Authors: Faith Sullivan
It’s like an out of body experience. The atmosphere is weighted. The colors are muted. The energy is heavy, contained even.
Every step is an effort, but I press on. Signs pointing to the World Trade Center remain fixed to the steel light poles. The jagged rooftop of a nearby building is a visible scar of what transpired here. Another is completely draped in a black tarp with an American flag affixed to the exterior.
There’s a small crowd gathered in front of the metal barricades that prevent anyone from getting closer. They’re snapping pictures, taking videos, and talking quietly or not at all. I join their ranks.
Workers are milling about in orange safety vests and hardhats. Their gait is methodical. They all look tired. I think of Miguel’s demeanor, and I get where they’re coming from and what they’ve had to endure on a day-to-day basis for so long.
There’s activity in the hole beneath sidewalk level, hidden from view. The crater-turned-excavation-pit is now a massive construction site—dusty, cluttered, and full of machinery. Wood sawhorses line the periphery to a series of red trailers and portable toilets. If not for the entrance to the Cortlandt Street subway station, I’d think I’d stumbled on the creation of some random industrial park.
A young female cop is in charge of keeping curious bystanders from crossing the street. She’s doing her best to answer their questions. Her badge still displays the letters WTC. The staccato scratching of her walkie broadcasts a constant stream of chatter.
Scanning the scene from my vantage point, I notice numerous boarded up windows in the adjacent structures. Yet the windows in another bear white stickers signaling they were all recently replaced, story upon story of brand new panes.
But what captures my attention above everything else is the cross. Flashed repeatedly on the nation’s TV screens since 9/11, it is an enduring symbol of comfort and hope. The two rust colored girders were found positioned that way in the aftermath sticking out of the rubble. To see it in person, I’m not going to lie, is tough. It makes it all too real.
I overhear a guy talking to his friend. “I literally didn’t come back here until half a year later. I used to walk up and down this street right onto Broadway on my way to work.”
His friend responds. “This is just, like, I don’t know. This whole area got seriously damaged. They’re gonna be recovering for a really long time.”
If not forever.
In hindsight, I shouldn’t have come here alone.
In a daze, I wander aimlessly trying to find my way back. I’m not getting in another cab. I can’t face an interrogation from Connor right now. I’m all screwed up inside.
I’m in a part of the city that’s unfamiliar to me. The streets aren’t numbered. They have names. I don’t know what direction I’m heading or if I’m going the right way. At this point, I don’t even care.
Images from that day come flooding back. I try to keep them at bay, but I can’t. I turn up one street and down the next. I’m hopelessly lost.
People whiz by me knowing exactly where they’re headed—men in business suits, bike messengers, UPS drivers. I’m the only one without a destination.
That’s when the panic sets in. Picking up my pace, I start to run and brush by anyone who gets in my way. Several give me dirty looks or yell at me to watch where I’m going. But I don’t stop. I keep going, now positively frantic.
Why did I come back here? What was I thinking?
I clutch a pain in my side as my breathing becomes labored. I’m lightheaded, and I haven’t had anything to eat. Disoriented, I hurtle myself down the next block and recognize the flower shop on the corner. I’m almost there. I can do this.
My hair comes loose from its ponytail and spills down my shoulders and across my face. I brush it away. I’m back on Beekman Street. Oh, thank God.
Panting, I lean against the door under the awning of Donnelly’s Pub before collapsing to the ground. Closing my eyes, I begin an inner mantra to steady my nerves. I’m home. I’m safe. Everything’s going to be okay. Trying to pull myself together before going inside, I don’t notice that I’m being watched until I hear, “You must be Michelle.”
Slowly opening one eyelid, I glance up.
It’s the old man from the pictures behind the bar, the ones with the firemen.
Connor’s father.
Concern is etched across his face. “Are you all right?”
I must look like a wild woman, a disheveled, hysterical mess. He must think I’m absolutely crazy, certifiable even, witnessing me at my absolute worst.
Shuffling forward, he crouches down and sits on the ground beside me. “I don’t think any of us are really going to be okay again, are we?”
I shake my head, trying to hold back the tears.
He pats my shoulder. Taking a drag from the cigarette he’s holding, he exhales. “Connor doesn’t want me smoking after my heart attack, but it’s the only thing that relaxes me anymore. So I come out here when he’s not looking. You won’t tell on me, will you?”
Again, I silently shake my head.
Smiling, he lets out a chuckle. “Good. I like you already. I’m Billy, by the way. Connor’s father.”
He extends his hand. I shake it, looking him in the eye for the first time as my racing heart begins to quiet. “Connor can certainly drive a person up a wall,” I admit, sniffling.
“Honey, you ain’t kiddin’ and you’ve only been here a month. Wait—it gets better.”
His frankness makes me laugh.
Relieved to see me settling down, he goes on, “But Connor’s not all that bad. He’s had a really tough time, losing Danny and all.”
My head pops up. “Who’s Danny?”
“For crying out loud, he didn’t tell you about Danny?”
“No.”
“Ah, Jesus.” He flicks some ash onto the sidewalk. “He was Connor’s best friend since they were kids. They grew up together, did everything together. They were inseparable.”
The boy in the Little League picture in Connor’s room—it has to be Danny.
Rubbing his forehead with the back of his hand, he hunches forward. “Except after high school, Danny joined the fire department and Connor came to work with me at the bar. He was furious, of course. Cursed me for saddling him with the family business, determining his future for him. But he respected my wishes, and took up the mantle.”
Sitting up, I cross my legs in front of me. I’m overcome with dread. “But what happened to Danny?”
Staring at the oncoming traffic, he doesn’t look at me. “I think you already know the answer to that.”
Pulling my ear plugs out, I sit up in bed. Connor suggested I try them, and so far I’m sleeping better. I wonder if I’ll ever be able to tune out the sirens and car horns that puncture the night. Maybe then I’ll be a real New Yorker.
I didn’t approach Connor with my new knowledge about Danny. How could I? If he wants to talk about it, he’ll bring it up. I’m not going to push him. My heart aches when I think of what he must be going through. No wonder his behavior is so erratic.
It makes me ashamed of my own inability to cope. I didn’t lose anyone I knew on 9/11. I wasn’t there when it happened. I was two miles away, locked safely behind my apartment door. Dust didn’t envelop me. Debris didn’t cut me. Flames didn’t rain down on me. So why am I taking it so hard?
I can understand why Connor feels disgusted with me at times. Knowing the full extent of his loss, I see that the patience he has shown me is unbelievable. How can he stand to be around me? My moping, my fear, my insecurities—he must want to scream at me to snap out of it already. I have no reason to be acting this way, but he does.
The signs were there. I just failed to read them. He was there for me when I needed someone. Little did I realize that he was hurting even more. His brother, Sal, was aware that Danny died. Why didn’t he tell Tony to give me a heads-up? It’s hard to believe that what happened to Danny never came up when the three of them had their pow-wow about me over the holidays. It crushes me to think that Connor is carrying this inside of him. It’s too much for anyone to bear alone.
Tossing my feet over the side of the bed, I cautiously slide my door open and stealthily move across the hall. It’s early, a few minutes after seven. The bar is open tonight, so Connor won’t be up for a few more hours. His door is ajar. I hesitate before peeking through the crack.
He’s propped up on the window frame, smoking, lost in thought. He doesn’t notice the shadow I’m casting on the rumpled sheets of his bed. I hang back and watch him. His leg is twitching, but as the cigarette burns down, he starts to relax and his outward nervousness ceases. Wearing only his jeans, he’s reading today’s
New York Post
. A steaming cup of coffee waits on the bureau. He must have gotten up at the crack of dawn.
It is stifling on the third floor. Maybe he couldn’t sleep. It’s not often that New York City gets a heat wave in April. He has the window all the way up, but there’s only a whisper of a breeze providing any relief. Creasing his brow, he swears before tossing the newspaper on the floor. He’s upset. I better go. But right when I’m about to leave, his head turns and he catches me staring at him.
I can’t run now. He doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t look away either. Slowly, I enter the room. His eyes seem pained, tortured, like a wounded animal. In his gaze there’s a yearning to be comforted that he’s trying to resist.
“So now you know, huh?” His expression is threatening.
All I do is nod.
“Shit.” Reaching for his coffee, he takes a sip. “Leave it to Dad to not keep his mouth shut.”
“It wasn’t like that,” I blurt out. “He was trying to help me…”
“Help
you
?” His face is livid. “How exactly is this about you?”
“It…it’s not,” I stutter, afraid of how he’s reacting. “He thought I knew. It just slipped out.”
“He had no right telling you about Danny.” Frustrated, he sets down his coffee and yanks the blanket off the bed.
“I don’t understand.” My temper rising, I charge farther into the room and get right in his face. “Why don’t you want me to know?”
“Because.” He grumbles turning away from me.
“That’s not good enough,” I say grabbing his arm. “Look at me.”
Defeated, he drops onto the bed as I stand in front of him, staring him down. “You’re the one person who doesn’t treat me any differently. I can pretend Danny’s still alive when I’m around you. There, satisfied?”
I really want to give him a hug, but I know that’s the last thing he wants from me right now. We’re in the middle of a delicate situation, and I refuse to antagonize him any further. But I’m disappointed that he’s using me as an excuse for not dealing with his grief. He’s avoiding the truth by shutting me out, hindering his healing in the process. Is that why we’re always alone in the bar together? Why we never go out? Did he bring me here to serve as his means of escape? Well, I’m not going to be his enabler. He’s going to have to deal with this.
“I think you need to talk about what happened.” I watch his reaction to my statement warily. “Did you ever think about joining a support group or seeing a therapist?”
“You know what? Fuck you.” He’s on his feet again, this time headed for the door.
“You can’t keep running from this.” Flustered, I turn to follow him. “You need help. You’re so strong, but you can’t sort this out on your own. Nobody can. It’s too much.” Biting my lip, I fight to keep the tears at bay.
Pounding his fist into the wall, he pauses. Attempting to keep his composure, he replies, “I asked you to come here because I thought I could make something good come out of all of this. Your life was thrown off track, and I wanted to give you a second chance.” His shoulders rise and fall, but he continues, “But now I’m starting to regret ever taking an interest in you.”
He marches out the door and down the steps, leaving me standing there, helpless.
“He said that?” Tammy asks, flabbergasted.
“Yeah,” I respond silently, coaxing her to shed some light on Connor’s tirade.
“Well, seeing as we have the place to ourselves, I might as well spill what I know,” she says, popping her gum.
It’s nearly two-thirty in the morning, and the pub is closed. We’re stationed at the bar, bundling silverware into napkins as a part of our after-hours routine. Connor was hitting on a customer all night long, and she ended up inviting him to spend the night at her place. I can’t decide if I’m jealous that he’s probably in her bed at this very moment or relieved that I don’t have to face more of his wrath. Either way, it’s the first time he’s left me alone here, and I’m a little freaked out. I’m glad Tammy’s sticking around for a bit.
“After 9/11, Connor was a mess. I thought I was gonna be out of a job because he was too strung out to open the bar after Danny died.” She methodically reaches for a fork as the light catches the rhinestones in her manicured nails. “His dad helped him get his head back on straight. He took him home to Brooklyn for a while.”
“When did he come back?” I ask, although I think I have an idea.
“Right after the holidays.” Yep, I hate when I’m right. “He spent some time in Pennsylvania with his brother and came back a new man. Ready to start over.” Tammy halts her assembly line. “Wait a minute. Isn’t that when he met you?”
“Yeah, I think it was.” I try for nonchalance, but my tone is not remotely convincing.
“Oh my God.” Tammy looks at me like I’ve suddenly grown three heads. “This just crossed over into the deep end.”
“I’m sure it’s a coincidence.” I have to play it cool, brush it off. I can’t dwell on the significance of what she is telling me.
“Coincidence my ass!” Tammy slips off her stool and spins mine around, clasping my shoulders. “Michelle, don’t you see what this means?”
“That he’s pinning his emotional recovery on me?” The sarcasm drips off my tongue, but Tammy doesn’t buy it. She sees through my bluff. She knows I’m scared.
“We all need a light in the darkness to show us the way out. What’s wrong with that?” She’s challenging me, and I shudder at having to defend myself to her.
“But it’s not healthy, Tammy.” She releases me from her death grip and my stool swivels back. “He has to accept that Danny’s gone, not sweep it under the rug like it never happened. I refuse to sit back and let him get mired in his grief. He has to sort through this. Tammy, he needs help.”
Her breath comes out in a huff. “I guess you’re right when you put it like that, but you don’t know what it was like, how far he’s come. If we push him, he might revert back.”
“Or he might move forward,” I argue. Doubt lies heavily between us, but I refuse to acknowledge it. “I’m the prime example. Look at what he’s done for me. I’m not wallowing in some small town believing that my life is over. Instead, I’m here battling through my demons.”
“But you can’t compare…” She begins, but I don’t even let her finish.
“Of course not!” I exclaim. “I’d never compare what I went through to what he’s had to deal with. Not in a million years.”
“Then why can’t you cut him some slack?” Tammy’s shoulders sag forward as she collapses in on herself. “If he doesn’t want you to know about Danny, pretend that conversation you had with his father never happened. Can’t you do that for his sake?”
Maybe Tammy’s right. Maybe I’m making too big a deal over this. Maybe Connor just needs more time to figure things out for himself. If he wants me to be his source of escape, then why not comply? Look at how much he’s already helped me. Maybe it’s time I return the favor.
“I’ll try.” I hold out my pinkie finger, and she snags it with hers.
“Thanks,” she whispers, attempting to keep her tears in check and her eye makeup in place.
We’re all still struggling—even Tammy.