Right behind me, Ben breathes heavy. We run away from the footprints, the silver-gray museum, and past the spindly trees.
My body heats up. Cold fades.
We run and run, racing to get back to the subway. To get home.
Racing, I know, without question, Ben is my best friend.
Racing, I realize I still don’t understand Pop.
SUBWAY HOME
The subway train is nearly empty. Middle of the day, I think, nobody wants to go to Brooklyn.
I do and I don’t.
“Sixteen voice messages. Twenty-two texts. My mom’s mad.” Ben shuts off his cell phone again. “Do you think Sabeen told?”
“Probably. But she would’ve tried not to.”
“Miss Garcia might’ve told the principal.”
“It wasn’t smart skipping school together. If it’d been just me, she would’ve figured I was sick.”
Ben’s shoulders sag.
“Still, I’m glad, Ben. Glad you were with me.”
“I know.” Both of us slump in our seats.
You can hear the engine pulling, the wheels rattling on the tracks.
I pull the brochure out of my hoodie. Ben reads with me.
Terrorists crashed two planes into the Twin Towers.
Two thousand seven hundred and fifty-three people from over ninety nations were killed.
Mainly Americans, I think, but just people. Humans.
Oldest victim: eighty-five years old; the youngest: two.
Four hundred and three were first responders.
“Who’re first responders, Ben?”
“Firefighters, New York and Port Authority police.”
Closing my eyes, I lean my head back. Ben does the same.
“Three more stops,” he says. “Then trouble.”
“Not as bad as it could be.” I think of the man who lost his daughter. How he remembered her whole life in his heart. I think of Pop.
Memories—that’s the difference. The footprints were horrible beautiful.
What if Pop only remembers horrible?
POP
The subway train stops, doors whisk open. Underground, it’s another world. Shadowy, warmer than topside. Part of me wants to stay here.
Ben and me shuffle forward and climb the steps. The sky gets bigger and bigger. The air colder.
I see Dora and Pop standing side by side. Other than Ma, I’ve never seen Pop stand so close to someone.
Dora runs forward. “How could you, Ben? How could you?” On her knees, she hugs him tight. “Are you all right? Not hurt?”
“Mom, the subway’s safe.” Ben’s relieved. Dora’s more worried than angry.
Pop looks mad, all rigid and stark.
At least he didn’t call Ma. It would’ve been worse if she missed work.
I walk up to Pop. I want to explain how I’m sorry, how I needed to go to the memorial, and how I’d do it again if it meant I’d understand him better.
I say nothing. Don’t smile. I just look at Pop eye-to-eye.
He lifts me off the ground, and I’m being held, crushed, by the biggest hug. I feel warm. Pop’s cheek is soft on mine. He whispers, “Dèja, Dèja.”
I feel good. Feet off the ground, I feel like I can fly.
Pop sets me down. He nods at Dora. Ben waves, and they both turn toward the street.
“Thank you,” Pop shouts. Thank you—I’ve never heard Pop say “thank you” or much of anything to somebody other than family.
Pop changed, and as if to prove it, he smiles. “We’ll talk when we get home.”
THE TALK
The shelter room is a mess. Beds unmade. Our clothes in boxes. Ray’s and Leda’s few toys abandoned on the floor. It’s a wonder how five of us live here.
Sitting on the double bed, Pop’s suitcase between us, I can’t breathe right. It feels like the room is getting smaller. There’s no window to remind me there’s air outside.
Pop’s palms cup my hand.
“Your ma said I should’ve told you years ago. But I wanted to protect you. Didn’t think you were old enough.”
Pop’s being kind, but underneath his skin, I sense his stress, a low panic in his muscles and bones. Brave. The word pops inside my head. Pop’s being brave.
Now that I realize Pop’s talking means more pain, I lie. “I’m not old enough.”
Steam clicks on. The radiator pipes clang and there’s a hiss.
“Is that true? Seems like a girl who’d go to the”—Pop swallows; he doesn’t say the 9/11 Memorial—“is old enough.”
“What happened to you, Pop?”
“You know what happened?”
“Yeah. But what happened to you.”
Pop unsnaps the suitcase locks. A red-and-blue tie. Five plastic bags. A photograph.
His hands shake. He lifts the picture. “Let’s start with family first.”
Three guys dressed in matching pants, shirts, and red-and-blue ties. All of them happy, their arms wrapped about each other.
“Luis and Big Kelly. My coworkers, friends. Hernandez and O’Brien. And me, fifteen years ago, so young and stupid. James Barnes.”
“You’re not stupid.”
Pop smiles slightly. “Maybe not. But ever since that day, I feel stupid. Helpless. Angry. These were my friends and I couldn’t save them.” Pop closes his eyes. His head sags.
“Your head hurt?” I massage his head like Ray does.
After a few minutes, Pop kisses my hands. “Let me try and finish. I’ve been delaying telling this story for a long time.”
Quiet, I sit beside him. Pop stares at nothing, like he’s staring into a void, deeper and darker than the memorial holes.
His voice scratches with emotion.
“We were teasing Luis. His wife just had a little girl. And Luis couldn’t stop talking about Mi hija. Kelly kept teasing, ‘Kids are trouble.’ But Big Kelly and me were setting aside money each payday to buy a baby swing. You wind it up, and it plays music and rocks the baby.”
Ray and Leda never had such a swing. Did I? I don’t remember it. I think we’ve always been poor. We’ve just gotten poorer. Like Pop’s headaches have gotten worse.
“We were the front desk security team. We greeted visitors, signed for packages, important mail, and, most of all, welcomed the workers. Thousands of them. Each day, they’d swipe their badges and we’d say ‘Hello.’ ‘Good morning.’ Then, later, after lunch, ‘Good afternoon.’ Then ‘Good evening.’ Ordinary stuff, but we all got to know those faces. Those people who worked with us in the North Tower.
“The sanitation workers. The computer analysts. Finance folks. The restaurant team on the 106th and 107th floors. The building was like a small city, and me, Luis, and Kelly were the day shift—the most important shift—welcoming everybody to work.”
“Like a home.”
“Yes, how’d you know?”
“You said ‘family.’ In school, we talk about social groups. How we form connections, relationships.”
Pop hugs me. “You’ve got a fine school.”
“I know. Friends, too. I wouldn’t want any of them hurt.”
“Terrible for anyone to be hurt. Worse to remember faces. Each one special, different. Unique. Funny how personalities fit faces. Or maybe it’s faces that fit personalities.”
“Like Sabeen. She’s so kind, and you can tell because her lips tilt up, ready to smile. And Ben, he wears these funny, round glasses and hardly smiles, but there’s a calm about his face. Calm but strong.” I struggle with my words. “Not like a bully strong. A safe strong. Even though he isn’t big at all.”
“I know what you mean. Big Kelly was ever so gentle. Luis, just average size, but he carried himself like a bear. That’s how he was that day… strong. Protective.”
I slip my hand into Pop’s.
Pop strokes my hair and kisses me right on the nose like he sometimes does with Leda. Funny, this moment, I feel safe.
“I worked the North Tower for five years. Knew everybody and
everybody knew me. Forty hours a week for fifty-two weeks a year for five years adds up to ten thousand, four hundred hours. You get to know folks.”
Pop chuckles. “Me, Luis, and Kelly made a big to-do about new hires. Telling them how the elevators whizzed like lightning. How the building swayed in fierce winds. How the best hot dog could be bought a block away. How working in the towers meant you MADE IT. Made it to the center of New York, the center of the world.”
Pop swallows, trembles. His face looks like he’s waking from a nightmare. “I should’ve told you years ago, Dèja. I’ve been too terrified. I still see, feel, hear, smell every last bit of it. When I close my eyes. When I sleep and dream. When I see a clear blue sky.
“That day, the day of the attack, was the clearest day I’d ever seen in New York. Perfect. Blue. A day so beautiful it promised nothing bad would happen.”
He pulls out the bags, one by one. “This is my name tag. This is my walkie-talkie. On this I heard Luis and Kelly’s calls for help.
“See. The building shook. Bam. Bang. Didn’t know then a plane had hit. Only heard emergency distress calls.
“Luis and Kelly took the elevator. I told them, ‘No, too dangerous.’ But the building was over a hundred floors. They wanted to race to help. Be where they were most needed.
“I don’t know if they ever made it off the elevator. Ever got to the firestorm. If the elevator doors opened on desperation? Or if they were trapped? Elevators shut down.”
Elbows on his knees, Pop cries. I wrap my arm about his waist, lay my head on his back.
“See, Dèja, I don’t exactly know what happened. But I imagine. Imagining makes my head ache, explode. Pow.
“This is my flashlight.” He takes the dirty, cracked light out of the plastic bag. “I grabbed it, headed for the stairwell. It was filled with smoke and dust falling like water, down the stairs and over the rails.
“Fire. You could smell it. Even if it was a dozen stories up, the air stank. Folks were rushing down. I recognized them. Even faces twisted with fear, I recognized every one of them.
“I was scared, Dèja. The building kept moaning, chattering its pain. Then electrical power went. Battery-powered lights switched on. Folks were scared but still trying to be nice, helping others.
“One, two, four, five, eight, ten flights of stairs. I was exhausted. Lungs aching. Still folks coming down, sounding like an elephant herd. Two men were carrying a man in a wheelchair.
“Coughing, I held my jacket over my mouth. Where was I going? What did I expect to do? I don’t know. I just kept thinking I should be running up to help, not out. Finding coworkers, my work family.
“I kept going up and up. The handrail was warming. Closer to the top, the metal rail burned hands.
“Then, the firemen. Oh my word, so wonderful, Dèja. Racing, carrying sixty-five pounds of equipment, moving like warriors. A few helmet lights crisscrossed in the stairwell. A captain kept soothing, ‘Stay calm. Everybody down. Everybody down. We’ll put out the fire.’
“I recognized police. Port Authority police, too. I wanted to help them. Be as brave as them. Everybody was escaping, and they were going up.”
“Twelve floors. Folks were more slowly coming down. Smudges, dirt in their hair. Small burns. You could tell they were disoriented, traumatized. Firemen and police kept stepping faster and faster, like they didn’t need to breathe, like they were Superman, Iron Man, Captain America.
“Mrs. Able from the accounting firm on the thirty-seventh floor fell against me. I staggered. I knew it was her. She always wore hats, no matter what. Church hats, I called them. Like any second she was going to sing gospel.
“‘James, I can’t move. Too scared. Help me down, James. Help an old lady down.’
“Mrs. Able’s eyes were wild. She clutched my shirt. ‘It’s bad up there. Bad.’
“Then Mrs. Able’s hat got knocked off, spinning down the stairwell. She wailed, ‘My hat, my hat,’ and I knew then her hat covered thinning hair, how it’d been a crown to make her not feel so old.
“The building whined. Inside it felt like there was an earthquake shaking the foundation, the walls, windows, and ceiling.
“‘Take me down, please, James.’
“My flashlight shone on floating ash. It was petrifying trying to move frail Mrs. Able, feeling the press of bodies pushing down and the responders pushing up. My arms protected her some. Inch down, inch down.”
Pop looks upward at the ceiling. “Did you know, Dèja, stretching steel shrieks, clangs as joints shift? Something told me the tower was dying.
“‘Come on, Mrs. Able. We’ve got to move faster. Come on.’
“She was trembling and crying. I picked her up. Held her like a baby girl. Down, down, down, we squeezed down, in a crunch of people, two steps, one step, trying to get to the first floor.
“There was a massive SHUDDER. My arms and back got bruised.
“There was no sound. People, yes, screaming, complaining. But the building seemed to still, hush for half a second. It hit me, ‘We’re going to die.’”
“I don’t understand.”
“Neither do I. But there was a silence before the worst hit. Before the storm, whatever it was. Floor three. We’d made it to three when there was a rush and roar like a train barreling down a track. You could hear screams high above. Clashes. Clangs. Explosions. Concrete bursting, windows breaking.
“I started running and ran and ran, keeping Mrs. Able close to my heart. She was crying like a baby, and I kept saying, ‘Hush, it’s all right,’ when I wanted to scream my mind and heart out.
“The tower was collapsing. We barely made it out alive.
“Smoke, rock, and ash were everywhere.”
“Pop, I’m so sorry.”
He picks up another plastic bag. “My wallet. So dirty, even though it was in my pocket.”
Pop hugs me, whispering in my ear. “People’s belongings flew everywhere.” He pulls back, taking the last bag from the suitcase. “I got Mrs. Able to an ambulance. Both towers down, just gone. Crippling smoke. Pulverized concrete. This bag”—he holds it high—“holds some of the dust. Ashes, too.”
“Why do you keep it?”
“Reminds me it’s inside me, what’s inflaming my lungs.”
“That’s why you cough?” I didn’t know Pop had a real reason to be sick.
“It reminds me, too, of how worthless I was. Am. How I couldn’t protect my work family. Not then. How I can’t protect my family now. Look at this place.”
I do. It’s sad-looking. On the floor, Ray has some blocks stacked high. Amazing—they haven’t been knocked down. I can’t believe Leda left her pink pacifier on the bed. Ma nailed a blanket to the wall to cover cracks.
Eyes closed, elbows on his knees, Pop wheezes.
“I think you’re a hero, Pop. If Mrs. Able were here, what do you think she’d say?”
Pop opens one eye and looks at me. Then he opens the other.
“How much family do you think Mrs. Able has? How many folks did you make happy? Children? Grandchildren? Sisters? Uncles? Without you, there wouldn’t be our family. Ma would’ve married someone different, and it wouldn’t be the same.”
“Better.”
“How can you say that? I’m Dèja. The original. One and only. You’re my brave Pop.”
Then I give him kisses like he used to give me kisses. Hundreds of them—all over his face, his brow, eyelids, and nose. Kisses so fast and furious, all you can do—all Pop can do—is laugh and laugh some more.
“Pop?” I hesitate. I don’t want to make him feel worse, but I have to know. Pop was there. “Why do they hate us? The terrorists?”
“I don’t know. I’ve been wrestling with why. The World Trade Center was America’s financial engine. The American Dream,” Pop rasps. “Because of the terrorists, I’ve lost it. Can’t hold a job. Even when my cough is better, closed spaces, blue skies… make me anxious.”
“That can’t be all of it. I mean, innocen
t people died. Families, relationships were broken. Destroyed.” Pop strokes my hair. “I think the terrorists don’t understand that. If they did, they couldn’t hurt innocent people.”
I want to fall on the bed and cry and cry. I never should’ve been angry at Pop.
Six weeks at a new school has changed everything. School didn’t teach me everything about 9/11. Still, I understand a lot more now. I understand some of the enormous hurt to families, my family, and country.
“Pop, I don’t think it’s just jobs and money. I think maybe the terrorists hate us because we believe in freedom. For everybody. Freedom to be who you are and have different religions. Isn’t that why folks immigrate? That’s what makes our society family. America, home. Even though we’re all different, we’re the same. Americans.”
Pop’s eyes brighten. “You must be the smartest girl in your class.”
“No, Pop. There’s lot of smart kids. But I’m learning.
“The skyline, Manhattan’s skyline has changed. You should see the September 11 Memorial, Pop. Take me inside the 9/11 Memorial Museum.
“We should see it together.”
THE END
“What Doesn’t Ever Change” by Dèja Barnes
Skylines can change. Where you live can change. Even people change. Pop’s new doctors gave him the right medicine and, at night, we walk to the river, sit on a bench and talk. Pa says it helps him feel better. Me, too.
Next year, I’ll be in the sixth grade. Leda stopped using her pacifier and Pull-ups. Ray loves school. One day, he’ll be taller than me. Everyone is changing. Ma is happier. We’re moving to a subsidized apartment. It’ll be better than Avalon. Not great. But better.
Some things never change. Family. Friends. Relationships, connections between people, are always important.
America is one big family, one big home. When the towers fell, I think everybody did their best to help and be strong. Like Pop. Some died. Some got wounds you could see, some got wounds you couldn’t. Like Ben’s Pop, like mine. Ben’s Pop came to New York for our field trip. One day Ben’s going to take me to Arizona to meet his horse. (I know this is not being focused but I’m adding it anyway. It’s important—it means something like my family eating at Sabeen’s house. I just don’t know how to say it right.)
Towers Falling Page 10