Dad motioned to the manila envelope in my hand and said, “Which one did you bring?”
“Hilton Head.”
He smiled at the memory, but it died quickly, and he returned to his thoughts and vigil watching the chair. I’d chosen the picture of Mom in a flowered sundress from a rubber-banded pile hidden away in the basement where Dad wasn’t likely to run across it. Most days he still couldn’t even say her name; God knows how he’d react to unwillingly discovering her picture.
“…in December of 2000, I took a job with security personnel at One World Trade Center where every day…”
Ethan Stuckey’s story played from a Peavey amp sitting on the floor at the front of the screen. His voice had been on a continual loop since we’d arrived, slithering into my ears and sending an uninterrupted chill through my body as if he stood directly behind me. Even after all the waiting, I still didn’t know if I believed his story which had brought us all together. Dad accepted it though, and that was all that mattered.
Metallic knocking from behind the partition silenced all talk in the room. Burt, the bearded man who’d frisked us upon entry, stopped on his way around the screen and shut off the CD player wired into the amp. I held a breath to ten, hoping to relax. A deadbolt clanged open, followed by the scraping of metal across cement. Seconds later, the outline of Ethan Stuckey, stooped and hobbling, appeared. He moved in jerky motions toward the chair as if his hips had been broken and set improperly. As he passed the screen, his distorted shadow made it appear he was rising from the earth.
Burt reemerged from behind the sheet and knelt in front of the amp. A low static hum filled the room. Dad drummed his fingers against his legs. He had been anticipating this night ever since he’d transferred a thousand dollars for the two of us through PayPal. The guilt I’d experienced since helping him make the plans flooded through me again. I shut my eyes and swallowed hard, reminding myself that tonight was about saving Dad, not about my fears of a man some labeled a fraud and others called the boogeyman.
On the screen, Ethan’s shadow lifted a microphone. When he spoke, his voice had the scratchy quality of an old blues album.
“You’ve all come tonight hoping for answers, and I can promise those to you,” he said. “What I can’t promise is that you’ll necessarily like what you hear. That doesn’t really matter to me. All of you have made a deal to hear the truth. Nothing more. What you do with it is up to you.”
He lowered the mic onto his lap. Burt restarted the audio of Ethan’s story, then waved forward the woman at the front of the line. I recognized her from a midnight showing of The Lies of 9/11 that Dad had taken me to at an empty warehouse down by the shore. When she reached the edge of the screen, she paused as if reconsidering. I secretly hoped she would turn back, starting a mass exodus that would shake Dad from his waking coma. Instead, she turned the corner. I followed her outline projecting black on white until she knelt at Ethan’s feet.
“I know I said it before, but I appreciate you coming along, Will,” Dad said. His eyes were ringed by dark circles like he was looking up from the bottom of a well. “Maybe tonight we’ll get some truth.”
The irony wasn’t lost on me. In the years since 2001, Dad had avoided the truth by turning our Hoboken home into a cave of wall-plastered newspaper articles and building schematics whose relevance only he understood. Even with no remains ever recovered, Mom was officially classified as deceased nine months after that September. For Dad though, no body meant Mom might have somehow survived, possibly suffering amnesia and living life elsewhere. He remained immobile in The Before, existing in a perpetual 2001 where he hibernated with footage of plane crashes, building implosions, and mystery jumpers. Meanwhile, I lived in The After, alone and feeling orphaned as if I had somehow lost both parents on the same day.
“…a massive rumbling on the street like the ground was opening up. Then I was consumed by dust and ash, and there was nothing but darkness.”
I recognized most of the people in line behind us. There was the wheel-chaired man who’d been removed by Borders’s security after initiating a shouting match with the author of Conspiracies Debunked. Past him, the woman who kept vigil at Ground Zero with a sandwich board covered with her daughter’s picture. Then the blogger whose page Among the Missing Dad monitored daily. And the Diane Lane look-alike who brought her young son to the support group meetings. And on and on. Despite our common bond, no one acknowledged each other. Years of attending the same events brought recognition but not friendship, as if suffering alone equated to some sort of valor.
On the screen, the silhouette of the woman with Ethan convulsed as if overcome by a seizure. Then, after letting out a deep sob, she cracked him across the face with her hand. The sound echoed through the room. Burt was around the screen and on top of her in seconds.
I unconsciously stepped behind Dad. He showed no sign of my existence, instead watching with everyone else as Burt carried the woman, slumped and weeping in his arms, off to the man standing guard at the back of the room.
“…hundreds of shadowy impressions wandered about. No one had bodies or heads, but I could hear everyone talking. Some told what they’d eaten for breakfast, or how the contract language needed to be settled, or about the goal their kid scored…”
Next up was a man in a business suit. I wondered how his days at the office went. Did he spend work hours searching obscure websites for minutia while management debated how long they had to wait before they replaced him? Or could he sequester away his misery enough to work his job before returning home to ignore his children and resume his real quest? Books tell you there is no one way to grieve. When something terrible happens—something truly horrific—you change. For some it may be for the better, for some the worse, but anyone in horror’s path is irrevocably altered.
For me, it had taken years of school suspensions and police run-ins before I moved into The After and accepted the truth that Mom was gone forever. Unlike other kids I knew who lost a parent that day, I never idealized my mom. She did the best she could but regularly missed my games and school functions due to long work hours. To compensate for her absence, she showed her love by celebrating birthdays and academic achievements with manic enthusiasm. As I got older, she even created what she called “our signal”—running her index finger over her earlobe—in order to initiate a form of closeness with me. Sometimes it meant, “Your father’s silly, isn’t he?” or “It’s time for you to get to bed,” or even simply “I love you.” Regardless of its use, the signal was a private secret only we shared. The last time I saw her she smiled and touched her earlobe while driving past me on her way to the train station. Even though I was surrounded by friends waiting for the bus, I returned the gesture, a small memory that tempered any resurfacing sadness.
“…naturally began separating into two lines. One was clearly more crowded than the other, stretching far into the distance until it blurred. In that line everyone radiated fulfillment. But from the much shorter line I felt a painful darkness…”
His time with Ethan finished, the man in the suit reappeared from behind the screen and trudged toward the exit. His eyes were vacant like he was sleepwalking.
“…later, a nurse told me I’d been dead for over a minute before the EMT brought me back. But I returned with their lives imprinted on me. They’re a part of me now.”
Dad and I were next. My heartbeat pounded in my ear like waves pummeling the beach. From the moment I’d directed Dad to the message board about Stuckey’s gatherings I’d regretted my decision, knowing I was entering a game I had no control over. Now that I was about to meet Ethan, I was even more apprehensive. Something about the surroundings, Ethan’s shadow, his voice—
“I think we’re up.”
Dad reached out. At first I thought he was going to take my hand, but instead he took the envelope containing Mom’s picture. He held it by the corner with only the tips of two fingers. His face was so pale I thought he might throw up.
; “Are you going to be okay?” I said.
“I’m not sure I can do this,” he said, looking exhausted. “What if he tells me something horrible?”
The nakedness of his admission almost dropped me. It was the closest thing to honesty I’d heard from him in years. I wanted to hurry him from the room before Ethan could whisper his lies. But deep down, past the thick cord of betrayal wrapped inside like barbed wire, I knew this was what we both needed.
“It’ll be okay,” I said. “We’ll do it together.”
Burt gave the nod and we stepped behind the sheet into the bright shine of the spotlights. I held a hand to block out the light and saw the outline of Ethan sitting close. His dark form appeared to swallow the light around him. Without amplification his voice was a breathless wheeze.
“Come on over,” he said. “I’m not that scary.”
His laugh reminded me of a handsaw ripping through wood, and when my eyes finally adjusted I could see he was only partially telling the truth. Reports put him at thirty-three, but he could have passed for sixty. One side of his head was caved in like a dented fender. Short brown hair covered only half his scalp; the other side was nothing but a roadmap of scar tissue. His face hung slack as if sculpted of warm wax. I dug my fingers into my leg and tried not to stare.
“I’m Hank McCormick,” Dad said, reaching out a hand. “This is my son, Will.”
Ethan brushed Dad’s hand aside.
“Do you have a picture?”
Dad hesitated, then dragged a finger across the top of the envelope. Without glancing at it, he withdrew the photograph of Mom standing on a hotel balcony. If he spotted it, Dad said nothing about the red “X” I’d drawn in Sharpie on the back.
Ethan took the photograph into his twitching hands. I held my breath. I was about to find out if I’d given too much trust to a man I didn’t know. He studied Mom’s picture for less than three seconds before handing it back. I thought I saw a faint smile cross Ethan’s face when his eyes drifted to the mark on the back of the photograph.
He said, “Elaine McCormick worked as an actuary with Hutchison Insurance. On September 11th, she arrived at work at 7:53 wearing a black pantsuit she’d bought at Macy’s.”
Dad gripped my arm, burrowing his nails into my wrist. When I covered his hand with mine his wedding ring pressed into my palm.
“She was writing an email when the plane hit. The wing tore through her floor, destroying the entire office. The impact was so sudden she had no time to react and died instantly. Burning jet fuel incinerated her in minutes.”
Dad’s legs gave out and he sagged into me. I wrapped an arm around him and swallowed back the bile traveling up my throat.
“Is there anything else?” Dad said.
“When I saw her,” Ethan said, “she was at peace standing in the long line. Elaine knew what awaited.”
Dad’s voice was a whisper. “Was she thinking of me or Will?”
“The dead don’t think of the living,” Ethan said. “That part of their life is over.”
Tears raced down Dad’s face. He exhaled, then wrapped his arms around Ethan, who bristled at the touch.
“Thank you so much,” Dad said.
When Dad stood there was a faint light in his eyes, a small ember where I once thought only ashes remained. A brief image of the future, of Dad resuming a normal life and returning as my father, flashed in my head.
“We can go now,” Dad said. He put his arm around me as we walked away. I leaned in, aware that a good deal of the weight I’d carried when we’d entered the building had now vanished. I’d done it, and I knew whatever guilt accompanied paying Stuckey two thousand dollars to tell my father exactly what I wished was worth it.
We were to the edge of the screen about to rejoin the others when Ethan called my name. I turned and he beckoned me, his thin hand pulling through the air. I tried to keep walking, but Dad stopped.
“What do you think he wants?”
“Let’s just go,” I said. “We’ve heard what we need.”
“But maybe he remembered something else.”
There was nothing I could do. The two of us started back, but Ethan said, “No, just the boy.”
Dad shrugged, then told me he’d wait by the others.
Cold sweat trailed down my back. Ethan gestured for me to kneel. Heat radiated off his skin as if he were deeply fevered.
“Your father seems happy.”
Not willing or able to meet his eye, I stared into the darkness over his shoulder.
“You’re not the first one, you know,” he said. “It’s more common than you’d think. We’re inclined to protect those we love.”
“I can’t pay you anything more, if that’s what you want.”
“It’s true what I said before. You accepted certain conditions by coming here, and regardless of your intentions toward your father, I keep my end of the bargain.”
I went to leave, but then his voice snaked into my brain, paralyzing me.
“For your fifth birthday, Elaine threw you a Thundercats-themed party and hired an actor to play Lion-O. On your ninth birthday, she took you and four friends to Coney Island for the day. Your friend Joey ate too much popcorn and threw up off the pier. You all watched the seagulls drop into the water to eat his puke.”
My chest heaved, and I tried to slow down my breathing before I hyperventilated. Ethan didn’t break his stare, and now he had a deep smile.
“And the last time Elaine ever saw you,” he said, “you were at the bus stop as she drove away.”
I couldn’t move. Everything else faded until there was only his voice. I spoke into the darkness.
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Just keeping my part of the deal,” Ethan said. “Elaine wasn’t in her office when the plane hit. She was six floors down fucking Craig Hubbard on his desk. They’d been having an affair for over three years. He’s the one who first showed her that charming sign you and Elaine shared. They would do the signal across the office when they wanted to meet later to fuck.”
My mouth was dust.
“I don’t believe you.”
“It doesn’t matter if you do or not,” Ethan said. “When the ceiling collapsed, Elaine’s back snapped, pinning her down. She watched the fire grow around her knowing she was going to die. Her last thought before her clothing ignited was how she had wasted her entire life.”
Ethan’s voice faded as if he were walking away in a dust storm. “When I saw your mother,” he concluded, “she was with the others in the short line, radiating a shame and terror known only to those who realize they are damned.”
I was still unable to move. The long hours, the overcompensation for her absences—somehow I knew. A light illuminated my memories showing the real events that had lived in shadow. Had she been with Hubbard all those nights she wasn’t home? Were there others before him? Did she consider me part of that wasted life? The questions wouldn’t stop.
“What am I supposed to do now?”
“Well, at least your father’s happy, right?” Ethan said. “Isn’t that what you wanted?”
Burt poked his head around the corner and cleared his throat. Ethan looked past me as if I wasn’t there.
“Send in the next one.”
I turned away and had to concentrate on each step just to walk. I emerged from behind the curtain feeling as if I were entering a new world forever altered. Dad waited for me, his hands out expectantly.
“So what did he say?”
He had wiped the tears away and now had a smile with real life behind it. A row of folding chairs stood between us. Aware of the newly drawn line separating us and weighed down by a burden I knew could never be unloaded, I forced a smile and began my new life in The After.
Ash Wednesday
by Lorne Dixon
Everything was a blur, my vision fading and brightening, until the pulsating colors and trembling shapes slowed their spin. I saw broken glass on asphalt, the swaying blue bristle tree l
ine under the Santa Lucia Mountains, the twisting funnels of black clouds against a starless sky. I heard nothing except the hum of my inflamed eardrums. Rolling, standing up, wobbling, shaking, I turned back toward the fire.
I watched as a fireball ascended off the roof of the sprawling building. A line of flame ran across the Morro Bay Private Mental Health Center sign, curling the white paint, chewing down into the carved lettering. I snapped my dangling jaw shut and brushed myself off.
The explosion had caught us by surprise, knocking three teams of fire responders off our feet. Our Ladder’s blitz line—two and a half inches of hose—danced on the parking lot like a snake. It struck a uniformed cop, bowling him over, slamming his unconscious body against the Chief’s car. Half a dozen firefighters jumped to their feet and tackled the hose and held on until their combined weight and strength wrestled it under control.
The explosion meant the fire had reached the Sanitarium’s boiler room. We’d contained it to the offices and Visitors Center up until then, but now it would spread fast.
“That’s the game, folks,” Chief Henderscott shouted.
A volunteer team member from San Luis Obispo ran to my side. He screamed over the fire’s roar, “What’s he mean by that?”
I shook my head. Only a few scraggly hairs on his chin, the kid couldn’t have been more than twenty. I pulled his ear close. “It means the fire just won. We got nothing that can handle the sumbitch. Building’s done.”
Confusion crossed his face. “Then what now?”
“This just became a pure rescue mission,” I told him, careful to lock his eyes on mine. He needed to understand what my words meant—fully understand. “We have to get in there and get those people out.”
Confusion turned to panic. “But they’re—”
He didn’t say the word insane but it hung in the air just beyond his lips, almost audible.
“Yes,” I said. “They are.”
The same horrible thought fluttered through all of our minds, I’m sure, both the veterans of Ladder Six-Fifteen and the weekend adventurers from the eager volunteer squads that had raced to our town. The building was already partially evacuated. Partially. The first responders quit pulling patients out when a hallway ceiling collapsed, crushing three of the firefighters. I arrived just as they were regrouping in the parking lot.
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