by Judy Blume
Then he was being restrained, held so tight he had to fight to free himself. “Let go!” he shouted.
“No, no more,” Jack told him.
But Mason wouldn’t listen. He broke away from Jack, with Jack following, in time to help Mason pull out a little girl, alive but in shock. “Mommy…” she cried again and again. Jack handed her over to a fireman, who carried her to an ambulance, then passed her to a nurse, who rode with her to the hospital. Mason was on his way back to the plane when an explosion sent him flying. Jack dragged him away from the plane. When he looked up he saw bodies, still strapped into their seats, hanging from trees like puppets in some kind of sick show. By then the field had turned into a muddy, bloodstained junkyard.
Christina
In the middle of the field Christina bent over a woman on the ground. “Please, girly, loosen my girdle. I can’t breathe.”
Christina knew exactly how to do it—the hooks up the side, the stays. “My mother runs a girdle shop on Broad Street,” she told the woman. “Nia’s Lingerie—maybe you know it?” Why was she making small talk while the woman moaned?
“My chest hurts. My legs are cold. Am I gonna die?”
“No.” Christina tried to reassure her. She took off her coat and draped it over the woman, but when her eyes closed, when she lay so still Christina didn’t know if she was unconscious or dead, she ran for help and led back a fireman, who checked the woman’s pulse. “She’s alive,” he told Christina. “We’ll get her to the hospital.” He called for a stretcher and the woman was carried away, still draped in Christina’s winter coat.
A small dog ran in circles, barking. “Fred?” Dear god, it was Fred, wearing the sweater she’d knitted for him! In all the horror, in all the chaos, Fred, the miracle dog, survived. She shivered in her clingy red top and held Fred tight to her chest, running with him to the Red Cross house across the street, slipping once, turning her ankle, getting wet and muddied. A miracle, too, that the Red Cross house wasn’t hit. Christina had to call her mother, who would be worrying, who wouldn’t know what was going on. Someone gave her a nickel for the phone booth. Someone else took Fred and handed her a blanket to drape over her shoulders.
“I’ve been worried sick,” Mama said. “Where are you?”
“Another plane crashed.”
“What?”
“On Westminster Avenue.”
“Come home right now, Christina!”
“No, I’m not coming home. They need help here. It’s terrible.”
She heard whispering, then Baba got on the line. “We’re coming,” he told her.
At the sound of her father’s voice, she choked up. “I’ll meet you at the Red Cross house. Ask Mama to bring my winter jacket, dungarees, a sweater, socks and boots.”
Baba came with meats and cheeses and loaves of bread, huge jars of mayo, mustard, pickles and sweets from Three Brothers. Mama came with him, carrying a bag from Nia’s filled with Christina’s warm clothes. Christina fell into their arms. “Baba…Mama!” There was no time to ask who Christina had been with or how she had wound up here, or what she was doing out so late on a Sunday night in the first place. She was safe. For now, that was all they cared about.
Christina helped them set up tables. “We’ll make sandwiches,” her mother said, more to herself than Christina. “Sandwiches for the rescue crews and the families who will come once they hear. But first, wash your hands,” Mama ordered. “Use plenty of soap. Hot water.”
Life is short, Christina told herself while scrubbing her hands. At least she wouldn’t die a virgin.
Miri
In the morning Miri snapped on her radio, but instead of jokey morning banter and pop tunes, she heard the news that a third plane had crashed in Elizabeth. She’d been right about last night, about the terrible feeling in her gut. When she learned it had crashed in the field behind Janet Memorial, she threw her coat over her flannel pajamas, pulled on boots and ran the mile to the site.
Breathing hard, rushing by the scene of devastation, she banged on the front door of Janet with both fists, and shouted for someone, anyone. When the door was flung open Miri nearly fell inside. “Look at you,” a woman said, helping Miri regain her balance. “You’re half frozen. Come in, child.”
“My friend lives here.”
“All the children are safe, dear. Which one is your friend?”
“Mason McKittrick.”
“Well, now—Mason McKittrick is quite the hero. Rescued I don’t know how many last night. The stewardess, too, I hear. Pulled them out of the burning plane. The lucky ones are alive because of him and three of our other boys.”
Miri felt such relief she began to cry. The woman put her arms around her. “Now, now…it’s all right. Come along, the children are at breakfast. Polina’s in the kitchen making pancakes.” She led Miri into the dining room, where the younger children were sitting around a table.
“Can I see Mason?”
“Not now, dear. He’s asleep. Those boys worked all night, fell into bed at dawn.” Her voice went quiet, to almost a whisper. “He’s got his dog with him.”
“Fred!” Miri said. “Fred is here?”
“We bent the rules, just for the night. A brave boy deserves to have his dog.”
Polina came in from the kitchen carrying a platter of pancakes. Miri almost didn’t recognize her in a blue hairnet, an apron over her plain dress, sturdy shoes, no makeup. She looked younger, softer, than the day they’d met at Dr. O’s office.
“Polina, this is a friend of Mason’s.”
Miri didn’t think Polina recognized her and she didn’t feel like reminding her they’d already met.
“What a boy!” Polina sang.
“What a boy!” the children repeated, reminding Miri of the way Penny and Betsy liked to imitate their parents. Let’s go, Jo! But thinking of Penny and Betsy made her too sad.
“I didn’t catch your name, dear…” the woman said.
“Miri.”
“I’m Mrs. Traynor. Sit right down here”—she pulled out a chair at the table—“and let Polina bring you a nice hot cup of cocoa.”
“Thank you,” she said to Mrs. Traynor, “but I have to go. My grandmother will be wondering where I am.”
“Not even one pancake?” Mrs. Traynor asked.
“No. Really. I have to go home and get ready for school.”
“I’ll tell Mason you stopped by.”
“Thank you.”
Elizabeth Daily Post
Special Edition
UMBRELLA OF DEATH HAS CLOSED
FEB. 11—Just hours after the crash last night of a National Airlines DC-6 into the field behind the Janet Memorial Home, the third such disaster in eight weeks, the Port Authority closed down Newark Airport “pending further investigation,” and Mayor Kirk has promised it will be shut indefinitely. “The chaos, the horror, the terror is over,” he said. “The Umbrella of Death has closed.”
In Washington, E. S. Hensley, director of the Civil Aeronautics Administration’s office of aviation safety, could offer no explanation why three major crashes have occurred in the same place within less than 60 days. “It could just as easily have been San Francisco, Timbuktu, or Saskatchewan,” Hensley said. “Why the Lord let it happen at Elizabeth I cannot guess. There is no earthly reason.”
22
Miri
At school, the boys were excited.
ANGELO VENETTI (waving around the special edition of the paper): No earthly reason. What did I tell you? But they won’t write about the unearthly reasons. They’re scared the aliens will unleash a full attack against us.
PETE WOLF: Yeah, but is it a plot against America or just a plot against our city?
WINKY HERKOVITZ: Either way, we’re in deep shit.
DERISH GRAY: But the mayor says…
WINKY HERKOVITZ: You’re going to believe him?
DERISH GRAY: And Newark Airport is closed.
CHARLEY KAMINSKY: Indefinitely.
ELEAN
OR: Robo’s father knew what he was doing moving his family out of town. And just in time, too.
SUZANNE: How did Robo’s father know?
ELEANOR: He’s connected.
SUZANNE: To the aliens?
ELEANOR: To the mob.
SUZANNE: This is about the mob?
WINKY HERKOVITZ: Wake up, Little Suzy. Everything is about the mob.
You should know, Miri thought, but she didn’t say so. She was willing to bet the kids at Robo’s new school wouldn’t be talking about the latest crash. They’d probably be talking about the latest show at the Paper Mill Playhouse. She felt like lashing out at all of them. She was sick of their stories. If only she could be sure Uncle Henry was right, that the crashes were accidents. But she’d just read a convincing article in Life magazine, “Making a Case for Interplanetary Saucers,” that made it all seem possible.
Miri turned and walked away. In a minute Eleanor was by her side. “They’re imbeciles,” she said, nodding toward the boys.
“They’re scared but they won’t admit it,” Miri said.
“We’re all scared,” Eleanor said. “Aren’t we?”
Miri nodded. They were all scared.
“I’m still not convinced it isn’t sabotage.” Eleanor said. “But if it is sabotage I believe your uncle will uncover it.”
Miri was glad to hear Eleanor had confidence in Uncle Henry.
At lunchtime, she ducked out of the cafeteria to call Natalie’s house. She’d called last night before she’d gone to sleep, before any of them knew their world would be shattered a third time. There hadn’t been any answer, which made no sense. Even if no one else was home there would still be a babysitter for Fern. This time Mrs. Jones answered. “Osners’ residence. Mrs. Jones speaking.” Miri recognized her voice before she identified herself.
“It’s Miri, Mrs. Jones. Can I speak to Natalie or Mrs. Osner?”
“Everyone is out. I don’t know where.”
“Do you know when they’ll be back?”
“Sorry, I don’t. Try them tonight.” Mrs. Jones hung up first.
She called again before dinner. This time she got Steve. When she asked for Natalie, he said, “She’s not here.”
“Where is she?”
“Visiting relatives.”
“What relatives?”
He didn’t answer.
“Are you telling me the truth?”
“No.”
“Let me talk to your mother.”
“Say please.”
“May I please speak to your mother?”
“Sorry, no can do.” And he hung up.
Then Henry came home with the paper and Miri didn’t call the Osners again.
Elizabeth Daily Post
AIRLINER SMASHES INTO SALEM AVENUE APARTMENTS
Explodes in Yard of Janet Memorial Home Third Crash in 58 Days Brings Closure of Newark Airport
By Henry Ammerman
FEB. 11—Disaster from the sky rained down on Elizabeth for the third time in eight weeks. At 12:20 a.m., a Miami-bound National Airlines four-engine DC-6 taking off from Newark Airport sliced open the roof of a three-story apartment building on Salem Avenue. Spilling fuel as a wing tip ripped off, it set the apartment building ablaze before plunging to the ground and exploding in the playing field of the Janet Memorial Home.
Like a Swollen Cream Puff
Wrapped around the base of a tree was one of the plane’s engines. Hanging like a huge dead leaf from the blackened top of another tree was a jagged piece of silver wreckage. The roof of the apartment building looked as if the plane had taken a gigantic bite out of it. The wreckage of the 101-foot-long aircraft stretched across the recreation field of Janet Memorial, and into Westminster Avenue, all brightly lit by roaring flames that took hours to bring under control. Nearby, silhouetted like a sentinel against the orange-red flames was another engine, one propeller blade pointed skyward.
The plane had broken apart like a swollen cream puff. Lying in Westminster Avenue was the forward section, the tomb of the three pilots. Unlike the two previous crashes, which claimed the lives of all on board, 38 survived this time, some seriously injured, some able to walk away.
Janet Home and Schools Nearby
Twenty-two passengers and three crew members aboard the plane died. Four occupants of the ravaged apartment building perished, three of them from the same family—Irving Zahler, 30, his 27-year-old wife, Marilyn, and their 4-year-old son, Monte. They had recently moved from Newark to the Salem Avenue apartment house, where Mrs. Zahler’s parents live. Her father, distraught, said, “Planes come so low over our place you could make a malted milk from the vibrations.” Mr. Zahler worked at Zahler Brothers Potato Market in Newark.
But the block-long pile of death and destruction providentially spared the 48 children asleep in the Janet Home, virtually next door to the ill-fated apartment house. Only a block away were two schools, Vail-Deane and Pingry, which would have been occupied by hundreds of students a few hours later.
Young Heroes from Janet
Many owe their lives to a group of four boys from the Janet Memorial Home. Led by 16-year-old Mason McKittrick, the teenagers rushed from their building and were the first to offer assistance. Ignoring flames and the threat of further explosion, they pulled survivors out of the wreckage. Setting up an assembly line, they passed the injured to others, who transferred them to safety, many of them laid out on gym mats, awaiting medical attention.
—
MIRI READ HENRY’S STORY, then read it again. Swollen cream puff? She’d always thought of cream puffs as soft and sweet. But Henry was using it to describe something hard and horrible. She worried, for a minute, he was losing his mind. Or was it that when something so unimaginable happens you need to find a new way to help people see it?
Elizabeth Daily Post
NO VALENTINE’S WEDDING
BOSTON, FEB. 13 (UPI)—Plans for a Valentine’s Day wedding went awry because a tall bride-to-be has disappeared after leaving a note to her still taller fiancé, and her engagement ring pinned to a pillow. She said she just couldn’t go through with the ceremony.
Walter James Curran, 27, of Philadelphia, waited in a hotel room for some word of his fiancée, Kathleen Lorna Flynn, 23.
The Valentine Day’s wedding scheduled for Thursday was to climax a romance that began at a convention of tall people’s clubs last year in Kansas City. Curran, a strapping six-foot-five engineer, made a radio appeal last night, urging his five-foot-eleven fiancée to return.
Mrs. Barton Flynn said her daughter “simply vanished into thin air” on a shopping trip, after getting out of the family automobile.
23
Miri
Miri tried to imagine what went wrong. What would make Kathleen, the tall bride-to-be, decide at the last minute she didn’t want to marry Walter? Had she come to her senses and realized all they had in common was their height? Did she find him hopelessly boring? Or maybe she wasn’t attracted to him. Maybe she was disgusted by the idea of having sex with him. Maybe she didn’t like the way he smelled or the way he chewed his food or the way he mispronounced certain words. Maybe she never wanted to get married in the first place but her mother told her she’d better find somebody soon or she was going to wind up an old maid. He could have had a terrible temper or criticized everything she did. Or maybe she loved to dance and he wouldn’t even try. Maybe he drank. Maybe she was in love with someone else. Miri wished she could talk to Kathleen and find out the truth.
—
SHE TRIED to convince Irene to invite Mason to dinner on Valentine’s Day. “He’s a hero. Everybody says so. Just ask Uncle Henry.”
“He was very brave,” Rusty said, backing up Miri, “rushing into a burning plane and saving the stewardess.”
Miri said, “She’s not the only one he saved.”
“A hero is always welcome at my table,” Irene said.
Miri threw her arms around Irene.
“What?” Irene asked.
“Thank you,” Miri said.
“I’m not inviting him as your boyfriend,” Irene told her. “So don’t go getting any ideas. I’m saying it would be a shonda not to include him.”
“Relax, Mama,” Rusty said. “They’re just kids.”
“I remember when I thought you were just a kid, Naomi.”
Irene used Rusty’s real name only when she was dead serious. And it always shut Rusty up. She turned and walked out of the kitchen.
Miri felt bad for Rusty that night and went to her room, where she sat on the edge of the bed and held Rusty’s hand. No words were necessary. They both knew what Irene meant even if she hadn’t spelled it out, as if what happened with Mike Monsky was Rusty’s fault. Well, in a way Miri supposed it was. She’d let Mike Monsky trick her into going all the way, hadn’t she? Getting into that Nash with him, a car where the seat actually turned into a bed. She would never go out with a boy who drove a Nash. No boy was going to trick her into doing anything she didn’t want to do. Which made her think, maybe Rusty wanted to do it. Maybe he didn’t have to trick her at all.
She’d learned about the Nash a few years ago when Rusty was teasing Henry about his car. They thought she was asleep. “It’s so old,” Rusty had said. “And that rumble seat! You can’t make love in a rumble seat.”