The Lies That Bind(38)

“What number is this?” I ask her.

    “Jake’s cell,” she says, referring to one of our colleagues. “Mine’s not getting a signal.”

“Mine either,” I say.

“Yeah. A lot of cell masts are…were…on top of the North Tower,” she says. “I’m surprised the television signals are working at all….Anyway, we stopped at his apartment to get his camera. We’re headed your way.”

“My way?”

“Yeah. Downtown.”

“To the World Trade Center?” I ask, realizing with a fresh sickening wave that the towers no longer exist. That our skyline—one I knew long before I’d ever seen New York in person—is no more.

“We’re going to see how close we can get,” Jasmine says, like the insanely brave reporter she is. “But I heard everything’s evacuated south of Canal Street…and Port Authority’s closed all the bridges and tunnels.”

“What about the subways?” I ask.

“Spotty, I think,” she says. “Some lines are definitely closed. I think we’ll probably end up walking. Talk to people along the way. Do you want to come with us? Or are you too sick? You sound like shit.”

“I sound worse than I am,” I say, having actually forgotten that I’m sick.

“So do you want to come? Meet us in Union Square?”

I think of my mother, remembering my promise to stay put. I also think of Grant, not wanting to be away from my home line in case he tries to call. But Jasmine is my friend, and I am a reporter, and this is my city. This is our country. So in a shaky voice, I tell her yes, I’ll be there as soon as I can.





Thirty minutes later, I am standing in the middle of Union Square. It is desolate, just like all the blocks along the way. I hear the whine of sirens in the distance, but otherwise the city is eerily quiet and still. There is no traffic, no hustle and bustle, and instead of the usual feeling of anonymity and being “lost in a crowd,” there is a weird, raw intimacy. Strangers make eye contact, a hundred words passing in each horrified glance. Across the square, two girls are hugging and crying.

I sit on a bench, waiting, aching. I look up. The sky is still blue, and there is no sign of death or dust in the air. Not even a trace of smoke. I feel a breeze on my face and remember the images on my television, the way the wind was blowing the smoke toward the harbor and Brooklyn.

Jake and Jasmine finally appear with their backpacks and cameras and notepads. As they near the bench, I can see that Jasmine is wearing an I VOTED sticker; I’d forgotten all about the primary election today. I rush toward them and hug them both. It occurs to me that Jasmine isn’t ordinarily a hugger, but she’s the one holding on the tightest.

“Sorry it took us so long. We had to walk. The subways are shut down now,” she says.

“All the lines?” I say.

    She nods, as Jake walks off toward the girls across the square, one of them now sobbing loud enough for us to hear.

“Can you believe this shit?” Jasmine says, shaking her head, shielding her eyes from the sun as she looks skyward.

“No,” I say, following her gaze. “I really can’t.”

“What did they tell you at work?” I ask.

“Jerry’s on vacation,” she says, referring to our assignment editor.

“Oh, that’s right.”

“But we had a conference call, and went through some story angles….He told us to just get down as close as we safely can. Talk to people. Take pictures.” She bites her thumbnail—a habit she’s been trying to break for years, and likely won’t be conquering anytime soon. “Jake thinks we should hit the hospitals…and the blood banks. And police and fire stations,” she says as he returns.

We briefly come up with a game plan, then start walking west and south in the direction of the World Trade Center. What was once the World Trade Center. About three blocks later, the burning smell hits us all at once. It is smoke, but mixed with the stench of chemicals. Melting plastic. And something else, too. Something unspeakable.

By the time we reach Seventh Avenue, we can actually see the smoke, and it’s getting harder to breathe. Jake suggests that we pick up some masks at Duane Reade, and I agree, thinking of yet another story angle. How our local news channel at home always covered the stores before a blizzard, bread and milk flying from the shelves. “We should talk to as many local shop owners as we can,” I say.

Jasmine agrees. All of us are now in reporter mode, gathering facts, taking notes and photos and testimonials from everyone we can.

Every story is about people. I keep hearing my favorite professor’s words in my ears. Never has his statement been more true, I think, just seeing the fear and grief and shock etched on the faces of everyone we pass. As we near Canal Street, the chaos, confusion, and noise grow, along with the number of emergency vehicles, police, and people. Throngs of pedestrians are walking, running, pushing strollers, riding bikes, limping in the opposite direction from us. Some are calm and stoic; others are hysterical or weeping. There are too many images to process, all of them disturbing in their own ways, but the most heartbreaking to me is a teenage boy standing on the corner, holding up a photograph of a woman. I know who she is to him even before Jasmine gently asks the question.