A Book of American Martyrs(154)

Was it a fire? An explosion? Out of nowhere it had seemed to come. I had just glanced out the window and now, I could not look away.

One of the tall towers of the World Trade Center tower was on fire, billowing smoke—it was instantly recognizable though miles away.

Almost sometimes, years later I can see the fire there, in that emptiness—the terrible smoke, like boiling black air. And then, as I was watching, the second plane struck . . .

I would not look away for a long time.

At the time there was only astonishment. This is what I recall—there were no words for what had happened, or was happening, only just astonishment. It was like trying to wake from a dream—I could not comprehend what I was seeing—for it had no end, it was continuous, it would not end for hours, for days.

And the churning air that came up from the explosions, that looked like a cyclone or whirlwind of something like gravel, and smelled so terrible—for a long time. The spell was over all of us . . .

So it happened that your father’s death was somehow part of this. Gus had died approximately one year ten months before the terrorist attack and in all that time I had been grieving for him—in silence mostly. But on that morning there came the catastrophe out of the sky killing thousands of men and women and within a few hours, or a day—a day and a night—my son’s terrible death seemed to fall into place like a waterfall emptying into water . . . My sorrow for Gus came to an end lost in the sorrow of others.

When so many die, a single death is one of these deaths. It is not singular.

Is that a good thing? Or is that terrible, unspeakable?

What “terrorism” means—the end of grief.

The wound is just too great. One limb you might mourn, but all of your limbs torn from you—it is just too much.

That’s the emptiness there, at Ground Zero, Naomi—that you can’t see.

Unfortunately, I can see it.


EACH DAY, the promise that Madelena would reveal something crucial to Naomi about her father.

Each day, the anxious anticipation. Then disappointment, or relief.

She knew: she must not ask. Madelena had warned her months ago in that email. She must not offend Madelena Kein by seeming impatient.

I will speak to you—you will not question me.

There are some things I wish to tell you . . .

She’d been shocked by her grandmother’s remark, that her sorrow for Gus had come to an end.

That was not possible, was it?—an end.


TWO MONTHS BEFORE in November of the previous year she’d received via parcel post a badly battered, much-duct-taped box addressed to Naomi Voorhees. The box was from a former colleague of her father’s with whom he’d worked at a women’s clinic in Grand Rapids in the 1990s.

Inside was a hand-scrawled note: Naomi?—remember me? Whit Smith.

Retiring this month & clearing out my office & files & surprised I had so much of Gus’s things here. I did not want to just toss it out, not even sure what there is here & if valuable to you or not.

Tried to contact Jenna a few times but no luck. “No forwarding address”—hope your mom is OK.

Heard about L.D. execution. Still can’t think about losing Gus without feeling just sick to heart & not feeling so optimistic about the political future frankly in this recession & the right wing campaigning against everything we’ve put in place like Sherman marching to the sea.

Hope you & your brother (Darin?) & sister are OK also. Say hi to your mom for me, will you. Can’t believe it has been seven years since I’ve seen you all.

Naomi had unpacked the box with trembling fingers. A smell of mold lifted to her nostrils. Inside were letters both professional and personal, addressed to Gus Voorhees; documents of all kinds—medical, legal, financial, IRS; printouts, clippings, pocket-sized appointment books, desk calendars, wall calendars . . . An eight-by-twelve frayed manila envelope containing greeting cards—Dear Dr. Voorhees, Thank you for saving my life.

Dear Doctor Voorhees, Thank you. Thank you. God bless you.

Dear Doctor Voorhees, Thank you from the bottom of my heart for all you did for me in my hour of need both before & after. I will never forget you Doctor. I will pray for you all the days of my life. You gave my life back to me. God bless you & keep you.

Inside one of the cards, with a multifoliate rose cover, was a snapshot of an attractive woman with shoulder-length curly hair, smiling earnestly into the camera. Dear Dr. Voorhees THANK YOU!

Your friend Irene.

Were these women who’d had abortions at the Grand Rapids clinic? Naomi supposed so, until she discovered a card embossed with gilt letters THANK YOU! and inside a snapshot of a smiling young woman with an infant in her arms. Thank you Dr. Voorhees for our beautiful blessed little girl we are naming Augusta. Dwight & I will hope to drop by & see you SOON.

Here and there in the box were other snapshots of babies. Some had names and dates on the reverse, others were unmarked, anonymous.

And then there were cards, hand-scrawled private messages—

Gus—Tonight is no good, sorry. E. decided not to drive to the conference after all, he’s taking a plane in the morning. OK? Call?

Love etcetera

Kat

And—Gus darling, I have to drive Carrie to basketball practice & can swing by the office at about 4:00 P.M.—hoping you will be there. Will enter at rear—make sure door unlocked OK? Also hoping J. is all right. That was SCARY.