“What happened?” said Natasha, feeling the helpless absurdity of the question. Then, under her breath: “Michael’s there.” No one spoke. They were all staring at the screen. The images were like elements of an awful dream, one that played out impersonally, “witness dreams,” Natasha had always called them, where she saw things in the distance, as if she had just happened upon them in some series of events unwinding in general unconsciousness, a property of night, set to prey on anyone sleeping at that hour. On the television with its pixels and little strands of failed light, doubtless from a cameraman in a helicopter, she saw what she came to realize was a man and a woman standing in the open side of one of the buildings. They were holding hands; you could see that they were holding hands, flames licking up the widely spaced vertical steel ribs on either side of them. They seemed to falter, and then they leaped, and let go of each other, separating and disappearing into the smoke.
Everyone in the lobby of the hotel in far-off Jamaica screamed.
The newswoman went on talking, speaking carefully, slowly, in clipped phrases, inflectionless, concentrating on the smallest details, as a person might think of measurements and minutiae in order to preserve some hold on sanity. And now the camera caught another body hurtling down, that of a man, his suit jacket open to a white shirt and tie. The female newscaster tried to report it. “My God, are you seeing this,” she got out in a tearful voice. A video cameraman from a helicopter hovering near one of the openings made by the planes focused on a woman in light orange slacks and a dark blue blouse standing in the ruin and smoke. She actually appeared calm, so small there in the wide gash with all the destruction behind and around her. She lifted her hand and waved. That simple, forlorn, graceful motion looked almost like a greeting. The mind wouldn’t accept what it really was. She clung to the shattered place at the edge of the opening, leaning out slightly, and then turning, facing into the rubble edge of the wall. When smoke or steam began to come from her whole body, the image abruptly shifted, the cameraman evidently having turned the camera away from what was coming.
As the first tower began to collapse, another cry went up among the people in the lobby, and the young newscaster’s voice carried above it. “I believe there’s been some kind of further explosion. Are you seeing this?”
No one spoke. The crowd gathered in a tighter circle around the screen, another news voice talking about the Pentagon in Washington, D.C., and still the cameras in New York showed the churning ash and smoke, the street-level cameras capturing the panic, people running, the yellowish-brown dust covering everything.
“The whole of southern Manhattan’s coated with this dust now,” said a male voice on the TV.
And Natasha turned to Constance. “Michael’s there. He was talking about going to the top of — he said he was — he was going up to the top of — he was—”
The other woman stared, beginning to comprehend.
Natasha, gasping for breath, felt all the strength go out of her legs. Constance gripped her by the arms. “We don’t know anything definite,” she said. “We don’t know anything. He’s probably not anywhere near it. Natasha, listen to me.”
Crying, Natasha said, “I think he — I can’t — no. No.”
“He’s probably still asleep in the hotel. There’s always a long line down there. And — and listen. I was there a couple of years ago, and I don’t think you can get up to the observation deck until something like ten o’clock. Now, really, honey. I remember that.”
They were both quiet a moment, and they saw the second tower collapse.
“Oh my God,” Constance said. “Those poor people. Those poor, poor people.”
“I have to get home,” Natasha told her, beginning to cry. “Oh, I have to go home. I want to go home.”
3
Faulk rose from the bed and finished dressing, and as he was tying his shoes the phone rang. He thought it might be the hotel desk.
It was Aunt Clara. “You all right?”
“Hey,” he said.
“Where are you?”
“My hotel room.”
“Look out the window.”
“I was just doing that.”
“And you’re all right.”
“Clara?”
“Turn the TV on.”
He reached behind him on the bed to get the remote. “What is it?”
“They’ve hit the World Trade Center.”
The television came to light, and there were the towers, burning. He looked back out the window and saw the spotless sky. “Who hit them.”
“Planes. Extremists. Airliners. Somebody.”
“Airliners?” he said. Then: “Airliners.”
“Where are you?” Clara said.
“Fifty-Fourth Street.”
“You tried calling Natasha?”
“They’ll be out at the beach.”
“Gotta try leaving a message for her.”
“My God,” Faulk said, watching the clip of the second plane hitting.
“They’re saying another one hit the Pentagon.”
He stared at the bloom of fire in the side of tower one being played over and over — the second plane. For a few moments, Aunt Clara just breathed into the phone, and he listened. “Are you okay?” he said.
“I’m all right. But oh, God, how many people—”
“These were passenger planes?”
“Are you looking at it? Planes. Yes.”
As the first tower went down, the newswoman began breathlessly repeating the word incredulous. Faulk, watching it happen, said to Clara, “The building’s collapsing.”
Silence.
“Clara?”
When he understood that the line was dead, he tried once more. Nothing. And no answer at the front desk, either. Hurriedly, he packed his bag and then realized there was nowhere to go. He made another attempt to call Clara, with no success. He tried long distance to Jamaica, got the ring, but the phone simply went on ringing. Sitting at the end of the bed, he waited. No answer. He put the receiver back in its place and then picked it up and punched the number again. Nothing.
There wasn’t anything else to do but watch. He saw the second tower collapse. He tried to pray. At last he made still another attempt to phone Jamaica. Now there was no signal at all. He hung up, and almost immediately it rang. It was his father. “You’re okay,” the old man said almost as though trying to reassure him. “I just talked to Clara.”
“I’m way up on Fifty-Fourth Street. I lost her. The line went dead.”
“That’s what she said. You believe this shit?”
“No.”
“I’d better call her back. She thinks the building you’re in might’ve collapsed because the connection got broken and you were talking about the building collapsing. She was pretty upset. And I told her there wasn’t anything about buildings collapsing uptown. But she couldn’t get through.”
“Tell her I’m okay.”
“When’re you getting out of there?”
“I don’t know yet. Today for sure now if I can. I want to see if I can get hold of Theo.”
“Get on out of there, Son. You don’t know what else they might be planning.”
“I’ll let you know,” Faulk told him.
“I’m gonna tell Clara you’ll be in later today.”
“Yes, do.”
After he hung up, he tried to open the line, but it was dead again. He pushed the buttons down, and there was a dial tone. But nothing happened — nothing interrupted the dial tone.
Downstairs, the lobby was crowded and quiet. People were checking out and checking in as usual. He waited in line with his bag. No one appeared willing to look at anyone else. It was very quiet. He went out to Fifty-Fourth Street. There was a subdued something even in the normal traffic sounds. The sunny sky was unchanged. When he got over to Fifth Avenue, he heard the sirens, and looking south he saw the massive ash-colored cloud. The cloud was bizarrely contained, one spiral-shaped strand extending out from it to great height. He saw clear pale sky above it all.