New York Echoes

by Warren Adler

  There were many reminders of that terrible day, but nothing, nothing equaled the tape in intensity. The surviving relatives were determined never to let people forget what had happened to their loved ones. As with everything that happened in the city of New York, competing interests inflamed emotions, and the battle over what would take the place of the Twin Towers continued over the years.

  The images that he had captured and had viewed hundreds of times left him increasingly haunted by the idea that a similar and more horrendous event would indeed happen again, and he became vocal on the subject to the point of obsession. When people would accuse the government and the president of scare tactics it was like throwing a match on dry tinder.

  After repeated rants and eruptions, he was well aware that people avoided any remark that would set him off. “There goes Bob again,” he imagined people were telling themselves. He didn’t care. He knew he was right, a one-man early warning system.In their circles, his views on the subject were becoming increasingly isolated, since most people they associated with were adamant about their political choices and believed that scare tactics were being used for political gain by the president and his party. The Iraq war and its difficulties only exacerbated the situation. There were moments when, as Irma told him, he became downright offensive and rude.

  He knew, too, that he had become a one-issue broken record. He was not a committed Republican or Democrat, although most of his circle could be characterized as liberal Democrats. Because he defended the war on terrorism, people thought he was a Republican. He tried to explain that fact, but to no avail. Most of those in their circle were highly educated, articulate, insistent, passionate. Although they professed to be reasonable and open to challenge, their core view of the world was incapable of change. As time went on, their views hardened into hatred of the president himself, and when he challenged this one aspect of their viewpoint, the terrorist threat, they would overwhelm him with invective that eventually became personal.

  “The other shoe will drop,” he would insist. It became his opening cliché. “Those people want to kill us. They don’t care if they die, as long we die.”

  “You’re being hysterical,” someone in their group would say. Their arguments were predictable and, to him, infuriating. The president lied. They are attacking the wrong people. Saddam was not involved in terrorism. It’s all about oil and big business. Our soldiers are dying needlessly. This mad president must be impeached. Al Qaeda is a fringe group. Muslims as a whole are reasonable people. On and on.

  Why didn’t they remember? He was able to stoke his memory by replaying the video. Irma would get increasingly furious when she caught him at it. At times, she would attempt to reason with him, pointing out the dangers that might come of such an obsession.

  “You addiction will consume you,” she said. There were moments when he agreed with the logic of her reasoning. She had a point. Sometimes a big noise in the middle of the night, or a plane flying too low, or even walking through Grand Central Terminal or riding a bus or a subway would send a brief shiver of fear through him. It was unavoidable. He wondered if such sensations passed through the minds of other people.

  Perhaps Irma was right about his obsessing too much. She was, after all, his wife. She had his best interests at heart. He decided to wean himself away from watching the tapes and withdraw from the information highway, since everything that he read and saw underlined his belief that a terrorist event was in the planning stages, its execution inevitable.

  Sometimes, by sheer will, he could summon the self-discipline and stay away from the news media. He would avoid all information on the Internet and on television that dealt with current events. He stopped reading the news section of the New York Times. When he was within earshot of people who expressed themselves on the subject, he would force himself not to listen, although that was very difficult. He tried not to respond to their comments.

  Still, he could not stay away from watching the video. The longer he stayed away from absorbing information about the prevalence of terror, the more it rushed back at him when he became open to it again. It was like a sore that could not heal.

  Lately, he had been more vociferous than usual, and he suspected that Irma warned people in advance to stay off the subject. She used the umbrella phrase “politics” to telescope the meaning. For the dinner party in preparation she was adamant, repeating her warning again and again to be sure it slipped into his consciousness.

  He felt himself fully committed to cooperating. This was too important a gathering to create a scene, especially since he knew that Irma was up for a partnership and the spouse of such a candidate was scrutinized for any signs that might be disruptive to a potential partner. He knew how important it was to her. He and Irma were very supportive of each other. After five years of marriage, they were still affectionate and considerate to each other. He believed they were still in love. He had no reason to think otherwise.

  The dinner was prepared by an expensive caterer who supplied two waiters to help. Bob was the designated bartender. Three of the guests were partners in the law firm, two males and one female. They were all sophisticated, well-dressed, and participatory. They knew how to be good guests and he was determined to be a good and responsive host.

  Except for his marriage to Irma, their occupational worlds did not intersect. They were mostly involved in Wall Street matters, security work, corporate affairs, while his business involved women’s undergarments, a matter of little interest to any of them. While he was certain he could match any of them in income, he was well aware of the divide between them.

  Most of them and their spouses, his included, were the product of Ivy League schools: Harvard, Yale or Princeton. They encompassed that triumvirate of upward mobility. Irma was Harvard, then Yale Law School. He was used to their airs, their superior sense of their own assertions, their talk of old school ties, roommates, and reunions. He knew they did not think of themselves as snobs, although they still were. It did not faze him; he was not in the least jealous. Sometimes their antics were laughable.

  He was a graduate of the School of Commerce at New York University and proud of his own earning power. In the end, he had learned, salesmanship was the key to success. But there was no denying that in this little group of corporate Ivy League lawyers, he was an outsider. He got a kick seeing Irma maneuver herself in this world. She was sure to make partner, and he was her greatest cheerleader.

  As they sipped their drinks, mainly white wine or vodka on the rocks, the conversation was mostly focused on law firm gossip, economic themes, and the state of the market. One of the senior partners Harry Lillienthal, was the obvious “eminence gris” of the group. A man in his sixties, he had met Bob on other occasions. He wore a polka dot bowtie on a striped blue shirt and a dark striped suit with a vest from which hung a Phi Beta Kappa key. His wife was mousy, mostly silent, and morose. With a self-important person like Lillienthal for a spouse, Bob could understand her persona.

  The lady partner was Sharon Folker, carefully groomed in a black dress and a string of clearly authentic white pearls. Her spouse was a psychiatrist with a disconcerting nervous blinking twitch, whose lips seemed fixed in a perpetual Cheshire cat smile as if he could read the assembled guests’ thoughts and was amused by them.

  The third partner was colorless with a pale narrow face. His name was David Arnold and his wife was a social worker for the City of New York, with tight gray hair and large glasses that magnified her intense eyes, and the general demeanor of one who, to Bob, seemed the quintessential stereotype of an outspoken activist, the kind that had no doubts at all about the righteousness of her cause whatever that may be.

  After drinks and hors d’oeuvres with the initial socialization rituals of the group, they moved on to the dining room. The table was festive with a large floral centerpiece and the proper glasses and plates sparkling from the reflection of the crystal chandelier that hung over the table.

  Inevitably, despite all of
Irma’s precautions, the talk turned to the present state of world turmoil. Irma shot a cautionary glance at Bob, to which Bob nodded his understanding. No politics, no matter what.

  “This president is ruining our country,” Harry said, responding to a remark by the activist spouse who, as he had predicted in his mind, was fixated on civil rights. “We are losing our freedoms.”

  “They are certainly whittling down our rights,” the social worker said. “The Patriot Act is a travesty. This is merely the opening gun of a campaign by these Right Wing fanatics to make us slaves to their self-righteous notions, most of them fostered by the evangelicals.”

  “No question that our rights are being eroded,” the lady partner agreed, seconded by the activist who nodded her approval. “This is the worst administration in memory.”

  “He should be impeached,” the psychiatrist said.

  “Of course, the war will settle his mess,” Lillienthal said. “It was a stupid blunder and has robbed us of young people and treasure. It will end in disaster.”

  “It was a stupid move,” the activist said, her lips curled in contempt.

  “Think of all the billions we are wasting that could be used to help the our growing underclass,” the social worker said.

  “The uneducated morons are taking over,” the lady partner said. “And the president is the chief moron.”

  The conversation proceeded along those lines, with Irma glancing at Bob and trying all sort of ploys to deflect the conversation to another area. Bob listened as the vitriol grew more and more intense. The president, Rumsfeld, Rice, everyone connected to the present administration was subjected to withering criticism, roundly agreed to by everyone. There was, of course, no dissent, as each person eloquently articulated the prevailing opinion of the group as if, in their business and social travels, they had never heard one word of opposition. Bob, determined to keep his promise to Irma, kept his silence, although he answered their criticisms in his mind.

  Even Irma, being the good hostess, offered her opinion of the general catastrophe by agreeing with their views. It struck Bob as somewhat ingenuous since she managed to avoid expressing such thoughts with such adamant conviction when they were together. She exchanged glances with Bob, as if to say that she was merely being diplomatic. It struck him suddenly that she was, indeed, on the same wavelength of these people, not just sucking up.

  Her attitude seemed to give him permission to finally join the conversation as if she had violated some unwritten rule. There seemed no point in remaining silent, although he promised himself to be cautious and circumspect.

  “What about terrorism?” Bob said gently, watching all eyes turn toward him. He caught Irma shooting a glance at the ceiling. “We haven’t been attacked in more than four years.”

  “We’ve been lucky,” Harry Lillienthal said.

  “Thank the Lord,” the lady partner said.

  “Maybe the threat is overblown,” the psychiatrist said. “Generating fear is good politics for the crazies who run our government.”

  “It got the son-of-a-bitch elected,” the activist said.

  “Surely something the administration is doing is protecting us,” Bob said without sarcasm.

  “They’d like us to believe that,” the social worker said. “Gives them a good excuse to bring us closer to dictatorship.”

  “Isn’t that a bit harsh?” Bob said.

  “The handwriting is on the wall,” the activist said. “It’s all a ploy.”

  “The president has brought us to a potential disaster. We are paying the piper for his stupidity,” Lillienthal said, his cheeks coloring. “The man is a disaster, an ignorant fool.”

  “A graduate of Yale and Harvard,” Bob said, unable to contain himself, breaking his promise, although he delivered the comment as a kind of joke.

  “He wouldn’t be the first fool to have graduated from those schools,” Lillienthal said, going along with the joke.

  “He should never have gone into Iraq,” the psychiatrist said, his eyes blinking uncontrollably. “That was not where the terrorists came from.”

  “They were all involved,” Bob said. “All the Arabs.”

  “Are you saying there are no good Arabs?” the social worker asked. “Isn’t that a rather intolerant assessment?”

  “Not all Arabs are terrorists,” Bob said, “but all terrorists are Arabs.”

  “Timothy McVeigh was not an Arab,” the activist shot back.

  “Point well taken,” Bob said, retreating. “We have our own homegrown fascists. I can’t deny that.”

  “Yes we do,” the activist said. “Right Wing fanatics.”

  Bob was silent for a long moment as each of the guests in turn expressed themselves with what he termed in his mind, the usual clichés of their political persuasion. A quick glance at Irma told him what was going through her mind. He knew he was totally isolated, probably dismissed, irrelevant and powerless, a mere underwear salesman.

  “Don’t any of you remember what happened on September 11?”

  “Of course they remember,” Irma said, her voice on the edge of panic.

  “An awful experience,” Harry Lillienthal said. “Who can forget?”

  “We were attacked by people that want to kill us,” Bob said. “They still want to kill us. The threat has grown, not abated. I’m surprised none of you realize that.”

  “We do realize it,” the activist said. “We are not stupid. It’s just the way this president is going about meeting the threat is counterproductive.”

  “The president is using fear tactics to limit our civil rights, make us subservient to his will,” the social worker said.

  “Aren’t we getting too political?” Irma intervened in obvious desperation.

  “I think you all forgot what happened,” Bob said.

  “That’s ridiculous,” the activist said. “How can anyone forget?”

  “I beg to differ,” Bob said, trying to retain an air of politeness. After all, he was the host.

  “You mean you agree with that man,” Harry Lillienthal said, a clearly lawyerly challenge.

  “Are you saying that you don’t believe we are fighting a war for survival, fighting a foe that has no respect for life? Who wants us in the West to buy into his corrupted view, his Islamic fascist fantasy? He wants to kill us if we don’t conform. He has no mercy, no human compassion.”

  “I guess we have a different view of things,” the psychiatrist said.

  “I feel sorry for you,” the activist said. “You just don’t see the conspiracy they are hatching.”

  “And you are all suffering from memory lapse.”

  There it was, he knew. He had crossed the line. It was too late now.

  “I’d like to show you something,” Bob said.

  “No that, Bob. Please,” Irma begged.

  “What do you want us to see?” the lady partner asked.

  “I wouldn’t, Bob.”

  “But I would,” Bob said. He got up, went into his bedroom, got the tape from a bottom drawer, and brought it out. He could tell that they had been talking about him.

  “I wish you wouldn’t,” Irma said, her voice cracking. “Not that horrid thing.”

  “What is it you want to show us?” the psychiatrist asked.

  “It isn’t necessary, Bob,” Irma pleaded.

  “Yes it is. Come on. This is important.”

  They followed him into the den.

  “What is it we’ll be watching?” Harry Lillienthal asked.

  “You’ll see.”

  “I wish you wouldn’t, Bob,” Irma begged.

  “These people need a refresher course,” Bob said. “They are looking through the wrong end of the telescope.”

  “He just won’t give it up,” Irma cried in frustration.

  “Maybe we should listen to her,” the psychiatrist said.

  Bob popped the tape into the machine and the images appeared on the big screen.

  “I took these myself,” Bob said.
“You probably have never seen this.”

  “I can’t watch it. Not again.” Irma sighed.

  The tape unreeled in all its portrayed horror. The guests were glued to the images, watching people jumping out of windows, shoes flying. They were mesmerized.

  “You shot this yourself?” the activist asked.

  “Pure coincidence,” Bob said, not explaining the circumstances.

  From the corner of his eye, he saw Irma start to leave the room.

  “How absolutely awful,” the lady partner said. “Why did they have to jump?”

  It seemed too self-evident to deserve an answer.

  Suddenly a sharp crack in the screen distorted the images, which continued to run. Irma had thrown a piece of sculpture at the television, producing a lightning like fissure.

  “I can’t stand it anymore,” she cried, rushing out of the room.

  “I see what she means,” Lillienthal said. “This is horrendous.”

  “I never saw this,” the social worker said. “It’s beyond belief.”

  The images continued to move on the cracked screen.

  “Good God,” the activist said. “Desperation makes people act without logic.”

  “What would you have done?” Bob asked.

  The group continued to watch, unable to tear their eyes away from the screen, despite the crack on the screen.

  “I guess you’ve played this many times before,” the social worker said. “It is hard to watch.”

  “Yes it is,” the wife of Lillienthal agreed, breaking her silence. She turned her eyes away.

  “I can see why Irma is so stressed,” the psychiatrist said. “You should have spared her.”

  “I had to remind you, didn’t I?”

  “Do you think we needed a reminder?” the activist asked.

  “Desperately so,” Bob said. “You people are a menace. You are looking through the wrong end of the telescope. I think . . .”

  “I think we had better leave,” Harry Lillienthal interrupted as he looked at Bob.

  “You just don’t get it,” Bob sighed. “Your minds are closed.”