Years
later, they remembered where they had been. At their desks or in their beds,
indoors or out. Driving, walking, working, alert, or half asleep. Each recalled
momentary confusion. An airplane hit the World Trade Center. Pilot error?
Technical glitch? And then the shock. A second plane. No accident. No mistake.
The flames were real, as everyone could see on television. The Twin Towers
burning, again and again. Bodies falling, again and again. The same towers, and
the same bodies, and the Pentagon in flames. The scenes played constantly, at
one heartbreaking and titillating, their repetition necessary, but also
cheapening. Who, after all, could believe such a catastrophe after just one
viewing? And who, after viewing once, could look away?
[Chapter
27]
… Ash
fell. A fine gray powder covered everything. Ash coated burned-out cars and
traffic lights. Ash infiltrated apartments, graying books and dishes,
smothering house plants, clouding windowsills. Ash smogged streets and soiled
papers, loose and lost, invoices and receipts, canceled checks, business cards,
appointment books, memoranda unremembered. Black dust, black ink, black banner
headlines in The New York Times. Black
articles about firefighters, rescue workers, schoolchildren, orphans. Black border
ads from ExxonMobil, Allstate, Prudential, Home Depot, OppenheimerFunds, Fleet,
Lufthnasa—to our friends in America,
AOL Time Warner, Merrill Lynch. Our hearts
go out to everyone who’s been touched by the tragic events … our through and
prayers … our gratitude for the tireless efforts of the emergency and rescue
workers. Condolences from Israel and Egypt, the city of Berlin, the
Iranian-American community—profoundly saddened,
the Red Cross, the Ministries of New York—we’re
here to pray for you.
Museums
opened free of charge. Oases of deep color: Rothkos, Rembrandts, Egyptian tombs,
Roman glass, iridescent bottles outlasting their perfume. Amulets, silk gowns,
and Grecian urns. Those young girls with parted lips, those haystacks, those
stone angels taking flight, those paintings of fruit and full-blown flowers.
Classical-music
stations broadcast elegies, and listeners stopped what they were doing to hear
Faure’s Requiem or Barber’s Adagio for Strings. To breathe again.
Churches
opened doors for candle-lighting, singing, sermons, vigils. In the name of the
National Cathedral, President Bush said, “We are here in the middle hour of our
grief…” and he told the American people to keep on living, to travel, to attend
the theater, to go out and buy. Alas, buying did not appeal. Only American
flags sold out. Great flags hung from walls and firehouses. Smaller versions
adorned shop windows and front doors. Drivers clipped miniature flags to car
antennae where they fluttered in the breeze.
A flag
was tangible. Its stars and stripes were real, unlike the dot-com bombs of
yesterday. Who remembered those? The upstarts, overhyped and overfunded. When
the Nasdaq reopened on September 17, even Cisco hovered at twelve dollars a
share. Vaporizing into usefulness, online shopping, e-mail, and instant news,
the Internet lost its mystique, and suddenly it was everywhere and nowhere,
like the air. A flag had value …
[Chapter
28]
… By
spring, fewer troopers with dogs and submachine guns stood guard at the
airports. Obituaries and memorial services had tapered off, and flags were
smaller where they still flew. Magazines showcased 9/11 widows and their
families, especially the babies their husbands would never know, but those same
publications featured recipes for easy, breezy outdoor fun, tips for praising
children the right way, and full-page photographs of fruit cobblers, no-bake
desserts, no-sew craft projects, closet makeovers, and illustrations of simple
exercises for those mornings when there was no time to run. Death never died,
but the idea of death receded, as it must.
[Chapter
32]
From The Cookbook Collector by Allegra
Goodman
Thank you, dear reader.