The Lies That Bind(35)

“No. They’re saying it was an airplane,” Scottie insists, just as Matt starts to speculate about the size of the plane, pointing out that it seems unlikely a small plane could cause so much damage to two sides of the building. Small planes tend to crumple and then fall down, he says.

“Do you think people had a chance to move away from the windows?” Scottie asks. It is the kind of completely speculative question he always asks, whether we’re watching a movie neither of us has ever seen or analyzing a current event like this one.

I’ve learned over the years to humor him, so instead of saying what I’m thinking—which is, How the hell would I know?—I simply say yes and then expound further. “I feel like if you have an office view that high up, your desk would probably be facing the window. So you’d see it coming…I hope.”

    I glance at the time on my VCR, and see that it’s two minutes before nine o’clock. I tell Scottie that most white-collar New Yorkers—the ones who would likely be working on high floors of the World Trade Center—don’t usually get to work before nine, often closer to ten, so different from the Midwest, where people start their day at sunrise.

“Unless they’re traders,” I add, thinking of Grant again, watching smoke continue to pour from the building, the wind blowing it south toward the other tower. It occurs to me that I don’t know exactly where he works—only that he’s downtown somewhere, at a firm that’s a series of WASPy names. I remind myself that there are tons of office buildings in the financial district.

A second later, Katie Couric tells us that reports confirm it was a small commuter plane. I multiply the deaths in my mind, going from single digits in a private propeller plane to double digits in a commuter from, say, New York to DC. Maybe even more, depending on how many people were killed in the building.

I think of Grant again, feeling a sharper stab of worry, but tell myself not to start down that paranoid road. Even if he does work in the World Trade Center, what are the chances that he works on those very floors of that very building? Besides, I doubt he’d be going into work on his first day back, especially when he was at my place so late. There’s just no way, I think, but I still want to call him. Just to hear his voice. Just to make absolutely sure.

I tell Scottie I’ll call him right back—that I want to check on Grant. He reluctantly says okay, as I hang up and dial Grant’s number. It rings, then goes to voicemail. I start to leave him a message, but hang up, and call Scottie back.

“Do you think this could be terrorism?” he asks instead of saying hello.

“Terrorists on a commuter plane? I seriously doubt it,” I say, walking over to the refrigerator, pouring a glass of orange juice. I down it while Scottie keeps up a running morbid monologue, speculating about the number of fatalities and the size of the fire and the likelihood that the elevators would be working and the evacuation plan for the building and how many people could potentially be trapped by flames and whether a helicopter could fly close enough to the windows to save anyone.

    At some point, I tell him to stop, that he’s freaking me out. Then I walk back over to the TV, flip the channel to NY1, our local cable news, and see a different wide-angle view of the towers that appears to be taken from Midtown—maybe the Empire State Building. I listen as a witness describes the “staggering sight” from his office about six blocks away. In a calm but still horrified voice, he says he heard the engine of an airplane that sounded fast and low, like a military jet in an air show; that he is now staring at the hole in the side of the building that appears to be in the vague shape of an airplane, with the other side of the building blown out; that he hopes it is an optical illusion, but that the building now appears to be bending to the west. I relay all of this to Scottie.

“Jesus,” he replies under his breath, as I turn the channel back to NBC to hear yet another witness talking to Katie. She, too, describes an enormous fireball that looked to be three hundred feet across; a three-block cloud of white smoke; hundreds of thousands of pieces of paper floating like confetti; and the area swarmed with emergency vehicles.

I stare at the television, trying to process the scene as I see what appears to be another plane fly into view, on the upper right corner of my screen. “Wait. Do you see that?” I say to Scottie.

“See what?” he asks.

“That plane,” I say. “Flying near the building. On the right of the screen? Or is that a helicopter?”

“I don’t see anything but smoke,” Scottie says, as the shot tightens into a close-up of the hole in the building. From this view, it appears that at least five floors were struck. Maybe more, though it’s hard to have the proper perspective on a building so big and tall.

    A beat later, the woman talking to Katie shouts into the phone, Oh. My. God. Oh! Another one just hit!

I can hear Al Roker gasp while Scottie screams in my ear. I freeze, even holding my breath, as the woman goes on to say that the plane appeared to be a DC-9 or a 747.

“Now do you think this is terrorism?” Scottie demands.

A jolt of fear hits me, but I still force myself to say no, that I bet it’s an air traffic control issue. I think of my dad, so grateful that Southwest never flies into or out of New York, but also remind myself of what he always tells us—that he’s way more likely to crash his car than one of the Boeing 737s in his fleet.