Man of the Hour

by Peter Blauner

  “Maybe you’re the one I should feel sorry for,” he said.

  As he abruptly turned and started to walk away, Judy felt a heavy stone falling inside her chest. What if he didn’t do it? She’d kept that thought at bay for days now. But it was no good. “In the pursuit of a story, everything must fall,” Bill Ryan once told her. “Including the previous day’s story.” She began to chase after Fitzgerald, seeing the back of his head bobbing just a little bit above the crowd heading downtown.

  She was angry with him. He should’ve been a gawky, strange man, cowering in his father’s shadow. But his gaze had been too forthright, his presence too solid. Why couldn’t he stay fixed on me page? Why couldn’t he be more like the person she’d written about?

  The great institutions always lie, Bill said; that’s why you had to be ruthless in dealing with them. But here she realized she’d gotten it all backward. David Fitzgerald wasn’t an institution, he was just a man. While she suddenly found herself becoming part of a massive unstoppable engine.

  She came up behind him and tapped him on the shoulder. “David,” she said.

  “What?” He turned around, exasperated. “What is it now?”

  “I was thinking about what you said on television last night. I just want you to know I’m human too.”

  He kept walking and looked once over his shoulder. “I guess I’ll have to take your word for it.”

  55

  “EXCUSE ME, SIR. Who are you here to see?”

  Four days before he was supposed to bring the hadduta into the school, Nasser was sent on a practice run by Youssef and Dr. Ahmed. There could be no mistakes this time.

  So just before one o’clock he stood before the school’s metal detector, allowing the black security officer with the sharp-creased trousers to check his old I.D.

  “I am reapplying,” said Nasser. “I would like for to talk to the principal.”

  The guard turned the laminated card this way and that, catching the light at different angles on its shiny surface. Naked. Nasser felt completely naked standing there with all the students passing by on the way to the lunchroom. He hoped he wouldn’t see Elizabeth among them. That would be more complication than he could possibly handle. His intestines had turned into wrestling serpents since last night. And sleep was out of the question.

  He saw there was now a conveyor-belt scanner next to the metal detector, so the guard could look inside each bag coming in. Maybe he’d have to strap the hadduta to his body when he returned.

  He tried to imagine what it would feel like. The cardboard rolls of dynamite taped around his midsection. Would the adhesive sting and pull on his skin? How baggy a shirt should he wear? And what would it feel like when the hadduta went off? Would it be over right away or would there be lingering death agony?

  “Okay, you know where the principal’s office is?” The guard handed his I.D. back.

  “Yes, I’m thinking I remember.”

  “Well, good luck to you.” The guard’s voice was friendly but his eyes were cold and searching, as if he were memorizing Nasser’s features.

  Nasser moved away from him quickly and headed down the hall toward the principal’s office. He could hear his heart beating loudly, just from imagining what it would be like when the time came. I’m a coward. I don’t want to die. I’m not worthy. The words repeated over and over in his mind. He passed the wooden plaques with the names of past top students written in gold paint, going back as far as 1902. He tried to picture his name among them. Nasser Hamdy, valedictorian. Nasser Hamdy, school athlete. Nasser, with friends. When he reached the principal’s office he kept walking and headed down a flight of stairs to the cafeteria in the basement, looking over his shoulder to see if anyone was coming to stop him.

  Excuse me, are you supposed to be here? What would he say if he was stopped? Yes, this is exactly where I’m supposed to be. God himself has willed it.

  He took the steps two at a time and reached the bottom in less than a half minute. He’d have to go much more slowly and carefully when he next did this. He was struck once again by the impossibility of this plan. Something had to happen that would change the course. Youssef and Ahmed kept telling him he would stop thinking and worrying at a certain point and just be able to act, to turn himself into an automatic trigger. But it wasn’t happening. He was filled with awful apprehension every waking minute.

  He stood in the basement corridor, staring straight at the double-doored entrance to the cafeteria. When he reached this point in four days, he would have less than a minute to live. What would be going through his mind? Would he be thinking about his mother? His father? Elizabeth? God, he still hadn’t made plans to get her out of school that day, and the time was drawing close.

  Their talk the other night hadn’t resolved anything. Yes, she’d rented the storage room for him, but he felt very uneasy about her. He wondered how long he could trust her not to tell anyone what she now knew. Of course, she was still his sister, but she was also an American. He wasn’t sure where her loyalties lay or how far he could push her. There was a quiet resistance in her that frightened him.

  He began to walk toward the cafeteria, hearing the dull roar of student voices behind the closed doors. Getting louder as he approached. Each step dragging his stomach down into his bowels and making his bones ache from within. A little scream beginning at the back of his skull. What would it be like next time?

  He could picture the lunchroom, the gruesome steam-table food behind glass, the ammonia smells, the soda machines, the boys and girls leaning so far across the wooden tables that their heads touched. He could see himself walking in with the hadduta as they all looked up. Wondering what he was doing back here and what he wanted from them.

  And then … what? The hadduta detonates and the dimensions change. The dimensions of the room, the dimensions of life. Trays go flying, glass shatters, nails tear into flesh. There are bodies and blood all over the cafeteria floor. Clothes soaked in blood. Faces torn. Fingers missing. Hands reaching for the tables, people yelling for ambulances. The will of God exploding.

  He tried to imagine himself, motionless and disfigured, lying on the floor with the other mangled corpses.

  God, please find a way not to let this happen. Or give me the strength to do it without fear.

  He turned his head just as he passed an open doorway on the right and saw a familiar figure. Mr. Fitzgerald was leaning over a little desk in a tiny office, holding his head and rocking slightly with his eyes shut. He looked ridiculous, cramped in mere, with his long legs and big shoulders. Like a troubled, overgrown child hiding in a cardboard box.

  Nasser found himself standing in the doorway, staring at him in horror. Before he could move on, Mr. Fitzgerald looked up. “Oh, it’s you. What are you doing back here?”

  Nasser thought of backing away, but now that he’d been spotted, he realized running off would only make his presence more conspicuous. The violent feeling between them was almost more than he could bear. He could see Mr. Fitzgerald rearranging himself in his chair, trying to decide what attitude to take. Was he frightened, about to call Security?

  “I’m just here for another visit,” Nasser said, trying to sound casual.

  “Checking up on your sister again?”

  The suspicion in his voice made Nasser’s guts tighten. “No,” he said. “I’m coming back as a student.”

  He would kill this Mr. Fitzgerald. That was the one part of his destiny that he could accept. The thought of this man touching his sister made his mind boil.

  “That’s good,” said Mr. Fitzgerald, standing up and coming over to him. “You know, we really haven’t gotten a chance to talk since our little run-in in the parking lot.”

  Nasser shrank back a little, not sure how the big man was going to challenge him. “Yes, I’m sorry about this stupidity,” he said. “I don’t know what happened. I got very emotional. Thank you for not reporting on me.”

  “It’s all right. Things happen. We had a
misunderstanding.” Mr. Fitzgerald looked him up and down. “But you have to understand I would never do anything improper with your sister. I was only trying to help her. I think both of us just want what’s best for her.”

  “Yes. Of course. It’s so.”

  They shook hands. Nasser wished he’d had a knife with him. He’d stab this bastard right now and keep him from dishonoring Elizabeth.

  “And we’ve all been under a lot of stress, I know,” said Mr. Fitzgerald, letting go of Nasser’s hand and forcing himself to smile. “I guess you’ve heard about some of the problems I’ve been having.”

  “Yes, I am very sorry about this too.”

  “Well, I’m sure it’s going to be okay.” Fitzgerald peered out into the hall for a second, making sure no one was listening. “It’s just the crazy twentieth century … You haven’t heard anything by any chance, have you?”

  “About what?”

  “About who might have done the bombing. You never know when somebody might have noticed something.”

  Nasser swayed back and forth a little. God, what was he doing here, talking to this man? This was madness. He had to get away. “No, I don’t know nothing.”

  “Okay. Let me know if that changes.”

  “Of course.”

  He felt Mr. Fitzgerald looking at him in the way that made him uncomfortable again, like when he was a student. Checking the positions of Nasser’s hands, the look on his face. Seeing things Nasser didn’t want to show him.

  “It’s good, your coming back to school,” the teacher finally said. “You’ve got a brain. You should use it. You should make a future for yourself.”

  Nasser smiled miserably, at a complete loss for words. God, this devil was playing with him, trying to coax him over the threshold and dissuade him from doing his holy duty.

  “So I guess I’ll be seeing you around school.” Mr. Fitzgerald sat down at his desk again and tried to cross his legs, but he didn’t have enough room. “Do they want you to take a test to see what reading level you’re at?”

  “Maybe. I don’t know.”

  Nasser found himself touching his stomach, where he’d strap on the hadduta. You should make a future for yourself. It was tempting, this alternate version of the way things could be. Maybe he could get out of this and have another kind of life. But no, he wouldn’t be deterred.

  Mr. Fitzgerald looked confused. “They haven’t told you they want you to take a reading test?”

  “Everything is in the air. You know.”

  “If you say so.”

  Mr. Fitzgerald looked down at a row of perfectly lined pencils on top of his desk. Obviously he had too much time on his hands. But that would end soon.

  “Well, I have to go,” said Nasser.

  “Okay. I’ll see you around. Though with the way things are going, you’ll probably still be here long after I’m gone. Let me know if you need any help preparing for the test.”

  “I can handle the test.” Nasser nodded and moved on down the hall, glad to escape the grip of his old teacher’s attention. “Don’t worry about me.”

  56

  WHEN JUDY MANDEL got back to the newsroom, she was surprised to find Renee Fitzgerald waiting at her desk.

  “You called me, so I came,” Renee said a little too quickly, smiling and then not smiling. “I mean, first I called you back and then when I got your voice mail, I decided to show up …”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa.” Judy threw up her hands.

  This was a little too much neurosis being thrown at her too fast. Yes, she had called Renee from her cell phone right after her conversation with David, but she’d expected to have a few minutes to get her questions together.

  Her faith in the bomber story, the signal achievement of her career so far, had been shaken a little by the things he’d said, and she needed some assurance she’d gotten at least part of it right. Across the newsroom, she could see Robert in his glass-enclosed office talking to Mr. Hampton, the newspaper’s visiting owner. He was smaller than she’d imagined, Mr. Hampton, with a deep tan and wide, slightly simian nostrils. On another occasion, she might have tried sauntering in there in a micro-mini and saying something juicy and provocative to get the owner’s attention. But there was no time for that today.

  “So what’s going on?” she asked Renee, quickly clearing files from her chair so her guest could sit.

  Renee remained standing. “I need to talk to you about the article you wrote.”

  “Which one?”

  Judy was aware of other reporters and editors staring at her from across the newsroom. The massive rainstorm clatter of ten thousand computer keys slowed down to a tentative tap-tap-tap drizzle.

  “The interview you did with me.” Renee clawed at a worn black Coach bag at her side. Judy saw the nails were bitten down to bloody nubs. Why hadn’t she noticed that before? Was she so preoccupied with getting the bigger story that she’d missed the most obvious little details?

  “Well, why are you coming to me now?” said Judy, taking a seat and lowering her voice. “That story’s been out for days.”

  “I know.” Renee licked at the dark indentation in the middle of her lower lip. “It’s just that … Look, Judy, the truth is, I really don’t have my act together. I haven’t for a really long time.”

  Judy turned her head slowly and saw Nazi and Mr. Hampton watching her through the glass window of the editor’s office. Even without hearing the words or knowing the details, they clearly sensed some career-immolating disaster unfolding in the newsroom.

  “I don’t know why I told you all those things,” Renee was saying, her green eyes sweeping back and forth frantically. “David never hit me. He never hurt Arthur. He’s a good man …”

  “Look, Renee.” Judy cut her off, desperate to salvage some little piece of the story. “If you’re just saying this because David and his lawyers are pressuring you and threatening to sue, you’re not doing anybody any favors.”

  Maybe that’s what was going on here, Judy told herself. They’d all conspired to twist this poor woman’s arm and make her take her story back.

  But without another word, Renee reached into her bag and started lining up little orange prescription bottles along the edge of Judy’s desk.

  “You see?” she said.

  “What am I supposed to be seeing?” Judy studied the prescription labels, the names of the drugs vaguely familiar from science articles: Lithium. Zoloft, Clozaril, Paxil.

  “They don’t give you these for these cramps,” Renee said, bending gracefully and sweeping the bottles back into her bag. “This is who I am. This is what I’m up against. I want you to understand that.”

  Judy looked around for Bill Ryan, to give her moral support, but again he wasn’t there. She felt a flash of resentment at him. It was all his fault, setting her up with all that hype about the good old days, integrity, and sticking your chin out. Didn’t he know all that went out with Sinatra’s fedora and Toots Shor’s restaurant? Now look what she’d done. Had she really gone and ruined an innocent man’s life?

  “So what are you saying?” she asked Renee defensively. “I’m not supposed to believe anything you said before because you were taking pills and seeing a doctor?”

  “No!” Renee grabbed Judy’s shoulder for emphasis. “I’m saying I need David around to raise our son. He can’t go to jail. Look at me, Judy. This is me. This is real. I’m a mess, but I’m trying to do the right thing. We won’t make it if he goes away.”

  Judy tried to return her look but found herself quickly turning away. From the corner of her eye, she saw the green cursor on her computer screen blinking over and over, as if asking her, now what are you going to do? She politely excused herself, went into the ladies’ room, and threw up.

  57

  AS HE SAT on the elevated platform of the Stillwell Avenue station—the last stop in the city for some trains—David felt he’d finally reached the breaking point.

  His eyes surveyed the gaudy and wrecked Coney
Island skyline. This morning, a woman had called him a “child killer” on the train coming in, mixing up two unfounded allegations. Then shortly after he arrived at school, Larry Simonetti had come down to his office even whiter than usual with fury, having gotten wind of David’s questioning students about the bombing instead of helping them with their essays. “I’ll have you bounced by the end of the day if it happens again,” he’d threatened. And worst of all, the story of the inconclusive lie detector test was in all the morning papers.

  David laced his fingers on top of his head, feeling the full accumulated weight of the last two weeks descend on him. The interrogations, the raids, Renee’s breakdown, Arthur’s asthma, the lawyers, the talk shows. He was almost too tired to prioritize his worries. Up in the sky, seagulls looked like eraser marks against the clouds.

  He didn’t notice Elizabeth Hamdy until she was standing right in front of him.

  “So I saw you on television the other night,” she said, sucking in her cheeks.

  A D train roared by on the other side of the tracks, sounding like a hundred aluminum trash cans rolling down a flight of concrete stairs.

  “Great, huh?” He started to roll his eyes. “They ought to give me my own show.’”

  “It got me thinking,” she said.

  “‘Bout what?”

  “About things we’ve talked about in class. Things you’ve said to me.” She looked away, raised her shoulders and then dropped them. “They keep going around in my head. Like what you read from the Stephen Crane book a few weeks ago.”

  “What was that?” He felt like he was pushing through waves of fatigue, trying to hear her.

  “About what you would do in a war,” she said. “Would you stay or would you run away?”

  “I don’t really see the connection, but then again I’m pretty fried.”

  Her eyes strayed, following a seagull walking by on the platform with a cigarette butt in its mouth. “You asked me something the other day and I didn’t really answer it honestly.”

  “Oh yeah?”