Absent Friends (5 page)

M
ARIAN
'
S
S
TORY

Chapter 1

The Man Who Sat by the Door

October 30, 2001

The catastrophic force of the earthquake that would be summoned up by Harry Randall's death was not at first apparent to Marian Gallagher. All the news brought her was a disquietude such as she might have felt at faint tremblings of the ground: vibrations so weak they could be dismissed as the inventions of an anxious imagination, except by those who had passed through such times before.

The breathless last to join a cheery group of friends around a bistro table—Marian had many groups of friends—she was kissed and greeted, her wine was poured, the olives and the bread were passed her way. How are you, honey, Clark asked, and Sue, always knowing what meant the most, asked how that young firefighter was, her godson, the one who was hurt, the one the story in the paper was about? Kevin, replied Marian; he's doing very well, we're very grateful. Tomiko asked how her day had gone, how many forms she'd filled out for people (
in,
Sam said, you fill forms
in
), was it still as hard as in the beginning, working with the victims?

Marian smiled and said, Oh no, but she wasn't working with the families, those were the volunteers with the really hard jobs, she didn't know how they did it. She tasted the wine, a dry chardonnay, and nodded approvingly. Her clients were the businesses, she told them, the stores, the offices, the take-outs, and the delis. Some of them had given so much, you know that one locksmith opened his shop and told the rescue workers, Just take what you need. And now everything was gone. Everything! And the restaurants had been feeding the rescue workers, and people had donated water, breathing masks, whatever they had, people had given whatever they had. It was wonderful, now, to be able to really
do
something for
them.

Sam reached around the table and topped off people's wineglasses. Katie asked Tomiko how the baby was. Ulrich, as usual serious about the menu, recommended that people try the mussels, they were exceptional the last time he was here, although of course that was before, but that shouldn't make a difference, should it, now that they'd reopened? Sue picked up a story she'd been telling Jeana; Marian overheard something about cell phones, being connected into some stranger's call because the lines were all still so weird downtown.

“Everything all right back at the office?” Sam asked quietly, just making sure; he'd left for meetings of his own long before Marian had gone to hers. Marian smiled and nodded. “I wish we had more phones, though.” Sam shrugged agreement, brought the wine back to her. Everyone in Lower Manhattan wished they had phones. The MANY Foundation's office was luckier than most: two weeks ago, one of their six lines had been restored.

They nibbled on bread and olives; they sipped their wine. Around the table people's faces were glowing, as they leaned forward to hear one another better, as they nodded and laughed. This was not the wine, Marian thought, not the candles. This glow—she could feel it in her own smile as she watched her friends—was the light of what used to be a simple pleasure: ending a day of hard work with good food and good friends.

By the time the waiter came to take their orders—Marian had decided on the rigatoni with goat cheese and three varieties of mushrooms—no one had yet mentioned the Fund. No one had asked Marian if there were new developments, what would happen to the money if the allegations in yesterday's
Tribune
article turned out to be true.

Eventually someone would bring it up. This was the sort of juicy story that would have been irresistible when gossip was fun. No one had the heart for gossip now. But Marian was entwined in this story—much more than they knew—so someone was bound to bring it up. When they did, she would answer as honestly as she could, because these were her friends.

Marian listened to the talk around her and told herself she was glad that, for the time being, no one was asking. She told herself that their silence on this subject betokened nothing other than courtesy, an unwillingness to bring up what was sure to be a difficult subject, for her, their friend. She buttered bread with quick impatient strokes as she scolded herself for imagining that Ulrich, the most morally strident of them, had avoided her eyes since she'd sat down.

And she hoped that, when finally the topic came up, Sam would remain calm. It would only serve to make everyone uncomfortable if he exploded here the way he had in the office yesterday when the third
Tribune
article ran. Sipping her wine, Marian watched him. He and Clark were leaning toward each other, both talking at once, Clark shaking his head and laughing, Sam's hands in constant motion as he sketched out his points in the air. Sam caught Marian's eye, gave her a quick, private smile, said something in answer to Clark, and sliced at the air again.

For some time now Marian had been seeing younger men. She had been surprised to find herself drawn to the first one: Frank, a field director for Human Rights Watch. The difference in their ages was not so very great, but enough: Marian by then had roots, commitments, the quiet consolation of expected rhythms. Frank was like a dancing flame. He sought, incessantly, new things to illuminate and to feed on. When he was transferred to Prague, she had been relieved. And then two months later she found herself sitting over martinis with a Japanese video artist even younger than Frank.

The young men suited her in many ways. They had passion, they were tireless, in bed and in the world. Not yet weary, they saw the good in people, as Marian did, and also still had hopes (as Marian wished to have, but some days it was difficult) of helping it to blossom. Because they valued Marian's experience and fulsomeness, they were flattered by her attention, which flattered her in return.

And they were willing to move on. No matter their protests, their broken hearts, and their promises, Marian knew they would begin to forget her as soon as the door had closed. Their need to be lightly connected suited her. It eased the burden of guilt she would otherwise feel as her joy in and desire for each new lover bloomed, flowered, and faded. It always did; it always would. She had come to accept that. No new love was able to last through the seasons in a heart like hers; none could become established where the roots of her first love ran so deep and its branches spread so wide.

What had been between Marian and Sam had ended long ago, but the friendship that had started before and continued after seemed to Marian stronger, like a rosebush once the extraneous growth has been pruned away. She'd approached the start of their affair tentatively: Sam worked for MANY, and it had been new for Marian, poaching on her own preserve. But she'd judged Sam capable of handling the situation—its beginning, its middle, and its inevitable end—and she'd been correct. About character, Marian was rarely wrong. While others marveled at her unerring intuition, Marian understood her skill to be that of an overcompensating athlete injured when young, now running marathons even though—or because—she'd thought she'd never walk again.

Marian was grateful for Sam, for his daily, practical presence in the office, for his willingness to stay friends. Still, when the Fund came up, she hoped he would be calm. In this circle of friends, she would be embarrassed by any attempt at rescue.

A month ago, when this same group had come together for dinner, the first time some of them had seen the others since the attacks, the first time they had been together as a group, someone had asked about the Fund. Jeana, it was; she'd read about the establishment of the McCaffery Fund in the
Tribune
the day before, and she'd wondered why, with all Marian had to do, had she taken it on, this McCaffery thing? Marian answered, simply, to help, because they'd asked her. Didn't you know him, that firefighter? Katie asked. Oh, well, he was famous, Marian said.

Marian knew many famous people. She never dropped names, but when Tomiko had had trouble with her work visa last year, Marian had called someone in a senator's office; and Ulrich's pictures would not be in the permanent collection at MOMA if he had not met MOMA's photography curator over dinner at Marian's loft. The fallen firefighter in whose name this fund was established had been notoriously publicity-shy but famous for daredevil heroic deeds nonetheless; it stood to reason, then, that Marian knew him.

But though Marian did not expect to get through the evening without mention of the Fund, or of Jimmy, she was completely blindsided by the question that actually came.

She was removing an olive pit discreetly to a bread plate when Clark asked what about that guy Randall, it was on the evening news, that was that guy, wasn't it, and what the hell happened? But Marian had been in meetings all afternoon, she hadn't heard the news, and it seemed Sam had not, either: Which guy, what do you mean what happened? Everyone filled them in, slapping facts down as though in a friendly cutthroat game of hearts: midmorning, on the Verrazano—the inbound side, he must have been on Staten Island—not many other cars around; so far no note, no idea why—or else they just weren't saying; left his car keys behind, and his wallet, they say most jumpers do that,
why,
for God's sake? until someone—Sue—focused in on Marian's silence, on her wide eyes. “But, honey, you hate him,” Sue said, half question, half reminder. Marian drank her chardonnay in an attempt to refloat her heart, which seemed to have suddenly run aground.

“Hate,” Marian repeated, holding her wineglass by the delicate stem. “I guess. But there's just been so much death. . . .”

In the rustling forest of talk around them, in the clinking of dinnerware and the teasing and laughter, a withering drought of silence descended on their table. Marian, her stomach clenching, said, “Oh no, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to bring you guys down. Look, just give me a minute. I'll be right back.” She stood, dropped her napkin on her chair, hurried from the table, but not before she stopped to smile at Sam and answer his “Are you okay?” with an unwavering “Of course.” Then she headed for the ladies' room, up front by the bar; but once close, she slipped past it, out onto the street.

The night was warm; Marian was wearing a jacket of loose-woven cotton and needed nothing else. She stood at the end of the narrow street, waiting to cross the highway. The traffic seemed normal, it seemed almost like before. Two weeks ago the city had begun to allow even trucks downtown again, and the perimeter was pulled in a little every few days.

When the light changed, Marian crossed to the river. The scent of salt water overwhelmed the faint, astringent odor from Ground Zero, the odor of cars and furniture, papers, family photographs, clothing and its owners, jet fuel still smoldering underground.

The river flowed smoothly; an ocean smell this strong meant the tide was pushing the water north, and a barge moved that way, too, placidly allowing itself to be towed by a hardworking tug with yellow lights glowing in its cabin. On the day of the attacks, the squat and ugly tugboats, along with lumbering ferries and sleek commuter launches and polished yachts, had rushed to the shores of Lower Manhattan and swept dust-caked survivors across the river. The boats had worked tirelessly, into the night.

In the following days, though, river traffic had been halted. Unneeded and forlorn, the tugs had stayed bound at their moorings. Marian, her office building too close to Ground Zero to reopen right away—the cleanup, the air tests, must come first—had taken her coffee to the river each morning; standing there, she'd watched the tugs pull halfheartedly on their ropes, as the tide shifted. So much to be done, no way to do it. But now traffic on the river was moving again, and the tugs were needed. Marian imagined them joyously leaning their shoulders into their work.

She thought of Sally, and then of Kevin. Did they know about Harry Randall's death, had they heard? She was hit with a strange thought, a terrible thing to think, but she was thinking it before she could stop herself: most deaths came too soon (and this was a theme of meditation on the September 11 deaths, because so many of the lost were young professionals, young office workers, young firefighters, young cops), but this death, the death of this reporter, had come too late.

With determination Marian turned her mind from that idea. She did not want to wish anyone ill, not even this man who had so disturbed the ravaged earth just as people were attempting, warily, to find footing again.

But her thoughts, pushed away from Harry Randall and not easily managed in this uneasy time, swung back to the missing and the lost. Many were young, yes; but not all. Jimmy had been forty-six.

In Marian's most insistent, most difficult memory, they were both twenty-four. Jimmy stood with her on the rocks under the bridge. Dazzling spring sunlight streamed over them. She knew, had known for some time, that things were not right with Jimmy. Still, she was stunned, unable to speak, even to ask, as he folded his hands on hers, held her eyes with his, and told her goodbye.