Towers Falling

by Jewell Parker Rhodes

  “It all flows. You can get anywhere you want. In Arizona, everyone had cars. If you didn’t drive, you didn’t go anywhere.”

  “What about your horse?”

  “Blaze. His name is Blaze. We never left the ranch. We had trails. Some special places. We’d pitch camp near red boulders. Or else by the dry creek bed where I’d dig for fish fossils. Mostly Blaze grazed beneath mesquites while I read.”

  I almost say something dumb like “You must miss it.” I clamp my lips shut.

  Ben sniffs and, beneath his glasses, wipes his eyes.

  I want to kick myself for making him feel bad.

  “For about a year we lived in town in an apartment. I kept thinking Mom and Dad would get back together. I’d get back to the ranch.

  “It’s better here, living in New York. I know I’ll never go back. Least not ’til I’m grown.”

  “Not even to visit?” Our bodies sway, bumping into each other. Across the aisle a woman sleeps, her head thrown back, her mouth open. A gray-haired man with an unlit pipe rattles his newspaper.

  Ben turns, his eyes mournful. “Dèja, my dad doesn’t call much. Hardly at all. Mom says some people try to forget the past. Forget whatever happened.”

  How can you forget a kid?

  “He might change. Want to remember.”

  “You think so?” Then Ben shrugs. “Not sure he wants to remember Afghanistan. Or arguing with my mom. Mom says, ‘It’s nobody’s fault, they “grew apart.”’”

  I feel sick. Sad. Me and Ben are alike. Except he knows what’s happening to his dad. My pop didn’t go to war, but he’s been disappearing just the same.

  Surprising me, Ben smiles. “I don’t have Blaze. Don’t have a pasture to ride. But I can travel underground. All over New York. From Brooklyn to the World Trade Center. I don’t have to wait for my mom to drive me.”

  He pulls out a red pen from his backpack. “Look at all the places I—I mean, we—can go.”

  “Arizona Ben is going to show me Manhattan,” I say, kind of sarcastic. But not too much.

  The train turns; our shoulders bump each other like another high five.

  On the map, Ben circles CENTRAL PARK. He circles THE METROPOLITAN MUSEUM OF ART. “That’s where Claudia ran away to.”

  “Who?”

  “Claudia. From the Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler. The museum is supposed to be beautiful. Paintings, drawings, sculptures from all over the world.” He circles LINCOLN CENTER.

  “What do they do there?”

  “Ballet. Music. Theater.”

  “Expensive?”

  “There’re discounts. Half-price tickets for Broadway. I want to see Wicked. A musical about the witches of Oz.”

  I bend over and look down.

  “What’re you doing?”

  “Checking to see if you’re still a cowboy, wearing your boots.”

  “Everybody knows New York City is the greatest city in the world.”

  “I didn’t know that,” I answer irritably.

  Ben’s shocked, I can tell.

  “Terrorists didn’t bother with Phoenix. New York is great.”

  “Not everything is great,” I murmur, feeling crankier and crankier. Mostly, I know Brooklyn. What’s wrong with knowing Brooklyn?

  “Everything can be found right here. In New York City. In the US of A.”

  I look down the rows of orange subway seats. At the people leaning against or gripping poles. Some are fat; some, thin; some, old; some, young.

  A homeless man is riding the subway, I can tell. He’s wearing all the clothes he owns. None of them clean.

  There’re men in black wool coats with leather gloves and soft scarves about their necks; women in high heels with jewelry and painted nails who aren’t desperate for food.

  Billboards in Brooklyn show beautiful, fancy-dressed people. No one in Avalon is half as pretty as the models. But some of the subway people come close.

  If you have money, it’s easier to look better. Prettier. It’s true in Brooklyn. It’s true in Manhattan. I bet it’s true in Arizona, too.

  Angry, I squirm. Borrowed gloves, no puffy down jacket. No hat or scarf like Ben. Maybe I should wear everything I own? I’d be warmer. Being warmer might be better than pretending I can dress normal in cold weather.

  Then, it dawns on me. Central Park must’ve been free.

  Ben shakes my arm. His face is serious, and I feel like he can see right inside me. Like he knows I want to hit something.

  Ben pulls out his sketchbook. He draws fast—the pretty women, the tired construction worker, the happy new mom, and the homeless man. Asian and Hispanic people; black and white people. Gentlemen with warm coats and potbellies. A young man with headphones, low jeans, and underwear showing. A toddler waving at the homeless man.

  “Look, Dèja.” Ben’s talking to me with straight and curvy lines, shade and light.

  Ben sees differences. Every person special, connected.

  I exhale, relax. Then I start to laugh. “Social units.” Miss Garcia would be so proud of us.

  All of us on the subway are part of a circle.

  American.

  As if Ben could mind read, he writes, making it look like graffiti.

  “You’re cool, Ben. I didn’t know it. But you’ve always been cool.”

  “I know.”

  The subway lurches and another wave of people goes out, comes in.

  “But why the World Trade Center?”

  “Mom says it represented capitalism. American wealth. Opportunities.”

  “Ma left Jamaica for a better life.”

  “Yeah. Immigrants. People coming for the American Dream.”

  I stare as Ben draws. You can tell how much he likes people. He sees everyone as equal. That’s how he (Sabeen, too) sees me.

  “Money might be part of the American Dream, but it isn’t all of it. Like a building doesn’t make a home.”

  Ben nods.

  “We might be poor. But Ma didn’t go back to Jamaica. Sabeen’s family is richer. But they didn’t go back to Turkey.”

  “They’re Americans.”

  “Yeah. American.” Then I crack up, laughing until my side aches. People look at me, but I can’t stop. Some folks smile. The man holding the rail above me chuckles. Ben laughs.

  “Why’re we laughing?”

  “You know our history book? The cover?”

  Ben’s eyebrows wrinkle.

  “You know, those white men with funny shoes, stockings, and wigs signing the Declaration of Independence? Ben, come on. 1776?”

  Ben grins. “They started it. The American Dream.”

  “Look at America now,” I say, pointing at Ben’s drawing.

  He grins and sketches a cloud above the subway train. Leaning out of the cloud, looking down, is a wrinkled white man with glasses.

  “Ben Franklin?”

  Ben sketches more.

  “Who’s that?”

  “My grandmother. She’s dead. She left Mexico for a better life. Fourteen, she came to America by herself.”

  “I can’t imagine doing that.”

  “Maybe before I go back to Arizona, I’ll visit Mexico. I’m sure I have relatives there.”

  Ben’s loneliness is peeking out. I can’t imagine being an only kid, plus having separated parents.

  “Your grandmother was brave. Just like my ma. Your mother, too?”

  “I never thought of it like that.” He closes his sketchbook, stuffing it into his backpack. He pauses, then nods, blinking behind his glasses. “It must’ve been hard leaving Arizona. Yeah,” he says, sounding happier, “my mom dreams. That’s why we’re in New York.”

  I lean back against the seat.

  Does Pop dream anything other than bad dreams?

  We’re already in America. But maybe we should move to Arizona?

  Maybe the whole family could ride horses. Swift and strong.

  Ben opens a tin with painted yellow flowers. “Sabeen wanted to come.”r />
  “She doesn’t like breaking rules.”

  “Nope. So she made sweets. She said, ‘Sappy, sappy, sappy.’”

  “‘Better than sour,’” I chuckle.

  An elderly woman, dressed in a black skirt and a wool coat with shawls, leans against Ben, her finger pointing. “Ah, baklava. My mother used to make.”

  “Want one?”

  She claps her wrinkled hands. “Good boy.” Her fingers pluck a brown, flaky baklava.

  I pluck one, too. I’ve never tasted baklava. Inside, it’s crunchy with nuts and sweet with syrup.

  Maybe Sabeen’s right about following the rules? The taste turns sour. My stomach knots.

  I clutch the tin. Napkins are stuffed on the side. I wrap my half-eaten baklava. I’m going to throw it away. But I don’t want to waste Sabeen’s gift.

  “Our stop,” shouts Ben, zipping his backpack.

  We squeeze past people. Near the exit, I hand the tin to the homeless man. Opening it, he sighs, happy. “Ahhhh.”

  The subway doors close. Through the window, I see the homeless man offering a baklava to his neighbor. The flowered tin passes—person to person.

  Folks on the subway train smile. Just like earlier, many of them laugh.

  Funny, their happiness makes me feel worse, that I’m doing something wrong. Ben and me are going to be in big trouble. Worse not for seeing something good. But for seeing something bad.

  “Ben, I’m scared.”

  “I know. Me, too.”

  OUR STOP

  We walk through underground tunnels. Grown-ups everywhere swirl around us. Sounds echo harsh. We follow the signs, EXIT: WORLD TRADE. I double-skip, making sure I don’t lose sight of Ben’s backpack.

  At the bottom of a hill of stairs, we look up. All we see is a sliver of sky.

  “Come on.”

  We climb. I feel like folks behind me are pushing me to climb faster and faster. Some pass Ben, their hips swiping his backpack. On the other side of the rail, folks rush down. Hurry, hurry, hurry. I want to slow down.

  After the first hill of stairs, there’s another and another. Nearer the top, there is freezing air. I push my hoodie up, zip it tight. Ben unwraps his woolen scarf. “Here.”

  I take it, mumbling, “Thanks.”

  We walk fast. Signs are everywhere. 9/11 MEMORIAL MUSEUM. SEPTEMBER 11 MEMORIAL & MUSEUM. This way. That way. I hear snatches of languages I don’t understand. See folks in long, crooked lines. Seems like the whole world is here.

  I didn’t expect a crowd.

  Police in thick black jackets—some smiling, some not—are scanning faces. They’ve got guns, walkie-talkies. Some stand or stroll. Some are on horses. Another directs a sniffing German shepherd. I bet I’m not allowed to pet him.

  A lady hands us brochures.

  We’re in. Past the gate.

  Ben squeezes my hand.

  The sky is overcast; the mood, serious. People are polite, and Ben and me shuffle as the line moves, nervously hoping no one asks about parents or teachers.

  The walkway widens and widens. First thing I see are hundreds of oak trees. They’re young, thin, with peeling bark, branches pricking the air. The frost has made some leaves wilt, droop. Others are turning orange-gold.

  I don’t hear birds, just water. It rushes, pours like I imagine a waterfall would.

  I can’t explain—the water calls me.

  “Come on, Ben.” My heart beats fierce. Yet I feel mournful, my legs weighted, slowing me down. Whoosh-whoosh, the water keeps calling, whispering. Come see, come see. Look. Come see.

  I walk faster and faster, direct and straight. Ben is right beside me, and we both press our bellies against a thick ledge lining a huge black square hole.

  Water cascades down, down, down from all sides of the square, swirling, pooling, and descending into another deeper, darker, blacker square.

  “You can’t see bottom,” whispers Ben.

  I look up and across. “Two of them.” Two squares lined with water draining into a smaller black hole. “Footprints. These are the tower footprints. I mean, what’s left. The foundations.”

  “Yeah, the movie said they dug over seventy feet down to support the towers.”

  Both our heads tilt up. Air. Sky. Nothingness. No glass, no metal or concrete.

  In my mind, I see ghost outlines, shimmering towers touching the clouds. All around the footprints, people are stunned, looking down. Then up. Then down again.

  The man next to me is crying. His hands cover his mouth, but you can still hear his gurgling moans.

  I tug Ben’s sleeve, whispering, “These are graves, too. Holes where the towers collapsed, where people died.”

  Ben’s face is bleak. My stomach hurts again.

  Our heads tilt down.

  Are bones, pieces of building still buried here? Did ashes mix with dirt?

  I shiver. Wind shakes the trees. Whips the woolen scarf. I blink against the cold.

  Nothing beautiful happened here. But the site is beautiful. Water falls thirty feet before streaming into another square that seems bottomless.

  He reads the brochure. “It’s a void.”

  “What’s a ‘void,’ Ben?”

  “‘Nothingness,’” he reads. “‘A space unfilled. Unoccupied.’”

  I inhale, exhale, feeling a strange peace. Mist rises from the waterfalls. My face is slightly damp. Polished rock glistens.

  “It’s both horrible and beautiful.”

  Ben slings his backpack to the ground, takes out his book, and starts sketching.

  “You’re a real artist, Ben.”

  “‘Reflecting Absence,’ the brochure said. That’s what they call this part of the memorial.”

  “It does, doesn’t it? Reflect what isn’t here. Add the water, Ben. Water makes it clean, special.”

  Ben draws water.

  Around us is a forest of trees. I think: Nothing can live without water.

  “It’s a metaphor,” I say. “Like we study in stories, poems. Water is life.”

  “Tears,” Ben replies, layering charcoal lines. “Constantly falling.”

  “Feels better after you cry.” The man beside me has stopped crying. “Healing.

  “Can I have that?” the man asks.

  I’ve never seen Ben shy. His cheeks flame. He mumbles, his hands covering his sketch.

  “You’re not from here. New York,” I say. He’s wearing a plaid cap. Big red earmuffs hang over the cap.

  “Kansas. This is my daughter.” He points at the ledge we’ve been leaning on.

  Names. I was drawn to the holes. The water. My mind didn’t connect the markings.

  Names.

  Hundreds. Thousands of names.

  “Etched in bronze. So no one forgets.”

  The man’s finger traces K, T, and A. “She always wanted to work in New York.” He wipes his eyes. “See this name. It’s her friend. They worked in the same office.”

  “Got a picture of your daughter?”

  He reaches inside his coat; hands shaking, he opens his wallet.

  She looks just like her dad. Brown hair. Small, blue eyes. Pretty white teeth.

  “Her college graduation.” He doubles over, one hand covering his daughter’s name. Even though he’s a grown-up, I want to pat his back like I do Ray’s and Leda’s.

  Ben folds the picture, touching the man’s free hand. The man grabs it, pressing it against his chest.

  Ben and me move away, giving the man privacy. We cross to the South Tower’s footprint.

  Same horrible, beautiful.

  More and more names.

  Looking around the footprint, I see white roses sticking out from the grooved letters. One rose is across from me, the other side of the void. Another is just to Ben’s right.

  “How come they’re roses?”

  “It would’ve been their birthday today.”

  I’m startled by the rough voice. Surprised the dead have birthdays.

  A policeman stands behi
nd but between Ben and me. “Nine white roses today. Some days only two or three. Some days more.”

  The policeman reminds me of Pop. Thick, dark brows, broad nose. Except his eyes are still curious. Not like a part of him is disappearing… going, going, his spirit sometimes gone.

  Ben tugs me. “Come on, Dèja. We’ve got to go. Come on.” He pulls me back to the first tower.

  The man who lost his daughter is gone.

  Ben whispers, “The cop? He still watching us?”

  I look back. “Yeah. So?”

  “So we’re supposed to be in school.”

  Fear roars. I forgot. Trouble, trouble. We’re going to be in so much trouble.

  Ben and me walk quickly, almost running as far away from the officer as possible.

  I shiver. It’s gotten colder. The sky is cloudier. On cue, snowflakes fall.

  I think of the people falling, leaping from the towers.

  Snow melts on the memorial. It never snows in October. I feel like the weather is telling me I should’ve stayed away.

  I look around me—at folks whispering, pausing beneath trees, some folks, silent or crying, looking into square tower graves.

  “Where’s your teacher?” The cop is beside us. Ben elbows me. “Your parents?”

  Ben starts creeping, walking backward. “We’re going inside the museum.”

  I nod, my feet creeping, too.

  “I’ve been watching you,” says the officer, moving forward as we move back. “You shouldn’t be here alone. You should be with an adult.”

  His face is kind, but his uniform is scary, everything black except for handcuffs dangling from his belt.

  “Kids should visit the museum with a parent. A teacher.”

  I gulp at the handcuffs. I don’t want to be arrested. “Run, Ben,” I urge, turning, taking off like a firecracker, not looking back.