Hope and Other Punch Lines(48)

“Sometimes it’s called a comic triple,” Jack says.

“Like an Englishman, an Irishman, and a Scotsman all walk into a bar, and then the joke is always on the last person. It wouldn’t be funny if you just had two. Doesn’t work,” I say, realizing we are derailing the conversation and also not caring.

“We’ve tried,” Jack says.

“Right,” Vic says, and looks at us like we are the stupidest people he’s ever met. “In art, though, it’s a storytelling tool. Look at that woman, for example.”

He points to Sheila, who I used to think of as Business Suit Lady and who now has a name and a lovely house I can see in my mind and a dead husband whom I can’t picture but like to imagine was as awesome and funny as she claims.

“Sheila,” I say, and Vic shrugs, like he doesn’t care. Like her name is the least important thing about her.

“See how your eye starts at Baby Hope and then loops around? You look at Sheila and wonder: What is she thinking? Who is she? What happened to her shoes?”

I look at the photograph again, and for the first time, I don’t look straight at the guy in the Michigan hat. I let go of my own questions and consider the work in its entirety. Each person a story woven into a larger whole, not unlike our interviews, come to think of it. This is the inverse of the missing posters. A different kind of collage.

I look at Connie, who I will never get the privilege of meeting in person. I wish I could ask her what it was like to scoop up a baby that was not hers. Were there others she had to leave behind?

“It’s beautiful,” Jack says. “It’s not just a photograph. It’s art. And it’s certainly not neutral.”

I look at it again, this time through Jack’s eyes. A single, ugly moment transformed into something breathtaking. Amazing how it morphs to the viewer. He’s right: it’s not neutral.

What does Abbi see when she looks at it? Does she only see the baby with the balloon, like I only saw the Michigan hat? Or does it feel wholly separate from her? Again, the picture, not the thing.

“Three thousand people died that day. Three thousand. This picture is meant to provoke and to force you to remember. I’m forever surprised by how quickly the world moves on and goes about its business,” Vic says.

Fifteen years. I think about what Raj said, how it feels like a lifetime and also last week.

“It’s a myth, this concept of a before and an after. Every time I see a perfect blue sky, want to know what I really think?” Vic asks. “I think there are only afters and after thats.”





“Stop fidgeting,” Noah says to me while I pose in front of the pink wall. This is, of course, the first stop of the Instagram tour of Oakdale. It’s practically famous, or as famous as a wall can be in a small town in New Jersey.

“Sorry,” I say. If we were touring for social media purposes, we’d next head to the Blue Cow Cafe, where they draw clover designs in their lattes and sell chunky fresh-baked chocolate chip cookies that look way better than they taste. But we are not. We are here at the pink wall because Noah wants to take my picture. Not for Instagram or Snapchat or anyone else. He wants it for when my name pops up on his phone.

Cute, right? So freakin’ cute.

“I can’t see your face,” Noah says. We’ve stopped on the way to meet Jamal Eggers, who I think of as Last Guy on the Right, or sometimes, Glamour Shot. Because considering the context, running for his life, he looks amazing in the Baby Hope photo. His sleeves are rolled up, his shirt is partially opened to reveal a muscly brown chest, and he’s midstride. If we were to give him a thought bubble, it would say I got this.

If I hadn’t brought all the shorthand emotion and sentimentality that comes along with a one-year-old trying to hold on to her red balloon in the middle of a terrorist attack, Jamal might have been the famous one instead.

Actually, it turns out he’s famous anyway, and for way better reasons. He’s a well-known Broadway actor.

“We need to be at that guy’s by four. We’re going to be late,” I say. I’ve spent the last forty-eight hours thinking about the fact that Noah and I have not yet kissed. Wondering how I managed to screw that one up, when everyone knows that going to watch a movie at a boy’s house is total code for hooking up.

I’ve spent an equal amount of time trying to convince myself that I’ve dodged a bullet. I don’t need relationship drama. What I do need are friends. Real friends.

“Okay,” Noah says. He doesn’t move, though. He stands there with his phone in his hand.

“What?” I ask.

“Nothing.”

“Do I have something in my teeth?” I feel small, suddenly, and starkly illuminated against the vast pink background. Usually there are a few other people taking pictures, so there is company among this silliness. The wall feels strangely empty.

Noah walks toward me, still holding his phone like he’s going to take my picture, but with a strange, determined look on his face. For one inexplicable second, I worry he’s going to tackle me.

“Too close,” I say, assuming he’s zooming in for artsy effect, and I cover my face with my hands. He stops when we are less than a foot apart.

He drops the phone into his pocket and reaches up and pulls my hands down so that he is holding them in his.