She kept wondering whether it was creepy or reassuring how normal the day felt, even though nobody knew where the president was (North Dakota?) and even the Veep was hiding somewhere—in a secure location, they said on the TV, and Joan, who was always pretty vocal about her views, said, “A secure location, my eye! Like a coffin—how’s that for a secure location?” She repeated it several times, until Hal Speed, who taught junior physics, told her to knock it off because it was disrespectful in a time of crisis, no matter what her politics were. Joan asked Judy to lunch at the diner on the square, but by then she said she thought she should be at home, because Bootie would be trying to get through to her, and he’d know she was worried—of course, she wasn’t naïve and she knew New York was a big place, but still, to be honest, it was kind of unnerving and she did just want to hear his voice and know that he was okay.
The house was very quiet, which was horrible—somehow, even the brightness of the sun falling through the window onto the kitchen table, so peaceful and calm, was horrible just then—and she debated with herself about turning on the TV and couldn’t help it, really, because you needed to know, didn’t you? She opened a can of chicken noodle and made a ham sandwich—with mayo and a couple of slices of cucumber, the way she liked it—but she found she couldn’t really eat much, which wasn’t really a surprise, because she was waiting. At about three the phone rang, and before she picked it up she felt relief, but it was just Sarah, calling from Alexandria Bay to say had Bootie called yet and was she okay? Did she want Sarah to come over, maybe, with the kids, because somehow a disaster like this just made you all want to be together, didn’t it?
Why don’t we wait and speak later, when I’ve spoken to him, she said, because who knew, but it couldn’t be that long till the phones were working; and when they’d hung up she thought, Heck, I’ll just try it, what have I got to lose, and rang the number she had for him, that sublet somewhere downtown, but surely it wasn’t near the towers, he’d said the other side of the island, she was pretty sure. To her surprise, it rang through on the first try, but she got only a machine, the machine with that other boy’s voice on it, of course, the friend of Marina’s whose place it was, so that was no good. Maybe that was the first time she really felt scared, because she thought of him out on the street somewhere, instead of safely tucked away inside, but that was silly because of course probably everyone was outside down there, getting out to see one another and to make sure the rest of the world was still standing.
Because life had to go on, she forced herself into the car to go to her hair appointment at four. Dolly was cheerful about it all, in her weird, oblivious way, as she snipped at Judy’s nape. A blur in her pink smock alongside Judy’s left ear, she shook her head and said, “Awful, isn’t it? Awful. It’s those Arabs,” she said, pronouncing it Ay-rabs. “My sister Lily, she’s in Buffalo, she says they’re all over everywhere up there, and they live just like they were back in Arabia. No English to speak of, the headgear, the whole lot. They’d kill every one of us if they could. It’s scary, isn’t it?”
“It sure is,” Judy agreed, although she knew that Dolly’s feelings about foreigners were very particular. Joan wouldn’t have her hair cut by Dolly anymore on that account, even though she was probably Watertown’s finest.
Judy was home by six, though, with her hair looking a little funny (they hadn’t done the perm today. She’d put it off till next time. Somehow, she couldn’t face it, was all) but surely better than it had, and proud of herself for keeping the appointment in spite of things, because what good did it do to worry about things you couldn’t do anything about?
And it was just before seven that she called again, the number, and the fellow answered—Julius Clarke, she’d remember that name—and said that he didn’t know a thing about Bootie (she thought it slightly strange that he called her boy Bootie, because Bootie didn’t generally encourage that), that he’d moved to Brooklyn but that there was no telephone number as far as Julius knew. She remembered now, he’d said something about moving, but she’d somehow thought it wasn’t for a while. He was working in a restaurant, too, just now, but she couldn’t for the life of her remember what it was called. Mexican, maybe? Upscale and Mexican, fine dining, she thought he’d said. Certainly ethnic. She’d been surprised.
Julius said he didn’t know about that. He’d given Bootie the number of a temp agency, but didn’t know if he’d contacted them. Sure, he had the number; and he gave it. He was sorry not to be of more help, but they didn’t really know each other much.
“Who does he know?” she asked, trying to sound brisk rather than plaintive.
“I’m so sorry, ma’am,” he said—he was a polite young man: he said “ma’am.” “But I don’t have any idea.”
She tried to calm down, after that. She was working herself up. Just because she could call New York didn’t mean they could call out, did it, because sometimes things worked that way, didn’t they? She did call the temp agency that Julius Clarke had given her, so as to know she’d done all she could, but all she got was a machine. And then she did call Sarah because she couldn’t stand waiting all by herself, and Sarah said she’d come over, but tomorrow, after school, because the kids were about to have their baths and go to bed.
“Don’t worry so much, Mom,” she said, “because Bootie will call. At least you know he wasn’t there, of all places, at that time in the morning. He can be a little selfish about stuff; I’m sure he isn’t even thinking that you’re worried. Can you imagine what it’s like to be down there, I mean, like that movie, Independence Day, right? He’s probably with other people, you know, friends, trying to feel okay about everything. I’m sure he’ll call tomorrow, if he can’t call today.”
Which made her feel a little better. Sarah was right, after all: at least she knew he wouldn’t have been there. The restaurant was somewhere else—hadn’t he said Fifth Avenue? Wasn’t that far away? At least not close—and besides, no busboy had to show up for work at that hour. But if he was with friends, who were they? She couldn’t quite fathom how her boy’s life had become such a mystery to her, when even a few weeks ago, it seemed, he’d been with Murray and she’d known—okay, only more or less, but still—what he was up to every day.
But he didn’t call that night, and he didn’t call in the morning, and when she came home from school, where all the class time was spent talking about the disaster, of course, he hadn’t left any message. And as she said to Sarah when she came over, the terrible thing was just having to wait. Just waiting. Who could be good at that? When Bert was sick there’d been so much waiting, in hospitals and at home, and she’d hated it then, hated the powerlessness and the waste of it, but this felt worse, in a way, because she knew it was ridiculous to be worrying, but what else could she do? She couldn’t bring herself to go out, really, not without having someone there to pick up the phone, so eventually she made her supermarket run (she needed milk, and bread, a few staples) while Sarah set up the playhouse in the backyard for the kids.
On Thursday, she broke down and called Murray. She wasn’t sure to whom it fell to be contrite, and so did her best to clear the air from the start.
“I know we’ve been on the outs, Murray,” she said. “But you’re my only brother and we need to get over it. My Bootie did a very stupid thing, and he’s been regretting it every second since, but he’s just a kid, and I still think you didn’t need to be so hard on him.”
“Judy. I was going to call you. This whole thing—”
“I know. A disaster like this, it makes you think. Families shouldn’t argue. It’s not right. And I need your help.”
“Help?”
“I haven’t heard from him, Murray. It’s been two days and he hasn’t called. It’s probably silly of me—kids’ll be kids, and Sarah says he’s just not thinking, but it’s the only thing on my mind.”
“Oh dear.”
“Can you find him for me? Murray, please?”
“Of course, Judes, but I
don’t know how.”
“There isn’t any phone number. That’s the problem. That Julian boy, he’s given me an address—I have the address. It’s in a place called Fort Greene, apparently. Do you know where that is? In Brooklyn, somewhere?”
“I’m sure we can find it.”
“Well, if one of you wouldn’t mind—I know it’s kind of awkward, given, you know, everything. But it’s been forty-eight hours and I haven’t had a word.” She felt herself near tears.
“You don’t really think that …”
“Of course not. Of course not. I mean, this Fort Greene, it’s nowhere near, right?”
“Nowhere near.”
“So it’s not as though … but a mother worries, Murray. You know that. Ask Annabel.”
“I know you do. Don’t worry about it, Judy. I’m sure he’s perfectly fine, but one of us will go check in on him. I’ll tell you what: I’ll get Marina to do it. They get on like a house on fire. Wouldn’t that be good?”
“Whatever it takes, you know? Because I can come down there, too, if I need to.”
“Don’t be silly, Judes. That’s the last thing anybody wants. People are turning up in droves, around here—on buses, trains, any way they can—to help dig this mess out. To look for survivors, you know.”
“Tell me something, Murray: Can you smell it? What does it smell like, for God’s sake?”
“We’re too far away, up here. I’m going tomorrow. I’m writing something. But Marina’s already been. I think it smells pretty strong, depending on the air. You know, the wind. Like burning dust, mostly, and some other stuff, fuel. And other stuff. You know. A lot of dust.”
“But it’s going to smell like death, isn’t it? Soon, if it doesn’t already? A great big grave like that. It’s going to smell like death.”
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
Fort Greene
When Marina and Julius went together out to the house in Fort Greene, they stood on the doorstep for two or three minutes after ringing the bell. Julius, whose eye was now rimmed with yellow and green, fiddled with the bandage on his cheek.
“Nobody’s here,” he said. “It’s Friday lunchtime. Who would be home on a Friday at lunchtime? Shake Your Booty is probably at work. Temping, you know? I gave him the number.”
Marina pursed her lips and pressed the bell again, for a long time. They could hear it ringing in the hallway.
“These are great houses,” Julius said, peering through the etched glass of the door. “If I had a million, I’d buy this dump and do it up. Sooner or later, it’s going to be worth a lot.”
“I’m sure it already is,” Marina said. “Didn’t you see, one block down, it looks like they’ve all been done.”
Julius continued to squint at the inner staircase. “I think we’ve roused someone,” he said. “Looks like an ax murderer.”
The man who came to the door had as much stubble on his fleshy jowls as he did on top of his head. His shoulders were like hams, round, dense, and tight against his grubby T-shirt. “What do you want?” He had an accent.
Marina, all charm, explained about Bootie, and how they were sure he was fine but just wanted to check.
“He’s not here now.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m downstairs from him. You think the house is solid, but the heating vents are all open. The guy farts, I know it.”
“So don’t let us bother you more—you’ve heard him since Tuesday, right?”
The man scratched his stubbly neck, in a mimicry of thought. “I don’t know,” he said. “I didn’t think about it. But I haven’t heard him for a few days.”
“Since the planes? Have you heard him since the planes hit?”
“I don’t know.”
They asked to see his room. “You know, if there’s Wednesday’s paper in the garbage, then we don’t need to worry about him.”
“Right.” The man looked at them with half-hearted suspicion. As though he knew he should keep them from coming inside—on a matter of principle, perhaps, though he didn’t look very principled—but couldn’t quite be bothered.
“I’m his cousin,” Marina repeated. “His mother—my aunt—is very worried.”
“The door’s locked,” he said. “The door to his room.”
“You don’t have a set of master keys around somewhere?” Julius asked.
The man nodded, seemed almost sheepish, now, and motioned for them to come in. Marina was assailed, as she passed him, by his smell of garlic sweat.
The stairwell was shabby, and not very clean. Rubber matting was peeling off the steps, and a wealth of grit crackled beneath their shoes. The uneven stucco had been painted, long ago, with a shiny sky-blue paint, presumably for good cheer and ease of cleaning, but clearly nobody had taken a damp rag to the walls in years, and they were streaked and filthy. The corridors upstairs, windowless, were ill lit, and daylight seeped only beneath the rooms’ locked doors. The man stopped on the second floor, told them to wait, and slipped into the room at the back in a furtive way so that they could not see inside it, shutting the door behind him. He reemerged with a fistful of keys on a cloth strap.
“I shouldn’t do this,” he said, with a shrug, as he led them up another flight. “People should be allowed their privacy.”
The top floor was narrower, more cramped than the ones below, but a bathroom door stood open, at least. Marina noticed that someone had put a spider plant on the window ledge; the shower curtain, of fiesta stripes, had been chosen to match the bath mat. It was not too bad.
Bootie’s room made them all draw breath. There was nothing in it to speak of: a pile of rumpled sheets beneath the window, an unplugged computer on the floor in the corner, next to some books, a few sorry postcards pinned randomly to the wall. There was a dirty mug, and a plate encrusted with what looked like tomato sauce. A half loaf of curling sliced bread in a plastic bag kept company with a few cans, atop which a spoon and can opener had been carefully set. Marina went to look out the window at the rooftops, then turned her back to it. Not only were there no newspapers, there was no wastepaper basket in which they could have been put.
“Maybe he went away?” Julius suggested, kicking vaguely at the sheets. “Those are mine,” he said, and pointing to a towel hung over the handle of the cupboard door, “and that, too. Your cousin’s a thief.”
The big man stood in the middle of the room with his arms hanging awkwardly at his sides. They were short, as well as thick. “Okay,” he said.
Marina opened the closet. Bootie’s suitcases lay on the floor inside, vomiting their contents: underpants, unmatched socks, some crumpled shirts, the flailing legs of a pair of jeans.
“He hasn’t gone,” she said. “He just doesn’t have anything.” She shook her head. “I feel so bad.”
“It’s not your fault.”
“I could’ve tried to persuade Dad to keep him on. I was too angry all around, I think.”
“Are you done now?” The man shook the keys a couple of times. “He’s not here.”
“No.” Marina agreed to the obvious. “But thank you.”
Back on the doorstep she turned to Julius. “What next?”
“Maybe he’s at work. Why don’t we call the agency?”
“But what if he’s not?”
“Then we’ll figure out the next step. He’s probably eating a sandwich at some deli at Midtown right now. Just because he’s not here and his room is depressing—it doesn’t mean anything.”
“It just felt … I don’t know. Forsaken. The room. It was awful.”
“So he’s been sleeping on the floor. There are worse fates.”
“And if we can’t find him? Do we call the police?”
“Calm down. You’re getting way ahead of yourself.” He put his arm around her shoulder, and they walked back down the street, which was still in the bright light, in a manner at once suburban and mournful. On their way to the subway, they passed a squat brick fire station draped in black crepe, outside w
hich people had piled bunches of flowers, mostly yellow, and Marina let out a little moan.
“Julius,” she said, “I told Ludovic, on the day, right after it happened, I told him ‘We’re bound to know someone.’ I thought, you know, friends’ fathers or someone we were at college with, or even, I thought of the mother of this kid my mom represents, and—”
“And she’s fine, right?”
“No. That’s the thing, she’s not fine. She’s missing. She was on the hundred and first floor, or something, and nobody’s heard from her.”
“Wow. How old is the kid?”
“It’s a mess, God, that’s a mess, because he’s fourteen, and no dad in the picture, just this horrible stepfather who’s the reason for all the trouble. My mom says it’s like he’s been shot, he walks around completely silent and can hardly breathe. He usually knits to stay calm—weird, I know—but my mom says he can’t even do that, even though his fingers keep moving, like they have a life of their own. He says nothing, but the fingers are going all the time.” She sighed. “So you know, she’s still considered missing, but oh God, Julius, it’s awful.”
“It is awful,” he agreed, pressing himself close to her, so that his collar tickled her ear. “It’s completely horrific. But it doesn’t have anything to do with Shake Your Booty. I promise you.”
She sniffled a bit, daubed at her lip, her cheek, with a linty Kleenex from the pocket of her jeans. “Is my nose red?” she said. And then, “Do you realize, when I put this Kleenex in my pocket, the world was a completely different place?” And finally, in a different, smaller voice: “We’ve got to find him. You know that, don’t you? We have got to find him.”
When Julius called the agency, they wouldn’t give him any information. “I’m really sorry, but it’s against our policy,” the woman said. “Even if you are registered with us. The inquiry has to be official. You know, through the police. Can you just get the police to do it?”
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