When God Was a Rabbit

by Winman, Sarah

  Its the most powerful of cards. The Tower falls and nothing can be the same again. Nows the time for true healing. The old is destroyed to make way for the New. We mustn’t hold on to anything any more because all will be destroyed by this trans formative power. The world is changing Elly and we must trust. Fate is beckoning. And if we can accept the laws of the Universe, the ebb and flow of joy of tragedy, then we have everything we need to embrace our true freedom . . .

  I stopped reading. Could hear her words exact and persuasive, like her explanation of Atlantis all those years ago. The surety. The hypnotic lure of belief. I closed the computer and finished my coffee.

  I felt restless, started to feel something that I’d known for a while: that we were finally coming to an end. It had been five years now, five years of Liberty and Ellis, and I felt their stories were now told, but I’d been putting it off, that final goodbye, especially when I found out that Jenny would be eligible for parole soon, something my father had told me the week before. And although some things were still to be decided, she would soon learn that it would be he who’d be representing her at that final hearing, leading her outside, to where life had progressed six years without her. And so I would wait a little while longer; for that final column; the one she would write herself, sitting on this roof with me by her side.

  I skipped breakfast and made my way instead towards Soho for a lunch of cappuccino and croissant. I liked the walk; simply west along Holborn from Chancery Lane to the divide at New Oxford Street. The sun climbed higher and shadows shortened and the city awoke, spewing people onto the streets from all directions. I came to Cambridge Circus and suddenly veered off down Charing Cross Road towards the National Gallery and the Vermeer exhibition, an exhibition I’d been sloppy and procrastinating in my desire to see. Time was running out; only six days left. I didn’t even stop in Zwemmer’s, as I usually did, or the second-hand bookshops whose bargain basements filled most of my shelves; no, I continued on fast and dodged tourists slow to browse.

  I could see the lines at the ticket desk already. The exhibition had been sold out for most of its run and I soon resigned myself to yet another wasted opportunity, but as I joined the end of a slow-moving queue, I heard the whisper that there were tickets available for that afternoon, and sure enough as I reached the desk, the assistant said, ‘Three o’clock OK?’ and I said, OK. And in the cool air-conditioned entrance hall I stood holding my ticket, feeling lucky that my day was now planned.

  Soho was quiet and I sat outside; something I always did, even in winter. Deliveries were late and trolleys piled high with cans of oil and wine and tomatoes trundled carelessly towards doorways and disappeared into kitchens, only later to return. This would always be a working street to me. Elsewhere all the old shops had gone or were going, greedy landlords waiting for the brand names, the names that could afford the hefty rents, so byebye the rest. I looked to my left; Jean’s hairdressing was still there and Jimmy’s, of course, and Angelucci’s too, thank goodness. They still sent coffee down to my parents, an espresso blend that the postman loved to deliver, for the smell made his day, he said. This corner was safe, for now at least. I took out my newspaper and ordered a double macchiato with a baci on the side. This corner was safe.

  It was hard to imagine we were heading towards dark mornings and the long cold haul of winter that would turn my skin the colour of greying whites. I knew this mild autumn would send the leaves into a riot of frenzied colour, more golds and reds dominating many a wood, the colours of Vermont, the place we’d gone to the previous year.

  We’d driven up from New Paltz, a spur-of-the-moment thing, just the three of us. We went to ride horses but hiked instead, and on the way there we picked someone up, a young woman who looked more like a girl. We picked her up because it wasn’t safe to hitch-hike – and we all said that, not just me – and she said, ‘Yeah, Yeah,’ as she scrambled into the back. Her odour smelled strong; it was an odour that said, Don’t fuck with me, as she sat next to me with her black garbage bag on her lap. And the youthfulness we’d imagined from the roadside disappeared inside the car, because there under the rim of her Dodgers cap, was the face of a tough life: eyes tired and harder than her years. She said she was going on holiday. We knew she was running away. She took nothing from us except a big breakfast. We watched her disappear into a bus station, engorged by a carelessness she took for adventure. She said her name was Lacey; after the cop show. We became quiet after she left.

  I must have heard the shout, but I just wasn’t aware of it at the time. But looking back I remembered I’d heard something, but I had no context, you see. But then someone tapped me on the shoulder and pointed to the screen inside and I turned round and saw four people already watching. I couldn’t see clearly what was going on because it was quite dark, and so I got up and followed inside; slowly, horrifically, drawn to the solitary image that filled the giant screen:

  Blue sky. A beautiful September morning. Black smoke and flames billowing from the gaping wound in its side. North Tower, the caption said.

  Gotta call Joe. North. Charlie’s South. South’s safe. I dialled his number, straight to voice mail.

  ‘Joe, it’s me. I’m sure you’re all right but I’m watching TV and I can’t believe this. Have you spoken to Charlie? Call me.’

  It came in low and banked and it was the noise, a haunting whine that greeted its target as it exploded into a fireball, sending thousands of gallons of burning fuel rampaging through the lift shafts, melting its spine. Your tower. Charlie. Yours. The woman next to me started to cry. Straight to voice mail. Fuck.

  ‘Charlie, it’s me. I’m watching it. Phone me; please tell me you’re all right. Please phone me, Charlie.’

  My phone rang immediately and I picked up.

  ‘Charlie?’

  It was my mother.

  ‘I don’t know. I’m watching it now. I can’t get through either. I’ve left messages. Yeah, of course keep trying. Let me know. Of course I will. I love you too.’

  The café was packed, silent. Strangers comforted strangers. The impact zone was lower than the North Tower and that was a bad thing. Maybe he was downstairs buying a newspaper or in the bathroom, not at his desk. Not at your desk, Charlie.

  People were now waving at the windows, looking for rescue. They were leaning so far out, straining away from the black smoke creeping towards them. I dialled Joe again. Fucking voice mail.

  ‘It’s me. Call me. We’re all worried. I can’t get hold of Charlie. Tell me he’s OK. I love you.’

  They tumbled out, just a couple at first and then more, like wounded archers from distant ramparts. And then I saw them, the two people of my future dreams. I saw them hold hands and jump; witnessed the last seconds of their friendship and they never let go. Who reassured who? Who could do that? Was it done with words or a smile? That brief moment of fresh air when they were free, when they could remember how it was before; a brief moment of sunshine, a brief moment of friends holding hands. And they never let go. Friends never let go.

  I picked up.

  ‘No I haven’t,’ I said. ‘Not yet.’

  I sounded tired, I knew I did. I heard the fear in her voice and I tried to reassure her, but she was a mother and she was scared. She’d heard from Nancy, she was trying to get from LAX to New York but the airports had shut down. A plane had crashed into the Pentagon.

  ‘Joe,’ I said again. ‘Call me – just a quick, I’m OK.’

  ‘Charlie, it’s me again. Call me. Please.’

  People all around were on their phones, the lucky ones had located friends; others waited, pale; I was one of them.

  Two fifty-nine p.m. South Tower sucked to the ground amidst a flurry of millions of bits of paper, of memos and drafts with names of those now lost, until it was gone, and all those inside were gone and their nightmare was over, now handed to those who were left, those left waiting, now mourning by their phones.

  I rang again. No voice mail now, nothing. Another plan
e had crashed outside of Pittsburgh; a rumour that it was shot down – conspiracy was starting already. Conspiracy breeds conspiracy. That’s what Jenny Penny would have said.

  The Tower is falling. Nothing can be the same.

  Three twenty-eight. North Tower gone. Scenes of dusty moonscape where once was an avenue of people holding coffees, and smiling and rushing to work with thoughts of lunch maybe, or what they’d be doing later, because at that time of the morning they still had later. And as the dust cleared, survivors from the street crawled out dazed and covered in ash, and a man whose shirt had ripped across his front revealed a bleeding chest, but he was oblivious as he concentrated on smoothing his hair to the side, because he’d always smoothed his hair to the side – it was something his mother had started when he was young – so why should that day be any different? It was his search for normality. Call me, Joe. Call me, Charlie. I want normal again.

  And that’s when I could’ve done it. Could have wandered down to the Vermeer and reminded myself of beauty. I could have gone down there and been normal. I could have lost myself in a joy I could still remember from that morning, because it was still so close, and I could remember everything before the world changed.

  I could have done all that and would have, had I not picked up my phone instead and heard his voice and I started to shake when I heard his voice, and he was talking fast, and he sounded panicked but he was OK. He’d never gone to work that day, had got up late and couldn’t be fucked, and I was telling him about the reports here, stuff I’d heard, but he kept telling me to stop, and I didn’t hear him at first because I was so happy. But then he shouted at me and I heard.

  ‘I can’t find Joe,’ he said, and his voice broke.

  I sat on the roof as the light faded. No more remnants of summer. The murmur of the television rose from below. I felt so cold. I wrapped an old picnic blanket around me; it was my parents’ and I’d never returned it because I never knew when I might need it. It smelt of grass and damp wool. It smelt of Cornwall. I remembered again the silence of the call with them, when the numbing possibility descended upon their thoughts, when I told them, Your son can’t be found.

  I tried to get on a flight, but most were grounded or diverted to Canada. A couple of days and then back to normal, the operator said. That word again. I put my name down on the reservations list. I’d be first out, I’d be there to see for myself, because I couldn’t go back to my parents without something to shatter their silence at least. Either a scream or a smile.

  I finished another glass of wine. Waited for the phone call he’d promised to make. I watched the trucks arrive and park, heard the soft drone of the engine feeding the refrigeration. I poured out more wine; emptied the bottle.

  It had been hours, must have been. I looked at my watch. He’d said he was heading to Joe’s house, the police had cordoned off below 14th street, but he’d get there, he’d said, just to check. The smell, Elly; that was the last thing he’d said to me. The smell.

  My phone rang. The battery was low. It was him at last.

  ‘Hey,’ he said, his voice thin and empty.

  ‘How are you?’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘What is it, Charlie?’

  ‘I found his diary,’ he said, his words barely audible. ‘It puts him there.’

  Duke/Office/8.30.

  The diary entry was brief. Written in turquoise ink, the turquoise ink from the pen he took from me last February. We called around, of course, but there were not many to call. Those who were there, the ones who got out, could barely remember him, still in shock. ‘Yeah, think he was there,’ they said, or, ‘No, didn’t see him.’ We were left none the wiser, left guessing.

  Duke didn’t make it. Some said he was at the point of impact, others said he’d gone back up the staircase to look for a colleague. That would’ve been like Duke; gone back to help someone else. That’s why they called him The Duke.

  By the time I got to New York, Nancy and Charlie still hadn’t touched anything in the house. They didn’t want to move anything in case I saw a clue, an overlooked clue to his missing. But all I saw was a full fridge and a half-drunk bottle of his favourite wine, both clues that said, I am coming home, going nowhere.

  They’d checked hospitals, Nancy in Brooklyn, Charlie in Manhattan, took turns in New Jersey, took turns in the temporary morgues. She left his name, said it twice clearly, but was asked for it again as voices battled with phone lines. She leant against a wall outside and tried to cry, but tears, like comprehension, were stuck and of the past. She was comforted by no one. Everyone had a story of grief. Everyone else’s was worse than yours.

  The smell was acrid: burning rubber and fuel, and the other unmentionable that sat in the nose and sent images of horror to the mind. Charlie had warned me about it, but I could still smell it every time I went out, even in the garden, because there was nothing in bloom to mask the stench, because ultimately it was the smell of shock that dosed this city, a sour smell as potent as week-old urine. I pulled out one of his old foldaway bistro chairs and wiped it down. It buckled as I sat on it. The left hinge was broken; he still hadn’t mended it.

  We’d planned this small garden together, planned the perfumes, the colours, the pots of densely sown lavender, the larkspur, the lemon myrtle in the shade beneath the kitchen, the overflowing squares of voracious red peonies, and the rows of white stocks whose scent said, Forever England; and of course the blue-violet rose, a repeating pattern that coiled and draped around the iron staircase and crept along the wall like a seductive tom; the rose that had bloomed so abundantly all summer, the envy of every guest whose green fingers suddenly paled against my brother’s haphazard and uninformed passion. He could create oases in deserts with the sole fertiliser of belief. He’d created a home out of his wanderings.

  A helicopter swooped overhead. The rhythmic chopping of the air. The sound of a police siren, or an ambulance racing through the city. The something found, the identifiable at last; and then the devastating phone call to follow, but still, something to bury.

  He’d been too lazy to deadhead the plants – never understood the point. ‘Let nature be,’ he’d said. I picked up a small bucket and started to prise the dried brown trumpets away from their hold. I could let nothing be. Music played next door. Bruce Springsteen. It had been Frank Sinatra before. Only the New Jersey boys allowed to crest the patriotic airwaves.

  ‘Your mum said something strange the other night,’ said Nancy, as she opened takeaway cartons of food no one had any appetite for.

  ‘What did she say?’ I said, reaching for a fork instead of chopsticks.

  Charlie looked at Nancy.

  ‘What is it?’ I said.

  Silence.

  ‘Don’t take this the wrong way, Ell,’ she said.

  ‘What did she say?’

  ‘She said that maybe Joe went missing, just took off and disappeared, you know, like people do, when accidents happen. Because they’re presented with the chance to start again.’

  I stared at her.

  ‘Why would he want to start again?’

  ‘I’m just telling you what she said.’

  ‘It’s bollocks. He wouldn’t do that to us.’

  ‘Of course he wouldn’t,’ said Charlie, breaking open a fortune cookie. ‘He wasn’t depressed, he was happy.’

  He said happy the way a child would.

  ‘It’s fucking bollocks,’ I said angrily. ‘He would never put us through that. He just wouldn’t. She’s going mad.’

  We watched Charlie read his fortune. He screwed it up and we never asked him what it was.

  ‘Why the fuck would she say it?’ I pleaded.

  ‘Because she’s a mother. She needs to keep him in the world, Ell.’

  We had little to say after that. Ate in silence. Ate in anger. My stomach hurt, I couldn’t digest. I tried to concentrate on a flavour, any flavour, to pick it out from all the others and exercise my sense, but all I could smell and taste was burni
ng. Nancy got up and went to the kitchen. She said, ‘More wine?’ We said, ‘OK.’ Charlie finished the remainder in his glass. She didn’t come back.

  I went to find her. She was bent over the sink with the taps running, her face contorted, the bottle on its side, the cork still embedded. She was crying silently. Small muffled sobs, hidden in the sound of falling water. She was ashamed to cry, crying was grieving, grieving was for the lost and she felt she was letting him down. I lay with her that night. She on her side; her hair damp around her neckline, her cheeks moist. Too dark to see her eyes. My father’s little sister. Holding his pain.

  ‘You are not alone,’ I said.

  I got up in the middle of the night and went to my bed. I hadn’t taken his room, Charlie had his room; I took the bird’s-nest room, the last room we renovated, the room with the working hearth and the front-facing windows flicked by tree branches, their tap tap tapping pleading for entry. This was the room always left for me, the bed always made, my clothes in the cupboards, the one of every two that I always bought and kept here. I thought about lighting a fire, but I couldn’t trust myself to get it right; the rogue rolling cinder that might hide under a drape and count to twenty before making itself known. And I wouldn’t notice it, wouldn’t find it, not that night. Restlessness wasn’t vigilance. It was distraction. I was everywhere with him, just not here.

  I heard the front door open and close quietly. It was Charlie. His footsteps echoed in the silent space, the space that held its breath for news. Footsteps in the hallway. The muted sounds of the television. Then off. Down to the kitchen. The running of water. Filling a glass. And then the footsteps climbing the stairs, the creak of the door to his bathroom, the flush of a toilet, the heavy thump of an exhausted body on the bed. That was the routine. But it changed that night; a minuscule variation. He didn’t come back up the stairs; opened the back door instead and went out into the garden.