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Cops shouted "Guys, stop right there!" and the firefighters shouted back,
"Do the right thing! Let us through! Bring the brothers home!" The marchers
passed through metal barricades and got about 30 yards from their holy
ground, assembling next to a bulldozer and a huge crane, where they recited
the Lord's Prayer and then marched off to City Hall, where they sang "God
Bless America" before dispersing. Gorman felt sick over the scuffling.
Firefighters had been national heroes, and now he worried that they had
dirtied their reputation by clashing with their brother cops.
A few days after the firefighters were arrested, Dee Ragusa and her husband,
Vincent, decided that the time for silent grief was over. They had lost a
son in the inferno, Michael Ragusa from Engine 279 in Red Hook, and were
feeling some of the disquiet that enraged Michael's surviving comrades. They
decided to attend a meeting of the newly formed 9-11 Widows and Victims'
Families Association at Marian Fontana's apartment in Brooklyn. Fontana's
husband, David, was among those lost at Brooklyn's Rescue Squad 1. The
Ragusas didn't know anyone at the meeting, but they shared the frustration
in the room. Dee Ragusa was concerned about how the debris is being
processed at Fresh Kills. She unrolled a poster of her son. "See, they have
faces," she said. There was no respect. Tourists were taking pictures at
ground zero. "It punches me in the chest," she said. "And stop saying the
city is getting back to normal. That's not sending the right message."
She leaned forward in her chair, explaining the defiance. "They can't do
anything to us," she says, "because we've lost everything."
Fontana has been fielding telephone messages nonstop from television
producers wanting to do the angry widow story. Now she got another call, and
this one she took. One of her contacts offers to smuggle her into Fresh
Kills at midnight.
In tragedy, there is usually a direct correlation between how close a person
is to it and how soon the pain and horror fade. At Good's group therapy
session on Nov. 15, the psychologist, perhaps like the city, was emerging
from an overpowering sense of sadness and fear. One man started talking
about the fliers of the dead again, and Good sensed that the others wanted
to change the subject. September 11 was still the group's preoccupation, but
less than before. One woman talked about her trip to an art gallery in SoHo
to see the "This is New York" photo exhibit, about 2,000 pictures of the day
and its aftermath. You forget how quickly you forget, she said.
Good could see the change toward the end of the session. A woman talked
about a recent date she had gone on. Nice guy, she said, but there was a
problem. He was a nerd.
A nerd? What's your definition of a nerd? a lawyer in the group asked. Then
he added: "I've always wondered if people think that about me. Does anyone
here think I'm a nerd?"
It was an absurd discussion, but the psychologist was comforted. At least
they had found something new to talk about.
Steve Miller, inspired by the old Harper's book, imagined living with Rhonda
in a quiet town somewhere. She would be taking care of the baby (they would
have one, he was sure) and he would be working at a university. He felt a
sense of excitement, like he was having an epiphany. Perhaps this was a way
out of the trap, another escape, the working world equivalent of his dash
down the trade center stairwell. He went on the Internet and found what he
was looking for: master's programs in library and information sciences. He
ordered a slew of applications to schools outside New York-a survivor
planning to bail.
Shulaika LaCruz never doubted what she loved to do, but now she is without
such options. She will be jobless on Wednesday when her temporary work with
the immigrant aid agency ends. She has no prospects for employment. Before
September 11, she was carefully saving $20 a week for a 14-cup Cuisinart,
her dream. Now such a wish seems foolish. Last week, she spent $71 on baking
supplies: chocolate chips, jellies, flour, sprinkles, cream cheese, paper
molds. "I am a baker," said LaCruz. "It's what I do. It reminds me of
Windows. Of love. Security. And home. Even though it's gone."
Father Ryan, who had memorialized Liam Callahan and counseled Joan, still
had a list of cops and firefighters calling him and asking to see him, and
he kept visiting the trade center site and Fresh Kills. But in November he
felt his mind adjusting to the reality of his changed world. He knew what to
expect now. He saw good things continue to happen, like the firefighters who
rode bicycles up the East Coast to raise money for their brethren at Rescue
5 on Staten Island, and he decided to focus on those things rather than the
evil. With equal parts bemusement and dismay, he took in what he considered
the more bizarre aspects of the consumer myth, like the fundraiser held by
Victoria's Secret models. "Capitalism survives no matter what, though you
wish it could be a little different," he said.
After September 11, his church had overflowed with parishioners seeking
spiritual guidance. Now the masses were back to more modest earlier levels.
It was to be expected, part of the natural rhythm. From his room in the
rectory, the priest looked out at the cemetery and watched the leaves change
colors and then "cling on for dear life to the trees from whence they came."
By Thanksgiving, the leaves had almost all given up the battle to stay
attached.
Kelly Colasanti and her daughter Cara, 4, play at an ice-skating party last
Sunday in Manhattan. Colasanti became a twin towers widow when she lost
husband Chris on Sept. 11. She also has another daughter, baby Lauren. Cary
Conover for The Washington Post
Thanksgiving morning. Little Cara and Lauren Colasanti were sprawled on the
kitchen floor, cutting turkeys out of construction paper, giggling and
yakking away in their sing-song voices. So cute together, Kelly thought,
watching from the counter. These days that involved large gatherings were
hardest for her. She had avoided the Cantor Fitzgerald event in Central Park
in early October because she didn't really feel part of that family. Cantor
was Chris's world, not hers. She had survived her birthday, with her family,
and maybe Thanksgiving wouldn't be so bad. The girls kept her anchored. She
didn't want to be around too many people, yet she could feel herself
drifting off when she was alone. The night before, in her diary, she wrote:
I feel so far away. I feel so far away. I feel like Chris is a memory.
In the afternoon, she drove to her parents' house in Maplewood, where her
siblings and niece and nephews assembled in the living room. At 4 they sat
to eat. Sister Robin next to husband Michael. Sister Kerry next to husband
Rob. Then Jimmy and Jen and mother and dad. "I'm the only widow," Kelly said
to herself.
Matthew, her 5-year-old nephew, stood and announced that it was time for a
game: Everyone say what they're thankful for. My grandkids, said Bob,
Kelly's father. Kelly was relieved when the game stopped well before it
reached her end of the table. No prayers and no family pictures, she had
instructed her mother the night before. Who would want to remember this? She
listened to the talk around her.
What's in the soup . . . Is it ginger? . . . Great sweet potatoes. . . .
Chris would have made this more fun. He would have teased his
brothers-in-law or said something inappropriate to make everyone laugh.
Kelly stood up and walked away from the table, upstairs to her old bedroom,
the one in which she had spent her childhood. She lay down in the dark. "Oh
God, Chris," she said. "This is awful."
Neither a counselor nor a priest could give Bob Senn the answer he wanted:
Why had his life been spared? It was a question that only grew as time
passed. Christine gave him a book called "Angels Everywhere: Miracles and
Messages." He sought meaning in the smallest details. Around the firehouse,
guys confessed that they had dreamed of their dead friends. Senn suggested
that maybe the dreams were a form of communication. "It's not like I'm going
to the mountaintop and shouting hallelujah," he would say. "I just want to
know, why am I alive and what is my purpose?"
Firefighter Bob Senn, eyes seared by heat and ash in the attack but later
healed, planted 400 small American flags with the names of lost comrades in
his front yard as a memorial. Cary Conover for The Washington Post
He rejected the hero myth at every turn. When a neighbor tried to introduce
him to a friend by saying, "This is one of our heroes," Senn told her to
"knock it off." It was a word he didn't like.
Like Kelly Colasanti, Senn dreaded the holidays. He kept imagining Christmas
dinner tables with 3,000 empty place settings. He usually hosted the holiday
season block party on Buckner Avenue, but after September 11, the neighbors
didn't know what to expect. Many were surprised when they found fliers in
their mailboxes a few days after Thanksgiving. They had the unmistakable
mark of Bobby Senn. "Although some of you have jumped on the warm weather as
an opportunity to hang out your outdoor decorations, for the second year we
would like to invite you down at 9:45 a.m. to 9 Buckner for some morning
coffee and doughnuts."
Senn had ordered 400 small American flags from a novelty company. He spent
three days painstakingly writing the name of a firefighter or police officer
on every flag. After the coffee and doughnuts were finished, the neighbors
dispersed to their houses to begin stringing lights. Senn went out to his
yard and got to work. He planted each flag 18 inches apart, creating his own
memorial. On the seventh row from the end, fourth from the left, stood a
flag with the name Liam Callahan.
Take time for yourself, people kept telling Joan Callahan, and it was with
that tape playing in her mind that she decided to leave last Monday with a
sister for a week's vacation in Hawaii. It was another goodwill gift, all
expenses paid by the tourist industry in Hawaii. About 600 other police and
fire widows took the offer, including Marian Fontana, who left after
sneaking into the Fresh Kills dump and writing an excoriating e-mail about
what she saw and then meeting with Giuliani. Some widows said they simply
were not ready to leave their children. Martha Butler, with three children
under the age of 6, went to a Long Island mall instead but had to leave
after seeing all those "daddies holding their children's hands."
Joan vacillated for a few weeks. She had just written her sister into her
will as the guardian of the four children. The kids wanted her to go. The
girls and little James would stay with friends. Brian could handle it alone
at the house. He especially urged her not to feel guilty.
Brian had been doing his own soul-searching. One night he and friends went
to the AMC theater, where he works as a supervisor 16 hours a week, to watch
the film "Life as a House." It stars Kevin Kline as a dying man trying to
reconcile with his son. There was no reconciliation necessary between Liam
and Brian. He revered his father, but still the issues in the movie set him
thinking about his family and his life. When the show was over, he went over
to his friend Diana's house and talked until 1 in the morning. There were
things inside that he wanted to say, not clear thoughts but intense feelings
of confusion. Why could he have a normal day and go to school and wrestling
practice and feel fine, and then come home and see his mom or his sisters
having a rough day? And then, other days, why did it hit him so hard? He
didn't have answers.
Last weekend, he went on a retreat in Newton and helped a team of seniors
lead sessions of Search for Christian Maturity. He put a lot of effort into
the weekend and learned a lesson for his life. Things can be hard, but if
you keep working at it, you will get something worthwhile. Keep going. His
dad had lost his father when he was only 13. Brian could go on.
The most intense part of the retreat came during an offertory at which the
young men and women were asked to sacrifice something that meant the most to
them. Brian offered one of the bookmarks with his father's face on them that
were handed out at the memorial service. And he also gave up a letter that
he had written to his father hours before. In the letter, he told his father
how much he missed him.
One night he dreamed three times that his father came back. The first time,
he "freaked out" and began shouting, "You're home! You're home!" But then
the vision of his dad told him firmly, no. Brian went back to sleep, and
there came his dad again, doing stuff around the house, but every time Brian
asked him whether he was home, if this was real, his dad would say no. He
needed his father, he wrote in the letter. At times when he most needed
advice, he was overcome by the realization that he could not go to his dad
anymore.
He had been arguing more with his mother, not in a mean way but out of a
sense that she didn't understand his needs. In the past, in similar
situations, his dad would always say, "Look, I'm a friend of the child," and
sit and listen to all sides. "You can't talk to your mother," Liam might
say. "I know. I've known her for 20 years, Brian." And then he would calm
Brian down and tell him how to deal with it. That is what Liam Callahan did
for his son. "I love you. I miss you. I'm proud of you," Brian closed his
letter. That night, it was burned in the fire with the rest of the
offerings.
Fresh Kills, derived from the Dutch for "new channels," but in its recent
context, it has taken on a macabre redefinition. According to the NYPD
inspectors who run the recovery operation, more than 2,550 body parts have
been found there since September 15. A badly disfigured body was discovered
last Wednesday morning. There have been 34 positive identifications of trade
center victims. The fire widows and their supporters consider that a
shocking number-too high in a sense, since they would prefer that all
sifting be done at the twin towers site, yet also too low, since they
believe the work on Staten Island is haphazard. During her undercover visit,
Marian Fontana said she saw a boot lying in the mud.
The cops in charge argue that the dispute is largely a case of emotional
misunderstanding. They say that more than 270 detectives have been working
the site in those white suits, day and night, examining the conveyor belts,
working the Raking Fields. They chased the sea gulls away with fireworks
shot from guns. They claim to have seen no insects or rodents. They say they
are trying to give the ground the dignity the fire widows believe it so
sorely lacks.
Heroes clash at Fresh Kills, and versions of the myth collide. When Father
Ryan visited one evening last week, he strolled the darkening moonscape
until he came across a stand of Christmas trees, brightly lit and rising
from planters that had been taken from the World Trade Center. "I see this
as an act of defiance," he said. On the ground outside the FBI hut sits the
battered engine from American Flight 11, the first plane that struck
September 11. Nearby is part of the landing gear.
A few hundred yards away, down past the Raking Fields and the conveyor belts
and the piles of twisted steel comes the most haunting sight of all, row
upon row of firetrucks crushed and burned. At first, even after reaching the
graveyard, many arrived with their red emergency lights still turning, but
no more. Embedded into some rigs are documents from Goldman Sachs or
PaineWebber, litter that fell from the towers when the planes hit and the
buildings collapsed. The trucks, once polished so methodically-Engine 270,
Rescue 2, Haz-Mat 5, Engine 132-sit on this faraway hill and rust away,
their FDNY emblems cooked off from the heat of an unimaginable fire.
Down below the mound, at the end of a road that leads to the shoreline, the
Department of Sanitation barges keeping coming, each able to hold 650 tons.
D.S. 145 has just pushed away. D.S. 156 is next in line. D.S. 123 can be
seen nudging slowly out of the watery shadows, having made its way down the
Hudson and past the Statue of Liberty. At the dock sits D.S. 14, shuddering
as a giant blue crane, primeval and frightening, aches and roars and
screeches and opens its claws to snatch another load from the lost
civilization.
© 2001 The Washington Post Company |
