Towers Falling

by Jewell Parker Rhodes

  Layer by layer, a skeletal frame rises. As it grows, the men seem like acrobats, trapeze artists. Balancing on beams, hands waving, guiding, positioning steel planks lifted by huge cranes.

  “Sixty people died building the Twin Towers, architectural marvels that would forever symbolically represent the strength of America and its principles of democracy and capitalism.”

  Amazing. I never thought how brave the people who built the Twin Towers had to be. Men working high in the sky on tiny platforms with no safety net to catch them. Skywalkers. Who knew?

  Were any of them alive to see the towers fall down?

  “The North Tower of the World Trade Center was completed December 1970, and the South Tower was completed July 1971.”

  Music swells, triumphant. The screen fades to black.

  Mrs. Davis turns on the lights. George and Angel pull up the blinds. We can see across the river. The skyline seems emptier than ever.

  “Today we’re going to do an exercise in building skyscrapers. What does it take to make a building tall, taller, tallest?

  “Instead of metal, concrete, and glass, our materials are straws, pipe cleaners, and paper clips. Form groups of three.”

  That’s easy. Me, Ben, and Sabeen. We sit in a small circle on the floor.

  Mrs. Davis hands us a bag of supplies. Each group has to build a skyscraper strong enough to support a golf ball.

  “A golf ball?” asks ’Stasia.

  Ben takes a ball out of our supply bag.

  I’ve never seen a golf ball before. “What do you do with it?”

  “Hit it with a club.”

  “Doesn’t seem fun to me.”

  “Shhh,” says Mrs. Davis. “Our experiment today will test how weight and foundation affect your mock skyscrapers.

  “What are the key elements for building?”

  Sabeen raises her hand. “Strong foundation.”

  “Good. What else?”

  “Beams,” says ’Stasia. “Something that makes the tower rise higher and higher.”

  “How’re we supposed to do that? Straws are weak.” Manny bends a straw, blows air through it.

  “Figure it out. Think like an engineer.” Mrs. Davis stretches out the word—engineeeeer. “A builder. Like the men who designed the Twin Towers.”

  Everyone gets to work. Twisting, bending, trying to make straws stand on end.

  Ben picks up a pipe cleaner. A piece of wire with small fuzzy tufts. “Sherlock Holmes cleaned his pipe with these. Between smokes.”

  I shiver. “Sounds worse than cigarettes.”

  “Design first,” says Sabeen, clutching the pencil. “Don’t start with the materials.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Like this,” says Sabeen, quickly sketching on the paper. She draws a wide base. “That’s why we’ve got paper and pencil. You can’t just start building a building without thinking about it.”

  “Critically,” says Ben, automatic.

  “Yeah,” I say. “Thinking is being hammered into us.”

  “We’re good at it,” says Sabeen, drawing more.

  All around us, skyscrapers are quivering, crashing. Little white balls roll on the floor. Ben rolls a ball back.

  “There,” says Sabeen, sitting up.

  Our skyscraper is firm, supporting the golf ball.

  Sabeen, the Engineer. Who knew? We’re proud of our fake skyscraper. Nervous, we wait to see if the ball falls.

  Others start over, rebuilding.

  “A million—no, a trillion—golf balls wouldn’t have crashed the real towers.” Ben looks straight at Sabeen.

  “No,” she answers, grim.

  “You’ll come to my house again? Won’t you, Sabeen?” And before Sabeen can answer, he adds, “Dèja, my mom says come over whenever you want, too. She likes Ray and Leda. We’re a team, aren’t we?” Ben sounds desperate, like he really and truly needs us.

  Sitting on the floor with a fake skyscraper, none of us says anything about sitting in Ben’s room, about terrorists or tears. Or the fact that me and Ben know deep inside that Sabeen isn’t always happy.

  We have our secrets. We’re a club. We all know what made the towers fall. Me and Sabeen know about Ben hurting, missing his dad. Ben and Sabeen know I act tough when I’m frustrated.

  We’d all be lonelier without each other. I’d be the loneliest of all.

  Mrs. Davis stoops, her flats shiny, her hands on her knees. She stares at our skyscraper. “You’ve won,” she says.

  “See, class,” says Mrs. Davis, pointing. “A strong foundation supports everything. Skyscrapers. Engineers’ dreams. It’s amazing what people can build.”

  We three grin, happy.

  The bell rings. We retreat back to homeroom.

  “Dèja, your pop is waiting for you outside.”

  “He’s been here all day?” I ask.

  “Yes.”

  “Am I leaving?” Miss Garcia knows what I’m asking.

  “Not now, at least I don’t think so. Our principal is very good at explaining curriculum. Every generation has new things to learn.”

  “Like how the skyline changes.”

  Miss Garcia gently squeezes my shoulder. “We’re all glad you’re here, Dèja. Principal Thompson wouldn’t let you go without a fight. Neither would I.”

  “Thanks.” I really, really mean it. I want to hug Miss Garcia, but I don’t.

  Slowly, I stuff pencils, a notebook into a plastic grocery bag. I’m not sure I want to go outside. Maybe Pop changed his mind? Maybe he’s lost again? Sick?

  Kids rush from the classroom. Ben and Sabeen are dragging behind.

  Slinging his backpack over his shoulder, Ben draws close. Sabeen does, too, and out of the blue, she squeals like she’s had the best idea ever, “Turkish delight. My mother makes the best Turkish delight.”

  “What’s Turkish delight?” I ask.

  “Dessert,” says Ben.

  “Better than brownies?”

  “Much better,” says Sabeen.

  “We’ll save some for Ray and Leda. Have a party at my house.”

  “Or mine,” says Sabeen.

  My friends don’t mind that I don’t say, “Or mine.” This makes me feel better.

  I walk outside.

  Pop sits on the school steps, his elbows on his knees, his head in his hands.

  I tap his shoulder. “Pop?”

  “Dèja.” He wipes his eyes and cheeks.

  I don’t ask why Pop’s been crying. He might lie or, worse, tell me a truth I’m not ready to hear. Like I’m leaving this school.

  Pop pulls me down onto the step; never minding kids are streaming past us. He hugs me—a rocking hug like he did when I was little, when I used to fit on his lap.

  “They saw, Dèja,” Pop whimpers. “They saw. Through the windows. Everybody saw.”

  Who? Principal Thompson? Miss Garcia?

  “Miss Garcia was a student, a fifth grader. Her mother, all the parents came to pick up their kids.”

  How awful. Miss Garcia, as old as me, seeing the planes hit live.

  “Days, weeks afterward, there were ashes, paper bits from wallets, purses, floating into the school yard.”

  I tense. This is new information. Pop squeezes me so hard I think I might start gasping, coughing. Over his shoulder I see students so polite they waited until the street corner to stare back at me and Pop.

  I’m not mad. I’d stare, too.

  “Principal Thompson promised me you wouldn’t see. No video. Only photographs. Some things a child should never see.”

  I don’t tell Pop I’ve seen the video. I wish I hadn’t.

  Still, in a few years, I’ll be in high school. Shouldn’t I know terrorists flew planes into the towers?

  When do kids get old enough?

  As far as I can tell, even Pop isn’t old enough.

  I pull back. Pop’s eyes are wet again. He rubs his head.

  Pop must’ve seen it. We’ve never had a computer. There’r
e library computers, but Pop doesn’t like crowds. He didn’t say children shouldn’t know about some things happening—he said children shouldn’t see.

  How does he know about what was seen?

  It hits me. He was there. Before I was born.

  My world is shattered. My mind turns Pop’s words inside out.

  “Challenge ideas, assumptions,” Mr. Schmidt said.

  History is relevant. Alive. Personal.

  How come I didn’t know?

  Pop’s history affects me.

  SUITCASE

  I spy on the suitcase. It moves. I never noticed before. Sometimes the suitcase is on its side; sometimes it’s upright. Sometimes it’s pushed beneath Pop and Ma’s bed. Sometimes it’s on the bedspread or tilted against a wall.

  Pop must be opening the suitcase—not just getting ties, but maybe other things? Maybe he’s looking in? At what?

  Except for one time, I’ve never seen Pop touch the suitcase. It just moves like magic. A beige case with a lock and handle and a thick, dark stripe down the middle.

  I can’t sleep.

  Leda curls up like a bird. I like listening to her breathing. I like how warm she feels.

  In the dark, dark room, I think about how much I love my family. Ray has got to get to kindergarten. Ma has got to get some rest. Pop needs to feel better and get a job.

  I hear squeaks. Someone’s moving, not sleeping like me.

  I turn onto my stomach and peek above the pillow. I think it’s Pop. His shadow is long as he pulls the suitcase from behind a box. He digs, grabs something from inside the box.

  He sits on the floor, legs splayed. The suitcase clicks. He’s got a key. I hold my breath. Pop’s lifting items from the suitcase.

  He’s crying, pressing his hands against his mouth.

  I flinch. Even muffled, Pop’s crying sounds wild. Last time I heard such a sound was when Mrs. Anderson’s son got shot by a drive-by. She was in the street, holding Eddie’s body. If Pop dropped his hands, his cries would fill up the whole room. Maybe even the building? The entire block.

  What happened to Pop? What was he doing when the towers fell? Was he there?

  SECRETS

  Saturday morning. Ma and Pop, Ray and Leda are going to the cafeteria. Pancakes. The only food Avalon cooks right. Though margarine and syrup help a lot.

  “I’ll catch up with you,” I say, turning back to the room. I think the key is in the box.

  There’s all kinds of junk inside it. Some belts. Pop’s Yankees mug. Some T-shirts and underwear.

  My fingers claw. Got it. A tiny key on a ring.

  Click. I snap the clasps, opening the suitcase.

  I exhale. All I see are work clothes. Three white shirts; a couple khaki pants; and the tie, folded neat and clean. Black sock balls press into the bottom corners.

  I feel disappointed. No super clue. I lift the stack of shirts.

  At the bottom is a photograph. Pop’s smiling with three guys. They’re dressed in matching pants, shirts, and red-and-blue ties. Pop’s looking straight at the camera, and he looks bright-eyed, mischievous like Ray. The guys have their arms wrapped about each other, holding tight like paper dolls.

  Beneath Pop’s pants are sealed plastic bags. In one large bag is a walkie-talkie, melted on one side. Another bag has a flashlight, its glass cracked. Another bag contains a wallet, crusted with dust. The last bag is filled with I don’t know what—lumps of black and gray waste.

  I start to close the suitcase, but I open it again and push my hand inside its top pouch. Another plastic bag.

  I’m trembling.

  A name tag: WORLD TRADE CENTER. JAMES BARNES

  I rush to put everything back in its place. Snap the suitcase shut. Settle the key at the bottom of Pop’s box. I’m too stressed to think. I run to the cafeteria.

  “What’d you forget?” asks Ma, sliding me a tray.

  I stuff pancakes into my mouth, almost gagging on the huge portion, the too-sweet syrup. My head is aching. Tears are swimming in my eyes.

  Pop survived 9/11.

  SOUR

  “Turkish delight.” Sabeen puts a square canister on the lunch table. Ben and me smell roses as soon as she opens the box. “Take one.”

  The pink powdered-sugar squares are soft and chewy.

  “This is better than store candy,” I say. “Delicious.”

  Sabeen grins. “My mother will be so happy you like them.”

  Ben bites. “Mmm. Edmund loved Turkish delight. I wondered what it tasted like.”

  “Who’s Edmund?” Sabeen and me giggle that we asked at the same time.

  “A character in The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe.”

  Ben reads everything.

  “I’ll read it,” says Sabeen.

  “Better ask your parents. It’s pretty Christian.”

  “A Muslim can’t read Christian stories? A Christian can’t read about Muslims?” Outraged, Sabeen looks like a puffed cat.

  “Sure they can. I just didn’t want you to get in trouble.”

  Sabeen sighs, “Father wouldn’t mind. Father says, ‘Sharing ideas is good.’ But he also says, ‘Since 9/11, Muslims have to be careful. People think we’re all terrorists.’”

  “You’re not a terrorist,” swears Ben.

  “Sometimes I get picked on for my scarf.” It’s Wednesday. Sabeen’s wearing blue.

  Whispering, head down, Sabeen leans closer. “When I’m at the store by myself, the cashier sneers, ‘Go back to Saudi Arabia.’” Sabeen throws up her hands. “Turkey’s closer to Greece, two countries away from Saudi Arabia. A separate country.”

  I want to ask, “Why Saudi Arabia?” Instead I grumble, “People shouldn’t pick on kids.”

  “Folks shouldn’t pick on anyone,” says Ben. All three of us pop another Turkish delight into our mouths.

  I knew blacks were discriminated against. Also, poor people, homeless people. I didn’t know Muslims were, too.

  “Religious freedom,” I say, chewing.

  Sabeen and Ben both nod.

  I swallow rose candy. Then blurt, “Pop survived 9/11.”

  “What?”

  “What’d you say?”

  “My father survived 9/11.”

  It’s like the cafeteria has fallen away—sound has been sucked out, there’s no sense of anyone else in the room, just me, Ben, and Sabeen.

  I squirm, feeling desperate inside. “I want to see it,” I say. “What happened. All of it. How could a plane by itself make the towers disappear?”

  “Any computer can show us,” answers Ben. “The school library?”

  “Not a good idea,” Sabeen says flatly, shaking her head.

  “Pop’s happy our teachers won’t show any video. I don’t understand. If Pop was there, at the two towers, why can’t I see?

  “Sabeen, have you seen what happened to the towers?”

  “No. But my family talks about it. A lot.”

  “With an Internet connection, anyone can see. At school, the public library. Home. Anywhere.” Ben digs in his pocket. “My smartphone.”

  Sabeen grips his arm. “Maybe we shouldn’t.”

  “I want to see.” I feel sick. I do and I don’t want to see it again. But this time, all of it. Pop was there. I want to know what happened to Pop.

  “Uncle Ahmet used to visit Turkey every year. Since the towers fell, he’s always searched, held at the airport when he tries to fly home.” Sabeen releases Ben’s arm. “It isn’t fair.”

  “What’s Saudi Arabia got to do with anything?”

  “Fifteen terrorists were from Saudi Arabia,” says Sabeen. “Nineteen in all. Two from the United Arab Emirates. One each from Lebanon and Egypt.”

  Without saying a word, Ben waves us to another lunch table farther back. We huddle close. Ben types, searches on his cell phone. A small arrow appears on-screen.

  “You sure?” he asks.

  I nod. Sabeen murmurs, “Yes.”

  The tiny screen lights up. “Two plan
es were hijacked by terrorists,” says Ben.

  “Two?” I ask, trying to understand.

  “Actually, four. One hit the Pentagon. One crashed in Pennsylvania.”

  Sabeen is biting her cuticles, making her pinky finger bleed.

  “This is the first plane,” whispers Ben.

  It’s awful seeing the plane fly closer and closer, its silver nose pointed at the building.

  People were on the planes. They must’ve been terrified. Did they know? Did they know they were going to crash?

  On the cell phone, the explosion is soundless, but I can imagine sounds—screaming, tearing, slicing through concrete, steel, and glass. The building’s structure shudders. People shout, call, and cry.

  Peering, leaning over the phone, we watch. I hear Ben and Sabeen breathing.

  “Seventeen minutes later, the second plane crashed into the South Tower. Don’t look at this part,” warns Ben. “Shut your eyes.”

  Sabeen closes her eyes. Me? Of course, I’m going to look.

  What? My brain and eyes don’t work. I don’t believe what I’m seeing. My brain says it isn’t so. People are falling—no, leaping—out windows. Escaping fire, heat. Suffocating heat.

  “Can I see?” asks Sabeen.

  “Not yet.” Ben looks at me. I can’t believe we’re watching together. Can’t believe Ben has seen this horror before. How many times?

  Ben is strong, tough. But I feel sorry for him. Sorry for me. I feel sorry for all those people in the planes and towers who were expecting an ordinary day.

  I inhale, peering at black clouds, hellish flames raging, roaring inside and out the two towers.

  Did the folks inside the buildings know a plane had crashed? That passengers had died? That it wasn’t an accident?

  The camera shifts back to the North Tower. A man and a woman, holding hands, leap. They look like skydivers, wind fluttering her dress and his jacket.

  “Can I open my eyes?” asks Sabeen.

  “No,” Ben and me hush.

  When there’s disaster, fire, smoke, maybe your brain doesn’t work, just thinks, Get away. Run. Run away from fire and smoke.

  I start to cry.