S Rozan - Absent Friends

Marian and her staff had cleaned for three days, resolutely discarding what they could not save. They had scrubbed and vacuumed floors and furniture, dusted the books in their extensive library, the photographs on their walls. They bought new file folders and computer keyboards, new potted plants to replace withered, choked foliage they had raised from cuttings, been given as gifts. They did all their purchasing downtown, using their dollars to help their struggling neighbors. In this determined, unfaltering renewal, Marian approved expenses without a second glance and did not look behind her as treasured, unsalvageable objects were carted away.

All that had been four weeks ago. Now the MANY offices were humming again. Work, that secular savior, proceeded as devoutly as before. The MANY Foundation and Marian in particular were in a position to rise to this terrible occasion.

“I'm extremely grateful; in all this disaster I've been very fortunate, very blessed,” Marian had said at the press conference announcing the formation of the Downtown Redevelopment Advisory Council (a press conference she had been asked to organize, because her contacts were so good and-in those days, before the carefully worded innuendo, the well-tended nightshade, of Harry Randall's article-her credibility was so high). “I appreciate the opportunity to give something back by working for the rebuilding effort. This is a very challenging time for all of us. What happens downtown now is profoundly important. I welcome the chance to contribute. I'm eager to help in any way I can.”

She had smiled and stepped away from the microphone, careful not to talk too long, making sure to share the spotlight with the other Council members gathered there.

She'd gone on, then, to add the responsibilities of serving on the Downtown Council, and a few days later those of heading the McCaffery Fund, to a workload already the amazement of her friends. Where did she get the energy, they marveled, the strength? Marian replied that she felt not burdened but privileged; did not feel put-upon but rather was anxious to do her part as so many others were doing theirs. As so many had died doing. Working late into the evening? What was that against the price so many people had paid?

Yes, Marian was relieved. She was happy to have valuable, useful work to do. She came to the office every day feeling, as she had said, lucky and blessed.

Except that when she opened the door, there was no magic.

September 11, 1978: The Girls (Marian)

Marian is Jimmy's, and Jimmy is hers, though what that means to each may not be the same. Marian knows this, and Jimmy has not asked her to marry him, not yet. But that Jimmy is what she wants Marian has always known.

Eight years old: the stray dog the kids have been feeding since Marian found him (a secret from their parents; they've named him King) is sneaking from one backyard to another. He gets stuck under a chain-link fence. The more he tries to wriggle out, the more caught he gets. He's whining; he's bleeding. Marian tries to talk to him, softly, to make him not so scared, so someone can help him, but King just growls at her. He barks, snaps at Markie when Markie tries to go up close to him, but then he looks at them so sadly. No one thought Markie could really help, not Markie, but he went right up there, like he could be the hero, maybe, this time. Tom, Tom is thinking: Stay back! he tells them. If the dog barks too loud, someone will find him. “Someone” means a grown-up, of course. A grown-up could free King-these kids are still young, grown-ups can do anything-but a grown-up, the kids are stone certain, will take him to the pound and leave him there all by himself.

But the kids know what to do: Jack runs for Jimmy. They all watch Jimmy jog up, stop, and stand still. Marian's crying, but she wipes her eyes. Jimmy looks, taking it all in. The kids are quiet, and they wait, even Jack, who never waits. Finally Jimmy walks to King, squats down; King growls. Jimmy grins, and now he does say something, something to the dog. None of them hears.

Jimmy reaches slowly, maybe so he won't scare King. He grips the chain-link, grunts as he lifts. King yelps, howls, writhes; he barks at Jimmy, a desperate warning, but Jimmy ignores it. King barks once more, then clamps his jaws on Jimmy's bare arm. Jimmy shouts, but he doesn't stop lifting.

Then King is free, Jimmy and King rolling on the ground in dust, in growling and yelling, until Jimmy yanks his arm up and King darts away. A lot of noise now, the dog, the kids; and Mrs. Molloy, Tom and Jack's mom-the closest house-comes running out. Mrs. Molloy scoops Jimmy up, rushes him into her kitchen, wraps his arm in a towel while she calls his dad. The kids all crowd into the kitchen, watching, silent. Marian and Sally and Vicky press close together. Mrs. Molloy smiles at Jimmy while she holds the towel tight, and even though her smile is sad the way it always is, it still makes the kids less scared.

Mrs. Molloy doesn't kick them out, in fact she tells Jack, Why don't you give everybody cookies? And Jack does, grinning at the girls like it's a party. Mrs. Molloy acts like it's no big deal, Jimmy's arm is turning her towel red. The kids' hearts all slow down, stop pounding so hard, and nobody cries.

Jimmy's dad takes him to the hospital. He needs twelve stitches in that arm, Jimmy, and he does the damnedest thing. He tells his dad it was the Cooleys' funny black dog from down the street that bit him. Tells him he was throwing sticks for it, and the dog, well, it just got a little carried away. My fault, Jimmy says. Why say this? Because the Cooleys' dog has tags, the Cooleys' dog had its rabies shots. You tell someone a stray dog bit you, they hunt it, they catch it, they kill it to see if it gave you rabies: all the kids know. Jimmy tells the kids, King tore up my arm while I'm trying to help him, now they're gonna kill him, like it's for me ? No way.

Tom smiles when Jimmy tells them this, says, Jimmy, that's a lie, you told your dad a lie.

Jimmy says, Yeah, and I sure hope he doesn't ask me anything else about it, because I'm gonna get it all screwed up.

So all the kids wait to see if Jimmy starts to foam at the mouth, but he doesn't, so everything's all right.

And from then to now, Marian's in love.

Marian will wait for Jimmy; Jimmy will ask her when he's ready.

Marian's happy.

October 31, 2001

Marian stepped to the reception desk. She smiled and greeted Elena, careful to ask after her family.

“Mama was supposed to go back to San Juan yesterday, but Aunt Pilar cried and cried,” Elena told her. “So she stayed.” Elena's cousin had been an electrician, working in the south tower.

“Tell your aunt she's in my prayers.”

“Thank you. She'll like that.”

Marian took the message slips Elena handed her and said nothing else. She'd given Elena the names of three grief counselors, two of them Spanish-speaking. She wished Elena's aunt would call someone and get some help: grief was an easier burden if not carried alone. But Marian knew better than to try to push people to do what was best for them. She tried to take lessons from life-how else to keep from despairing?-and she liked to think she had many years ago learned that one.

She walked down the short corridor to her own office thinking of Elena's aunt, Mrs. Padilla, whom she'd met half a dozen years before at Elena's wedding. She thought of all the prayers, her own and others', rising as the smoke rose, climbing toward Heaven on behalf of Elena's cousin, on behalf of so many people. Marian had indeed been praying for Elena's cousin, and for the sons and sisters of the small number of people she knew personally who had lost loved ones. And for all the people she did not know, and especially all the people who might not have anyone to pray for them.