray above the jabbing elbows, pushing through any opening I can find. Thankfully, I manage not to spill anything. The groom helps me distribute the shots of tequila to his friends. Thinking the danger averted, I’m startled when his hand gropes my ass.
“Honey, the stripper can’t make it. Why don’t you be our entertainment tonight?” The bleary eyes of the groomsmen zero in on me.
I pry his hand off my backside, and the others laugh. As I’m walking away, I hear the groom shout, “Baby, c’mon. We just want to have some fun.”
Too bad they only just arrived. It looks like they got started somewhere else but intend to spend the rest of the night here. I’m not going back without Tammy in tow. I’m going to need backup in case the situation continues to unravel. And seeing that they’re drinking tequila, their behavior is only going to get worse.
I snap the strap of Tammy’s bathing suit to get her attention over the noise of the crowd. “What the f—? Oh, it’s you, Michelle.” Her wadded fist was headed in my direction. Luckily she turned around before throwing a punch. “What’s up, chick-a-dee?”
“I’ve got a bunch of assholes trying to feel me up. Think you can help me out?” Nothing gets Tammy going like intoxicated men with wandering hands. Her eyes narrow as she searches the room for the culprits.
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