Anthony felt like the pope. As he progressed through the crowd, people moved in to shout their love and hold out their hands as if seeking his grace, then filled into the wake, where they saw, behind the boys, on the other side of the colorfully festooned threshold, a gesture of symmetry: a replica of an iconic gift from the people of France to America. The Statue of Liberty, holding the torch up to all those who followed.
In front of them fire engines lined the sides of the streets, and police on motorcycles escorted them, telling well-wishers to back up. People complied only for seconds before filling back into the middle of the street to get closer, many wearing T-shirts someone had handed out with SAC HEROES PARADE written through a blue star. Way off in front, Anthony could see a marching band leading the way, and flag twirlers, drum lines, war veterans in old jeeps. Retired Sacramento Kings basketball players rode a classic fire truck in front of them, bicycle-mounted policemen holding on to the side, serving some purpose about which Anthony was unclear but right now unconcerned with.
It was a half mile from Third Street in front of the bridge down to the capitol steps, where a stage had been erected, flanked by two giant screens advertising the Jackie Green performance, and as Anthony looked up and to the sides, he was bowled over. The place was packed. The entire avenue a mass of humanity, wall to wall. It felt like a million people. These were nameless, faceless people, struggling and scrambling for a photo with them, but he didn’t feel used or exploited; he felt appreciated. He felt like he’d given this town something to be proud of. He decided he loved this city, and could see himself never leaving, even though, or maybe because, it was a city with grit and not the best reputation, some storm of violent crime always a few news cycles away. A city mentioned with the kind of tongue-in-cheek derision that some backwater capitals in America are, the Albanys and the Harrisburgs, only Anthony’s hometown had the violent crime to compete with a major metropolis. All these people were out here because despite all that, Anthony and his friends had given them something to be proud of.
As the parade moved forward—all the people, streamers, confetti; he didn’t even know where it was coming from—it was like proceeding slowly through a fantasy in which he’d saved the day. Only here, he had saved the day, and the whole city had come out as if he’d saved them too.
They reached the capitol building and climbed up on a platform under a giant American flag hanging under two fire engine ladders.
The mayor took the podium and yelled, “Come on, Sacramento!!”
Anthony heard Alek whispering something to him, and then arched his eyebrows up to the roof of the capitol building. Anthony looked up and saw snipers on each corner and one in the middle, surveilling the masses of people. Every once in a while, even in the most celebratory moments, there was this: a reminder that they’d vanquished one threat, not all threats. There was still danger out there.
And that they themselves were now targets.
As if on cue, a plane roared overhead, a four-engine C-17 Globemaster out of Travis Air Force Base on a flyover, and the crowd roared to match it as the mayor began to speak.
“Ladies and gentlemen, the moment you’ve all been waiting for! Please get on your feet, let’s welcome to the mic, the Sacramento hometown heroes, Anthony, Alek, and Spencer!” It was Anthony who happened to be standing closest to the mayor, so he was first to the mic, and though he hadn’t even known he was going to have to speak and was about to address a wall of humanity as far as he could see, he didn’t feel worried. Everything felt good. He reached for the mic, and chuckled. He scratched above his eye, and looked over at Alek. Strange, how he didn’t feel nervous. Again, he felt it was all surreal. A whole city was out in front of him, waiting to hear what he had to say. He smiled a little, and the crowd reacted just to that. What power! He could control how people felt with the tiniest shift in his expression. He raised his hand to wave, and they roared louder. It was amazing, it was absurd. He felt himself smiling even bigger, he couldn’t hold it, it was hilarious and amazing and the pride mixed with the absurdity, This is us, they’re here for us! and he waved again. In his peripheral vision he saw Alek to one side, Spencer to the other. He felt them there. He could see that they’d felt the need to acknowledge the crowd, each doing the two-handed presidential wave, the crowd roaring somehow even louder. But Anthony was still at the mic, and sooner or later he’d have to say something. What to say? When all else fails, he thought of what his father said before his first press conference in America, just say what you feel. Anthony leaned down toward the mic.
“Um, I just want to say how overwhelming this all is.” Another roar. “We’ve been all around the world in these last couple weeks, but I just want you all to know all the things we’ve received everywhere, it doesn’t feel anything in comparison to being in front of our home crowd like this.”
The crowd was euphoric.
“We wanna acknowledge the fact that it is September eleventh, it’s kind of surreal for us ’cause we feel like our actions compared to those, all the brave people that did . . . their thing on September eleventh . . .” He could see out of the corner of his eye Alek start grinning at Anthony’s loss for words, Did I really just say‘ did their thing’ on September eleventh? “And we just want to appreciate and thank everybody in Sacramento for coming out today. Thank you.”
Then Alek came out. “I know it’s really hot out.”
It sounded like the whole country laughed.
“And, uh, that just means that much more that you guys all showed up and we just really appreciate it and we’re so grateful and, wow, like Anthony said, we’ve never gotten a reception like this. This has absolutely been unreal and fantastic and thank you all again.” Under the podium, Anthony saw Alek’s hands come together, almost like a prayer. “Thank you.”
Next Spencer, who took to the podium, and just exhaled into the mic. The crowd roared.
All he has to do is breathe and people cheer! Anthony leaned forward and said, “Captain America” into his ear, and then clapped for Spencer with the rest of the crowd.
Spencer bowed toward the mic. “I don’t even really know what to say. This support is amazing. And we all love you, and we love Sacramento, and we’re proud to be . . . be here on this day. Thank God we could all make it back,” his voice cracked a little, “in time. So.”
And then Spencer ran out of things to say. Emotion overtook him. He exhaled into the mic once more, the whole city hearing him feel, and Anthony could tell his friend was overwhelmed.
“And like Anthony said, we don’t want to forget while we’re all gathered here today to . . . in remembrance of September eleventh, so . . . let’s all just . . .” —Spencer was losing his way a little—“let’s all just, uh, remember that.” Anthony heard Alek let out a few chuckles, and it caught Anthony, so soon he was trying hard to bite down his own laughter. Gotta teach these guys how to speak too! Over at the podium, Spencer had a moment of inspiration, he turned and yelled into the mic, “Live for each other and die for each other!” And the crowd erupted.
AFTERWARD THEY WERE shown back into the capitol, down into its bowels, a garage underneath where the temperature dropped and they all got in cars going in different directions. Anthony watched Alek get in a car and leave for the airport, where he’d head down to LA and begin his life as a TV star.
Spencer got in another car to go in a different direction, off for a month of air force–organized media events and then back to Portugal to finish out his tour.
Anthony would stay here, to try and finish his degree.
For now, though, he was going home to nap. The city didn’t have the best clubs in the world, but the ones it did have were planning some big things for the one hometown hero staying behind, so he went home, put his head on the pillow, and played the whole day in his head: the photo shoot—Brad and Angelina!—the interview, the thousands upon thousands of people cheering, the goodbyes in the garage under the capitol, the three of them peeling off in their di
fferent directions.
He wondered when he’d ever see his two friends again. And then he slept.
45.
WASHINGTON, DC, gleamed before him. How had Anthony never been here? His dad talked so much about politics and the president and everything else that it felt familiar to him, but he’d never actually visited. People never see the important sites they feel close to. And even if he’d been here in his imagination dozens, hundreds of times listening to his dad’s stories, or watching The West Wing together, it wouldn’t have felt like this.
It wasn’t that it looked all that different from what he imagined—everything big, clean, and white—it was that he felt different than he thought he would.
He’d been in Europe only weeks ago, but the speed with which everything had happened since then made him feel connected to Europe as if it had been yesterday. That was the last quiet moment, the last normal moment he’d had, and he’d been in cities with history rising up all around him. Europe had done that to him, hit him the moment he’d landed in Italy. Maybe because he was going to see Spencer and Alek, and history was the one subject they first bonded over. Whatever it was, between all the partying and the devastating hangovers and talking to pretty girls with foreign accents, what had struck him most about Europe was how many important, somber things had happened, everywhere he went. He’d felt it all around. He’d seen it, the giant arches commemorating this leader, that war, and he’d taken enough photos to crash a computer or two. It was all around, from the ancient cobblestones in Venice that ate up his suitcase wheels, to the stones in the Berlin Holocaust memorial, to standing next to Spencer in the shadow of the Brandenburg Gate, commissioned by a king in the 1700s. Things in Europe were measured not in years but in centuries.
And yet from here, the Lincoln Memorial looked like the Brandenburg Gate back in Berlin. The residue was still with him, because as he looked up at Lincoln, a giant on a throne looking down at the Mall, Anthony thought, We have history too. It had taken stepping out of his own country to feel so close to it.
Now he felt not just close to it, but a part of it. By now it had become a refrain so common it sometimes felt nearly meaningless: “American heroes.” But here he stood, thinking, This is where we come from, and we just did something to make this country proud. Anthony felt proud. In a real way—a powerful, substantive way, not just a country music song or bumper sticker kind of a way. He felt honor, he felt fulfilled. He was proud to be American, because he’d done something small that made him a part of something big. His role in history had been fleeting, but enough that he felt connected to everything that stood before him.
As he walked through the Mall, it was the World War II memorial that pulled him in the hardest. It was coming full circle, back to the war with the stories that brought him and Spencer and Alek together, and to the president Anthony idolized, whose words were inscribed on the walls. Anthony stopped in front of FDR’s quote about Pearl Harbor, an inscription bigger than him, and read:
DECEMBER 7, 1941, A DATE WHICH WILL LIVE IN INFAMY . . . NO MATTER HOW LONG IT MAY TAKE US TO OVERCOME THIS PREMEDITATED INVASION, THE AMERICAN PEOPLE, IN THEIR RIGHTEOUS MIGHT, WILL WIN THROUGH TO ABSOLUTE VICTORY.
And for the second time, it was a memorial that forced him to reflect. The effect was unexpected, even though it was exactly the effect memorials were supposed to have. He stood, taking it in, thinking, reflecting, remembering, feeling the whole size of what he was a part of.
* * *
HE TAKES OUT HIS PHONE and begins recording the scene.
Did all of that just happen?
No. No way. That was a terrorist. We just stopped a terrorist. My friends won’t believe this. Dad won’t believe this.
He pans right.
Spencer on the ground, a gun; he doesn’t know exactly what he should capture, he feels maybe it’s important to capture everything.
“Where’s that gun?” Alek is back, but his question doesn’t make sense. He’s holding the gun.
“What do you mean?” Anthony says. “You’re holding it.”
“I mean the other gun. The pistol.”
“Huh?” There is no pistol. Anthony has seen no pistol.
Alek’s jaw is set; there’s no doubt in his face. Anthony feels unsteady.
Alek says, “The one he tried to shoot Spencer with.” Alek ends the sentence rising in tone, as if to say, obviously.
Anthony feels his hand going to his forehead. Is Alek fucking with him? They were both right there for the whole fight with the terrorist; Alek saw the whole thing too, laid hands on the man, why does Alek think there was a pistol? Alek is imagining things.
“Well, then where is it?”
“It has to be in here.” Alek begins looking around. Anthony helps because he’s feeling the need to help; he gets on his hands and knees too, at least to humor Alek. He looks down the aisle, he looks under the seats. He looks back to where the legs of a table are bolted to the floor, right under where Spencer tried to choke the terrorist all by himself. Anthony rotates his head both ways, and sees something glint. It is dark but shiny, like an old penny, but it is small and cylindrical. He reaches for it and holds it closer. There is no mistaking it. It is a shell casing. And he knows it’s too small for an AK-47 round. This is a spent shell casing from a pistol. Someone did have a pistol. Someone fired a pistol.
So where is the pistol?
He stands up and puts the shell casing on the table, with a clink. Alek looks at it and gives a nod. Anthony nods back. They look for the pistol.
Soon Anthony feels useless, going up and down looking for something that clearly isn’t here, because if it was here they would have found it; it’s one single, small train car. There just aren’t many places it could go, and they’ve already looked everywhere.
He begins piling the weapons and ammo on a seat, arranging it all in one place. It feels productive, like helping a friend pack for a trip. It will save someone time, later.
He organizes it neatly.
He films it with his cell phone. The man had so much ammo.
He looks up. He looks down the train car. He experiences another stream of clarity: he is evaluating everything in front of him like he’s part of a CSI team, observing each detail by itself, squinting and focusing on one thing at a time in order to unlock its meaning. He is able to disassociate things from other things, spread them out and observe each detail by itself. Everything is a stationary piece of furniture on a stage. Blood spatter on the window. Blood puddled on the floor. Spencer’s head: dark red. The dying man lying down. The shell casing that he found. That he picked up—touched. It will have his fingerprints on it. What can he do about that? There is nothing he can do about that. There is not much he can do about anything. He is a small piece on this set. Maybe he can help Spencer. He goes and stands by his friend for a minute, five minutes. Spencer seems to be losing the man. Anthony can hear clearly when Spencer says, “Do you want me to say a prayer?” The man doesn’t seem to respond. Anthony feels moved by something. He leans close and whispers to Spencer, “Just say one anyway.”
He doesn’t know if Spencer hears. Spencer doesn’t reply. But he seems to bow his head.
Ten seconds go by, or maybe a minute or ten minutes, it’s hard to tell, and Anthony gets up. Alek is back again. They stand together, silently. And then Anthony feels himself smiling. Alek begins to smile too. And then they are both laughing, because what else is there to do? It is a ridiculous scene in front of them, a ridiculous thing they just took part in. Spencer is on his hands and knees, bleeding out of his head and calm as can be, like it’s the most normal thing in the world. The guy on the ground was gushing blood like a fire hydrant and is now talking normally. They’ve found themselves in the middle of the most farcical movie scene, where people gush blood out of wounds and talk quietly like they’ve just finished a reading at the local library.
That is what Anthony can’t shake: the tranquility. It is quiet. Nobody is panicked. Everything is st
ill. It is amazingly still. It’s too still.
He walks toward the back of the car, just observing. He feels it is important to keep observing details. With his phone, with his eyes. These details will be important. Just keep observing and recording.
He moves through the train car one more time, because maybe on a second pass he will find the pistol. He can’t find it but he keeps looking in the same places, because he knows it’s there, it has to be, he found the bullet. Only instead of the pistol he sees something else. There is a foot sticking out from under a seat. He wills himself toward it. It is attached to a body that is trembling. He bends down and sees a human being. A girl, still hiding. How had he not seen her?
It amazes him. It is such a small space, but it keeps revealing secrets. He keeps seeing there is more in this train car than he thought.
She must have been there the whole time, under the four of them as they fought. It was all happening right over her. She lay there, in a fetal position, her body juddering, sobbing without making noise. Her face would have been inches from their feet as they fought. The man who collapsed gushing blood would have crumpled to the ground nearly on top of her. Anthony has a strange feeling; this girl was so close to where the gunman came into the train car, she would have been the first person killed if the man hadn’t been stopped. Anthony is looking at a person who is alive because of him.
He has an urge to say something to her, but doesn’t. He can’t think of anything that would make any sense.
He is thinking about what to do when they get to a station, whenever that is. They will have to find some security guard, and try to explain what happened. That will be awkward, or dangerous. He imagines police raids in Sacramento, SWAT teams breaking down doors, he sees a scene in his mind, a battering ram and machine guns, “Everybody get the fuck down until we question everybody!” and he is anxious about being caught up in the crossfire, but as the train makes the long gentle left bank into the station, he can see out the window: they know. Men and equipment prepared for urban warfare. SWAT-style trucks, national police, dozens of people waiting, some in full combat gear. Anthony thinks, Should I get down on the ground?
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