by Gae Polisner
I turn it back to him and slide the New York Post over since Uncle Matt’s not reading that one.
Its cover reads SPECIAL EDITION and shows a photograph of three firefighters raising the flag on top of the rubble heap that Dad has been referring to as the Pile. The words … gave proof through the night that our flag was still there are printed beneath it.
“Shit, Uncle Paul called!” I say, remembering.
Dad doesn’t flinch, spatulas another batch of pancakes off the pan, and ladles another batch on, so I tap the table in front of Uncle Matt to get his attention, then mouth, “Is he okay?”
Dad says, “Thanks, I know. I spoke to him. Told him I’d be back down in an hour.”
Uncle Matt says, “He … jus … wan … pan-cays. Fig-ure … you … girl-friend wan … some … too.”
I freak out! I give Uncle Matt my most over-the-top, are-you-fucking-kidding-me look.
Dad turns now. “Oh, that. The girl. Yes, Matty told me about the girl, Kyle.” He turns off the stove, carries the plate over, and slides it across the table to me. “Let’s talk, okay? Figure things out about her. Before I have to go back to the site again.”
A murmur of voices I can’t make out from here:
Kyle. Uncle Matt.
And, his father.
Kyle sounds different this morning.
Quieter, less sure.
I stare up at the stars and wait for Kyle or his dad to
summon me, and
tell me it’s time
to go.
Finally, it all spills out in a jumbled foolish rush, exactly how I hadn’t wanted it to. I tell Dad everything: how I found her, and how I tried to tell him sooner, but he asked if we could talk later. How after a while, I didn’t want to bother him with her since it was clear she was physically okay. That I was going to take her to the hospital, but then she freaked out so much I couldn’t bear to, and that I wanted to talk to him about what I should do. That, maybe I was wrong, but I did my best.
Of course, I leave out the wings for now, and maybe the second trip to the bridge, which Uncle Matt knows about, so maybe Dad knows, too. And I leave out the photo ID. No one knows about that.
“A lot of the stuff I’ve read says her memory will likely come back spontaneously,” I tell him. “Most cases resolve in a day or two. I think she’s already starting to remember things.”
He looks at me hard, then says, “Okay. I get it, Kyle, really. And I feel for her. But you can’t ignore procedure. You have until tomorrow then we call MPS, or the department will have my head.”
“MPS?”
“Missing Persons,” he says. “Meanwhile, when I go back down, I’ll at least let someone know at the Pier. They’ve got a temporary unit down there.”
“Okay, thanks.”
He raises a brow at me. “Someone could be looking for her, worrying about her, you know.”
“She…” I say, struggling to find the words. My eyes shift to Uncle Matt because I haven’t told him this, either, not exactly. Not what I’m thinking. Or, trying not to think. “When I found her, she was covered in ash. Completely, Dad. Head to toe. I think maybe … from things she’s said … maybe both of her parents were in there. That no one knows she’s missing because … no one is alive to know.” I barely finish the last few words I’m so choked up again. I look away because I can’t stop a few tears from slipping out.
Dad reaches across the table and squeezes my shoulder. His arm, even showered and clean, smells strongly of smoke, and from this close, I can see that his nails, the creases in his hands, are still blackened with grit. White bits of ash stick in the line of his lashes.
“Maybe,” he says, his voice heavy. “But don’t go there yet. Wait it out, and hope for the best, okay?”
“Yeah. I’m trying,” I say. I change the subject. “What did you do to your face?”
Dad winces. “Nothing. Got nabbed by a piece of shifting beam.” I nod, not letting myself imagine what that means, how unstable it is where he and the others are working. “It’s been tough, Kyle, I won’t lie. Brutal. Which is why I needed to get home. See you guys, do something normal. Sit and eat a few pancakes with you and my brother, here.”
“I hear you,” I say, keeping my voice steady for him. “I’m really glad you’re home.”
He forks a few pancakes from the serving plate onto his own, pours syrup on, and takes a bite, then forks a small piece up and feeds it to Uncle Matt.
“I can do that if you want,” I offer. I indicate Uncle Matt’s fork.
His eyes shift to mine. “I’ve got this shift. And, I’ll tell you what, kiddo. I’ll report her down at the Pier, and I bet someone will come looking for her. And when they do, they’ll be very glad to find her alive. Let’s go with that scenario. And if no one knows anything down there, we’ll call Social Services tomorrow. Now, eat. Go ahead,” he says.
I pour syrup and dig in, trying not to look up at him. Because, if I do, there’s no way I’m going to keep it together.
Instead, I focus on the pancakes, which are oh-so fluffy and good, moist without being too sweet, like only my dad can make them. After a few more bites, I finally look up again.
“You know my friend Bangor? Alex Barton,” I correct myself, realizing Dad might not recognize our nickname for him. “His uncle died in there. And my friend Jenny Lynch’s dad, we think, too.”
“Christ.” He shakes his head and eats another bite before pushing his plate away. “Truth is, Kyle, I have never seen anything like this,” he says. “We’ve lost three in our unit. And Chuck Simons’s son is missing. He responded from the thirteenth. They lost two in their precinct, already.” His voice cracks badly now, and he stops. I’m not going to be able to handle it if my dad cries.
Plus, I know Chuck. He’s been to our house for Super Bowl games. He’s a really nice man.
“His son joined the force last year,” Dad continues. “He was a twenty-two-year-old kid.” He rakes his fingers through his hair. It’s thick and reddish-blond like mine. One of the many physical things we have in common. “They transferred him down to the thirteenth from up in the Bronx two months ago. Two months ago. Imagine! Chuck was so goddamned relieved to have him out of the fucking Bronx. If he had been up there instead…” He shakes his head and stands, carries his plate to the sink. “Jesus, Kyle, who would think that Gramercy Park could be more goddamned deadly than the Bronx?”
I don’t know how to answer.
He scrapes the uneaten scraps from his plate into the garbage beneath the sink, rinses the syrup, and opens the dishwasher.
“Leave it. I’ll do it,” I say. He turns and gives me some look I can’t read, but I think it’s a good one. “All right, I’d better get back down there. Paulie needs to cut out and get some rest, too. So far, I haven’t been able to get him to budge. And word is the president is coming tomorrow, so that’s good. It’ll boost morale.” I nod. “That’s hush-hush, for the moment, so don’t mention it to anyone. We’re having a hard enough time protecting the city.”
“Okay,” I say. “Hey, Dad?”
“Yeah?”
“Karina is coming today. She called to say she’d be here by ten.”
“Well, that’s something good, right?”
“Yeah. But, well, can I go out at all? Not far. Just for a walk or something. I’ve been a little cooped up in here.”
“To where?” He sounds alarmed.
“Nowhere, I guess. Around the Heights. Even the mayor says we should try to get back to normal.”
“Okay, yes,” he says. “That’s true. But not far. I guess it’s safe here in Brooklyn. But not far.”
The house smells sweet and delicious, and
my stomach rumbles.
I try to think of something else,
besides hunger and
leaving.
Something lighter,
something happy.
I glance at the snow globes, wondering if
I can still recite the list
of things,
those ten random objects
from
memory.
“Apple,”
I say aloud,
“watch…”
and the rest come back to me,
using Kyle’s trick that he learned
from his uncle.
All the way to bird on my head.
The girl is awake, lying in Kerri’s bed.
I wonder what she’s heard.
“Do I have to leave?” she asks, worried, when I come in.
“What? No!”
“Oh. I thought … I heard you talking to your dad.”
“You did,” I say. “I was. But he says it’s okay if you stay.” I don’t tell her the rest, about Missing Persons at the Pier, or reporting her to Social Services tomorrow. I don’t want to scare her. I’ll figure out something new by then if I have to.
“He does?”
“Yes. For now.”
“That’s really nice,” she says.
I laugh a little. “Yeah, well, he’s not his usual hard-ass self this week.”
“What do you mean?”
“Never mind.”
“Oh, and watch this, Kyle!” She sits up, a lightness washing over her, then she starts at apple and recites the list I taught her yesterday, fast and easy, finishing at bird. “I bet I could do more,” she adds, “Fifteen or twenty, maybe.” She flashes a huge smile. “It’s so cool. I can do it like it’s nothing. I don’t even have to try.”
“See? I told you,” I say. “So, anyway, about today, my uncle’s therapist is going to be here soon, so my dad said, if we want, we can get out of here for a while.”
The lightness shifts to darkness again, a tinge of panic evident in her voice when she asks, “Where to?”
“Nowhere,” I say quickly. “I mean, anywhere you want. Within reason. I was thinking maybe a walk on the boardwalk at Coney Island. It’s one of my favorite places.” And probably way farther than my dad would be okay with us going.
She seems relieved, throws off the blankets and stands. Crossing her arms to her chest, she walks to Kerri’s window and peers out. Her short hair spikes out unevenly from sleep in the back.
When she turns and says, “Okay, sure,” I can’t help it and my eyes go to her chest in my T-shirt, and then, quick, to my sister’s desk, where the strap of her bra hangs off the edge of the pushed-in chair. My mind wanders to the little blue bows on her black bikini underwear.
I look away again, force myself to move toward the door. Over my shoulder, I say, “You can shower first if you want. And my dad made pancakes. They’re really good. I’ll wait for you out there.”
“Thanks, that’d be great, Kyle,” she says.
* * *
Dad leaves for the site, but not without hugging me again.
While the girl showers, I call Marcus, thinking for a minute I’ll tell him to meet us in Coney Island. But then I realize that, while the subways may be running in Brooklyn, they’re definitely not running in Lower Manhattan. Or from Manhattan into Brooklyn. At least not most of them. Even if they were, I’m pretty sure there’s no way Marcus’s mom would let him get on one right now.
At the moment, I’m guessing, Brooklyn feels like a whole different continent from Manhattan.
“Hey, mon.” He answers on the third ring.
“Did I wake you?” I ask, sarcastically, since it’s pretty clear I have.
“No, I’m awake. Going stir-crazy from doing nothing here, you know?”
The girl, standing there braless in my PopMart T-shirt, skirts through my brain. I push her away.
“Yeah, same,” I lie. A minute ago I was going to ask him to come with us, so I don’t know why I don’t just tell him about the girl. “Anyway, checking in. You talk to Jenny or Bangor?”
“I called,” he says. “Left a message for her. But I spoke to Bangor. Dude’s a mess. I feel for him.” I nod, not that he can see me do so. “You call them?”
“No, not yet. Been a lot of work taking care of Uncle Matt,” I say, knowing it’s an excuse. I haven’t called because I’m afraid to. I don’t know what to say. “But I’m going to today. This afternoon.”
“Sounds good, mon. Call me later, after.”
“Yeah, I will. Hey, my dad came home this morning. He’s back there now, but he was here. He’s doing okay.”
“Is good to hear,” he says.
“Yeah. But he’s a mess, too, Marcus. Banged up and…” I realize I won’t be able to explain more without getting too worked up. “Anyway, he says he’s never seen anything like it. Not in all his years with the department.”
“Is so focked up,” Marcus says.
“Completely,” I say, fighting hard not to let it all come crashing in.
* * *
After we hang up, I warm pancakes for the girl. While she’s eating, I get another bright idea.
I pull a deck of cards from the junk drawer next to the fridge and say, “Come on, Uncle Matt. This time you’re going to show her. Put your money where your big, messed-up mouth is.” I give him my best wiseass smile. We always used to joke like that, giving each other shit. I haven’t done it much lately. But maybe it’s time I do.
At the table, I sort through the deck, self-conscious of how clumsy I am compared to how I know Uncle Matt used to shuffle a deck. I pull out all four suits of face cards, figuring those are the easiest, and we’ll start slow. In case he’s rusty. I don’t want to put pressure on him. Other than yesterday’s list of ten, I don’t really know what he’s capable of.
“Ready?” I say. His eyes slide up to mine, a glimmer of something, amusement or gratitude, I think, held in the look. “Good, then,” I say, knowing I might lose it if I look at him again. “Character, action, object, the same way you taught me.”
I shuffle the cards again for good measure, and turn the first one over. Queen of hearts. I hold it up in front of him.
“Okay, she’s easy,” I say, and he says, “Char-ac-er … You … mah…” and I nod because, like always, the queen of hearts is my mom, which is Uncle Matt’s doing, not mine. He adores her, and it’s mutual. She’s always been totally crazy about him.
“Action, flying,” I say, trying to focus, “and object, California. So, Mom flying to California, got it?”
“Yes, Ky-uh … gah ih. Speed … ih … up … will … you?”
“Okay, wiseass. Next.”
I flip up the king of diamonds, trying not to let on how happy I feel about Uncle Matt giving shit back to me, playing along.
“Since it’s diamonds, we usually try to think of someone rich for any card in this suit,” I say, turning to the girl. “Bill Gates, Warren Buffett, you get the gist. But since it’s the king, I’ll use Midas. Obvious, I know. The guy who turned everything he touched into gold.” The girl nods, forking in another bite of pancake. “So, Uncle Matt, King Midas is the character, the action is easy: counting his money. Actually that’s action and object.”
Uncle Matt nods. “Speed … ih … up…” he says again.
“And I see you are King Wiseass today,” I say, grinning because I can’t help it now. Because, for the first time in a long time, it feels like I have a little of the old Uncle Matt back with me.
I flip the next card. “Jack of diamonds. Bill Gates.” I lay the card flat. “Action, inventing. Object, duh, a computer. Onward.”
I flip again. “Jack of clubs.” I turn to the girl again. “Clubs are clovers, so something lucky.” Like you, I almost say, the thought making my cheeks warm. I keep talking, hoping she won’t notice. “We’ll make him Uncle Matt’s friend Mitch, who once won a ton of money on some game show, right, Uncle Matt? So, character, Mitch. Action, winning. Object, uh, game show, I guess.”
The girl reaches out and flips the next card. “Queen of clubs,” she says, and smiles, and my heart does a weird little tug. Uncle Matt’s eyes shift to mine, and I quickly look away.
“How about you concentrate? Another club. Let’s go with Mad
onna this time. Because she’s the literal queen of the dance club. So, Madonna. Dancing. Dance club. Easy, right?”
“Too … ea-sy,” he says. “Too … slow…”
“Just like your words, then,” I say.
He lets out a laugh. I keep flipping, moving through face cards and actions and objects. When I’ve finished all twelve, I hold the stack facedown and say, “Okay, go ahead, big shot. Let’s see what you can do.”
I hold each card up, facing the girl, so she can confirm as he names them.
“Quee … hars … fo you ma,” he says. “King di-mo … jack … same…” And, before I can turn the next card or the ones after that, he lists them. “King … cubs … quee … cubs … Quee … spays.”
“Well, shit,” I say, smiling. “Looks like I’m the dumb one here. You could still do the whole deck, couldn’t you, Uncle Matt?”
He nods slowly.
“Am pah-lyze, Ky-uh. Not brain … dead…”
SVEN
In the bathroom,
I let my eyes shift to the magazine basket.
I have tried to ignore it since
yesterday.
Now, I can’t. I pick up the magazine on the top of the pile.
New York Insider. June 2001.
I should put it down now.
Kyle is waiting for me.
But I don’t.
I run my finger along the glossy cover, a photograph of a
white marble archway crisscrossed by green branches, heavy
with pretty pink blossoms.
A statue of George Washington on either side.
The headline:
THE RETURN OF WILDING MORE THAN A DECADE LATER.
I let my gaze fall to the photograph
inset in the bottom corner:
Three boys in white polo shirts
smiling.
INNOCENT SPOILED RICH KIDS
OR SOMETHING FAR MORE TREACHEROUS?
I press my thumb over the face of the boy,
the one with the round cheeks and
dark brown hair,
then throw the magazine back as if it burned me.
At the door, I
turn,
