So many Saturdays she’d come here with her mother, she knew all her favorites: Meg, from the Little Women set, and the princess doll, and the ballerina in the Swan Lake costume. There were larger ones, too: Cissette, in her green velvet skating outfit with fur trim and real little skates that hung around her neck, and Movie Star Cissette, with sunglasses and a sparkled evening gown.
In the end she chose her mother’s favorite: the gypsy doll with the ruffled skirt and the shawl and one gold hoop earring. It wasn’t one of the dolls Wendy liked best, but she was thinking she’d give the doll to her mother. Maybe then her mother wouldn’t be so mad at her father.
You could get a bigger one, he told her. It’s okay if it’s more expensive.
She thought about the old days, the calls in the night. Do you expect your daughter to wear boxes for shoes? We can’t live on air.
She studied the face of the girl, a little older than her, who was also picking out a doll from the same case, also with her father, from the looks of it. Also no mother around.
Tell you what, the girl’s father said after a long time, when she couldn’t decide between Meg and Jo. Why don’t we get the whole damn Little Women family? He looked like he had an appointment to get to.
A person might have thought the girl would have looked happy then, but she didn’t. Her lips were bunched up tight, like the lips on a Madame Alexander doll, come to think of it.
You sure you don’t want a bigger doll? her father said again.
No, she said. The gypsy doll is good.
You should have seen the stuff they had back when I was a kid, her father said. Train sets with tunnels and villages and real lights. Castles with knights, and drawbridges that went up and down. I had all that stuff.
Wow, she said, like an actress in a movie. That sounds nice. Even though he was her father, sometimes it was hard to think of what to say to him.
They rode the subway back to Brooklyn, with the big blue box in a bag on her lap. I bet you can’t wait to show this to your friends, he said. She knew she never would. They might think she was spoiled.
When they got back to the apartment, her mother’s friend Kate was there, instead of her mother. Janet told me to tell you she won’t be back for a while and not to wait, Kate told Wendy’s father. You got her dinner, right?
It was almost eight o’clock by that time, but he hadn’t. Just the dim sum, and that had been hours ago, and anyway, she didn’t eat it.
Never mind, Kate told him. I’ll fix her a grilled cheese.
Wait, he said. What time is Janet coming back?
She told me to tell you she may be very late, Kate told him. She said to tell you not to be here when she gets back.
For a second, Wendy thought he might get in a fight with Kate about that, and maybe she even hoped he would. He could tell her, I’ll just wait on the front steps, then. Or that he’d come back in the morning. Climb the fire escape. That’s what Tony would have done to get Maria.
He got down low to the ground then, so low his scarf dragged on the floor, and put his arms around Wendy, but in a stiff, uncomfortable way, like a person in a dance class who’s just learning the fox-trot with a partner he’s never met.
I want you to write to me, he said. He didn’t know she couldn’t write yet, except for Mom and cat and love. If you send me a picture, I’ll hang it on my wall, okay?
You can come visit me once I know where I’m going, he said. I’ll teach you how to fish.
Then he was gone. Later she realized they didn’t have his address.
In the morning when she got up her mother had found the doll before Wendy had a chance to show her.
We can put her in our special treasure case, Wendy said. In the living room, with her mother’s blown-glass animals and her first prize tap-dancing trophy from when she was in junior high, in the Missouri State Dance Association Contest, and the shoes Gwen Verdon wore in Sweet Charity.
That’s okay, her mother said. You can keep her in your room. Treats made trouble, just like she’d said.
Three
They didn’t know much, but they knew a plane had crashed into one of the World Trade Center towers. Her mother’s building.
In her homeroom classroom, everyone was supposed to remain seated at their desks until someone came for them. Most of the kids had crowded in front of the windows, not that you could see much through the smoke. The air seemed to be filled with snow, though it was actually bits of paper. Some of them small as confetti, but then a whole sheet blew against the window, so you could actually read the words.
Mrs. Volt closed the blinds. Why don’t we take this moment to write down all the things in life we’re thankful for? she said. One girl who always made the dumbest remarks had asked, Will we get a grade?
It’s just for yourself, Hallie, Mrs. Volt told her. Just to help us all remember at a difficult moment how fortunate we all are. After a minute or two, nobody seemed to be following up with their list, not even Mrs. Volt. She didn’t offer any more suggestions after that. The top windows that were too high to reach, had been open, and the air was starting to feel smoky. Some people were coughing. In a few minutes the parents started showing up.
One girl in Wendy’s homeroom said she had to get out of there. Mrs. Volt said she had to sit back down until someone came for her. I understand how you feel, Jennifer, she said. But we can’t just start letting all you young people out on the street until we know someone’s there to look out for you. It would be mass chaos.
My dad works across from the Twin Towers, the girl said. I think I’m going to throw up.
The boy making the tattoo, Sean, wanted to find Cindi. She’s going to need me, he said. She’s got asthma.
A couple of other people started dialing their cell phones, the ones who had them. When one boy finally got through, Wendy could hear him saying, Oh Jesus and Oh my God.
There’s people jumping, he said. The fire trucks are melting.
From her desk, a girl named Sandra, who never talked, began to cry. Several people put their heads down on their desks. One girl started getting the dry heaves, but not the one who’d said she was going to throw up. She was already gone.
It’s got to be an attack, said Buddy Campion when the word came that the plane hit the second tower. You know what the odds are of this being a simple coincidence? A billion to one.
We’ve got to get these windows closed, Mrs. Volt kept saying. I need the janitor.
Somebody’s mother showed up straight from the gym, still in her spandex. My husband was supposed to be at a meeting over there this morning, but he didn’t make it back from Cleveland last night, she said.
Where’s a TV set? a girl asked when her cell phone wouldn’t work. We have to turn on a TV. The whole city could explode.
There was more, but Wendy wasn’t listening. Outside the window she heard the scream of sirens. Plumes of smoke billowed and rose over the East River. From the hall, she heard someone yell, The tower went down.
Parents rushed into the classroom. Kids running. Nobody bothered to gather books into their backpacks. Somebody’s Game Boy just sitting there on a desk.
Some of the mothers burst into tears when they reached their children. Mrs. Volt was saying, Everyone keep calm. On the PA, the principal said, I know how hard this is but please stay in your classroom until a family member comes. If you know any prayers, he said, feel free to say them.
The other tower just went down, someone called out from the hall. They’re attacking the Pentagon, a boy said. Oh my God, Oh my God, said one girl. This is the worst thing that ever happened to me.
By eleven-thirty all but eight or nine kids had gone home. Of the kids who were left, most stood in a clump at the windows. Wendy stayed at her desk. She wanted to catch sight of her mother’s face the first second she got there. She kept her eyes on the door. She took deep breaths, the way her mother taught her back when she was doing her natural-childbirth preparation before Louie was born. If you ever get in a
tight spot, Wendy, you should try this breathing. It’s not just for having babies.
In through her nose. Out through her mouth. Choose a focus point. The door.
When the familiar face appeared, it wasn’t her mother’s. It was Josh. Josh with Louie in his arms. Louie in his Aladdin costume, with his thumb in his mouth. Josh still in his green morning sweatpants, unshaven.
Where’s Mom. The first words she’d spoken since the news.
It’s probably hard for her to get to a phone right now, he said. We need to get back home for when she calls.
They had closed the subways. People were all on their cell phones, but it didn’t seem like anyone was getting through. A few steps ahead of her, Josh moved through the crowd like a person who was hypnotized. Louie looked out over his shoulder, staring.
They passed a store with a TV set in the window and a crowd gathered to watch. First there was the head of a newswoman, but the sound wasn’t on, so you couldn’t make out what she was saying. Then came a picture of the plane flying low toward the tower, and for a second it looked on the screen as if the plane was just flying behind the tower, only it never came out the other side. All you saw was a bloom of flames from the building, and then so much smoke you couldn’t even see the tower anymore. The next picture they showed was the other tower, crumbling away from the inside out, like the paper wrapper of those special Italian cookies her mother sometimes brought home in the orange tin, that you could light on fire after you ate them. A poof of flame and then nothing but a little pile of ashes.
As horrible as the pictures were, Wendy wanted to stay on the street, watching the television. They were showing people running away from the towers, covered with ashes and dust, and she wanted to catch sight of her mother. She would be wearing her new red dress they’d just bought at Macy’s on their back-to-school shopping trip.
Josh didn’t want to watch. We’ve got to get home, he said. Normally, he had a very calm and steady kind of voice, but he sounded like another person now. We have to be by the phone.
That’s Mama’s building, Louie said when the TV in the store window started showing the low-flying plane again and the crash. The other tower this time.
Mama’s probably out looking for a pay phone right now, Josh said. She never has any change on her.
I’m glad Mama’s not at work, Louie said. If she was in that building, she could get burned.
Mama’s not in that building, Josh said. Mama got out. She’s probably calling us right now.
Usually the stereo was always on at their apartment. Josh playing jazz. Now it was the TV set.
Why do the buildings keep falling down? Louie said. Why doesn’t someone stop it?
It’s not different buildings, Louie, Wendy told him. They just keep showing the same two. She didn’t feel like talking to him, but Josh wasn’t answering questions. He was sitting on the couch, raking his hair with his fingers. Wendy sat in the rocker.
You said you couldn’t play with me today, Louie said. But you can.
I’ll play later, she said. After Mama comes home.
We could make her cookies, Louie said.
Later, she told him. Poppy’s not in the mood.
When the phone rang, it was as if someone sent an electric shock through Josh, but only for a second, until he heard the voice. Then Wendy could see his shoulders slump again and he’d tell the person, No, not yet. We have to keep the line open. Sometimes he didn’t even say good-bye.
They kept showing the same pictures. The low plane. The crash. The building peeling down to nothing from the inside out. The people running. Firemen. The melted trucks. She wanted them to freeze the picture so she could try to figure out what floor the plane had hit, but maybe that wasn’t such a good idea.
The mayor came on but she wasn’t interested in that part. They were telling about another plane that crashed, someplace else. It’s good you didn’t go to California, Louie told her. You could’ve crashed. It’s good Mama wasn’t on a plane.
I just remembered she said she might go vote before work, Josh said. For the first time since he’d showed up at her school, his face didn’t look so crumpled. She wanted to go with me, but I told her the lines wouldn’t be so long if she went early.
Wendy had never heard of her mother going anyplace early, but she didn’t say anything.
Look at that, Josh said. You can see lines of people by the pay phones. She’s probably having a hard time getting through. She never remembers you can call collect on a local call.
It was sickening, a woman was saying on the screen. There were all these people hanging out the windows, and then they started jumping. I saw two people holding hands.
That’s when Josh turned the television off.
Amelia called. I can’t talk, Wendy told her. We have to keep the line open.
A friend of Josh’s showed up, carrying his trumpet case. I was on my way to give a lesson, he said. I saw it. I wish I hadn’t looked up.
Wendy had never seen Josh like this. He couldn’t say anything.
You must be going crazy, man, the trumpet person said.
She’s just having a hard time getting to a phone, Josh told him.
I bet that’s it.
She was wearing these high-heeled sandals, Josh said. They make her feet hurt but she loves how they go with her new dress.
That’s what it is all right, said the trumpet guy. The phones are just bad. He left quickly.
Kate came over.
Oh, honey, she said. I know your mom’s going to be all right. She’s a dancer. She’d be great at getting down stairs.
Remind me what floor she works on, she said.
Eighty-seven. Finally, something Wendy knew. She felt the smallest comfort, having a fact to tell.
Eighty-seven. That’s good, Kate said. That’s so much better than a hundred and four. If it was me, I’d be tired, but eighty-seven is nothing for your mom.
She almost certainly wasn’t in there anyway, Wendy said. She slept late. She probably hadn’t even got to the building by then.
Or she was voting, Josh said.
Josh went out. Everyone was saying you couldn’t get over the bridge into Manhattan, but he was going to try and check the hospitals.
Wendy fixed Louie a Cup O’ Noodles, which her mom kept on hand for nights when Josh was out playing a gig and he hadn’t gotten around to making them a casserole. Josh called them Cup O’ Nothing, but Louie and their mom thought they were good. He was still hungry after that, so she dumped a pile of raisins on his plate.
Raisins, raisins, raisins, he said. Why does everyone around here keep giving me raisins? I want chocolate chips.
If she could, she would have gone into her room and put a blanket over her head. If there was a place she could have gone, to disappear, or fall asleep for a long time, that’s what she would have done, but Louie kept wanting things. TV. A game, but even Candyland felt too hard.
It’s nap time, she said, even though it wasn’t really. She read him Sylvester and the Magic Pebble and his truck book, but not with her usual expression. Automatic pilot was how Josh would have described it, the way some musicians play when they’ve lost their love of the music. She read him Curious George, his current favorite, but he wasn’t concentrating.
Where is George’s mother anyway, he said? Why doesn’t he have a mother? Why doesn’t the man in the yellow hat have a wife? Is George’s mom a monkey or a person? When is his mother coming back?
Finally he fell asleep, but it was a different kind of sleep from his usual. Wendy lay on the bed next to him for a long time, listening to him breathe. He didn’t wake up or call out, but he kept making little whimpering sounds. Whatever pictures he had in his head, they weren’t good ones. His thumb never left his mouth.
Josh called. No word, she told him. There was a horrible weight just to the sound of his breathing on the other end of the phone, as if even opening his mouth took too much effort.
Where are you? Wendy said. Why d
on’t you come home?
I’m at St. Vincent’s, he told her. There are all these stretchers lined up, but nobody’s on them. The doctors are standing around. He started to cry. The only times she’d heard him cry before were when he and her mom got married and when her brother was born, but both of those times had been happy crying.
The only people they’re bringing in are rescue workers, he said. I keep thinking there’s another place I haven’t found yet, where the rest of the people are.
There’s other hospitals, she said. Though the sick, throwing-up feeling that had been in her stomach since morning was getting worse.
We should have had a meeting spot, he said, Like it was Louie they’d lost track of—a four-year-old, instead of her mother.
Come home, Dad, she said.
She had the television on for a while, but it was the same news over and over, the same terrible footage of the crashes, the first building caving in, then the second. Often, the phone would ring, but the only voice she cared about hearing was never the one on the other end. We have to keep the line open, she said. Her voice had turned flat.
On the television they were interviewing a fireman with blood all over his face. You don’t want to know what it was like, he said. I wish it was me that was in that building, instead of outside watching.
From the doorway, she heard a crying sound—her brother. She could see a wet spot on his pants. He hardly ever had an accident anymore. He was staring at the screen, where the fireman was covering his face in his hands now.
Does God know about this? Louie asked.
Sometime in the night, with Josh still not back, Wendy went into her parents’ room, not looking for anything in particular. Just to touch her mother’s things.
Her mother had made the bed that morning. She had worn the new red dress. The price tags were on the bed, along with a pair of panty hose she must have put on before realizing they had a run.
The Usual Rules Page 4