In the Unlikely Event (33 page)

At school, the boys were excited.

ANGELO VENETTI
(
waving around the special edition of the paper
): No earthly reason. What did I tell you? But they won’t write about the unearthly reasons. They’re scared the aliens will unleash a full attack against us.

PETE WOLF:
Yeah, but is it a plot against America or just a plot against our city?

WINKY HERKOVITZ:
Either way, we’re in deep shit.

DERISH GRAY:
But the mayor says…

WINKY HERKOVITZ:
You’re going to believe him?

DERISH GRAY:
And Newark Airport is closed.

CHARLEY KAMINSKY:
Indefinitely.

ELEANOR:
Robo’s father knew what he was doing moving his family out of town. And just in time, too.

SUZANNE:
How did Robo’s father know?

ELEANOR:
He’s connected.

SUZANNE:
To the aliens?

ELEANOR:
To the mob.

SUZANNE:
This is about the mob?

WINKY HERKOVITZ:
Wake up, Little Suzy. Everything is about the mob.

You should know
, Miri thought, but she didn’t say so. She was willing to bet the kids at Robo’s new school wouldn’t be talking about the latest crash. They’d probably be talking about the latest show at the Paper Mill Playhouse. She felt like lashing out at all of them. She was sick of their stories. If only she could be sure Uncle Henry was right, that the crashes were accidents. But she’d just read a convincing article in
Life
magazine, “Making a Case for Interplanetary Saucers,” that made it all seem possible.

Miri turned and walked away. In a minute Eleanor was by her side. “They’re imbeciles,” she said, nodding toward the boys.

“They’re scared but they won’t admit it,” Miri said.

“We’re all scared,” Eleanor said. “Aren’t we?”

Miri nodded. They were all scared.

“I’m still not convinced it isn’t sabotage.” Eleanor said. “But if it is sabotage I believe your uncle will uncover it.”

Miri was glad to hear Eleanor had confidence in Uncle Henry.

At lunchtime, she ducked out of the cafeteria to call Natalie’s house. She’d called last night before she’d gone to sleep, before any
of them knew their world would be shattered a third time. There hadn’t been any answer, which made no sense. Even if no one else was home there would still be a babysitter for Fern. This time Mrs. Jones answered. “Osners’ residence. Mrs. Jones speaking.” Miri recognized her voice before she identified herself.

“It’s Miri, Mrs. Jones. Can I speak to Natalie or Mrs. Osner?”

“Everyone is out. I don’t know where.”

“Do you know when they’ll be back?”

“Sorry, I don’t. Try them tonight.” Mrs. Jones hung up first.

She called again before dinner. This time she got Steve. When she asked for Natalie, he said, “She’s not here.”

“Where is she?”

“Visiting relatives.”

“What relatives?”

He didn’t answer.

“Are you telling me the truth?”

“No.”

“Let me talk to your mother.”

“Say
please
.”

“May I
please
speak to your mother?”

“Sorry, no can do.” And he hung up.

Then Henry came home with the paper and Miri didn’t call the Osners again.

Elizabeth Daily Post

AIRLINER SMASHES INTO SALEM AVENUE APARTMENTS

Explodes in Yard of Janet Memorial Home Third Crash in 58 Days Brings Closure of Newark Airport

By Henry Ammerman

FEB. 11—Disaster from the sky rained down on Elizabeth for the third time in eight weeks. At 12:20 a.m., a Miami-bound National Airlines four-engine DC-6 taking off from Newark Airport sliced open the roof of a three-story apartment building on Salem Avenue. Spilling fuel as a wing tip ripped off, it set the apartment building ablaze before plunging to the ground and exploding in the playing field of the Janet Memorial Home.

Like a Swollen Cream Puff

Wrapped around the base of a tree was one of the plane’s engines. Hanging like a huge dead leaf from the blackened top of another tree was a jagged piece of silver wreckage. The roof of the apartment building looked as if the plane had taken a gigantic bite out of it. The wreckage of the 101-foot-long aircraft stretched across the recreation field of Janet Memorial, and into Westminster Avenue, all brightly lit by roaring flames that took hours to bring under control. Nearby, silhouetted like a sentinel against the orange-red flames was another engine, one propeller blade pointed skyward.

The plane had broken apart like a swollen cream puff. Lying in Westminster Avenue was the forward section, the tomb of the three pilots. Unlike the two previous crashes, which claimed the lives of all on board, 38 survived this time, some seriously injured, some able to walk away.

Janet Home and Schools Nearby

Twenty-two passengers and three crew members aboard the plane died. Four occupants of the ravaged apartment building perished, three of them from the same family—Irving Zahler, 30, his 27-year-old wife, Marilyn, and their 4-year-old son, Monte. They had recently moved from Newark to the Salem Avenue apartment house, where Mrs. Zahler’s parents live. Her father, distraught, said, “Planes come so low over our place you could make a malted milk from the vibrations.” Mr. Zahler worked at Zahler Brothers Potato Market in Newark.

But the block-long pile of death and destruction providentially spared the 48 children asleep in the Janet Home, virtually next door to the ill-fated apartment house. Only a block away were two schools, Vail-Deane and Pingry, which would have been occupied by hundreds of students a few hours later.

Young Heroes from Janet

Many owe their lives to a group of four boys from the Janet Memorial Home. Led by 16-year-old Mason McKittrick, the teenagers rushed from their building and were the first to offer assistance. Ignoring flames and the threat of further explosion, they pulled survivors out of the wreckage. Setting up an assembly line, they passed the injured to others, who transferred them to safety, many of them laid out on gym mats, awaiting medical attention.

—

MIRI READ HENRY
’
S STORY
, then read it again.
Swollen cream puff?
She’d always thought of cream puffs as soft and sweet. But Henry was using it to describe something hard and horrible. She worried, for a minute, he was losing his mind. Or was it that when something so unimaginable happens you need to find a new way to help people see it?

Elizabeth Daily Post

NO VALENTINE’S WEDDING

BOSTON, FEB. 13 (UPI)—Plans for a Valentine’s Day wedding went awry because a tall bride-to-be has disappeared after leaving a note to her still taller fiancé, and her engagement ring pinned to a pillow. She said she just couldn’t go through with the ceremony.

Walter James Curran, 27, of Philadelphia, waited in a hotel room for some word of his fiancée, Kathleen Lorna Flynn, 23.

The Valentine Day’s wedding scheduled for Thursday was to climax a romance that began at a convention of tall people’s clubs last year in Kansas City. Curran, a strapping six-foot-five engineer, made a radio appeal last night, urging his five-foot-eleven fiancée to return.

Mrs. Barton Flynn said her daughter “simply vanished into thin air” on a shopping trip, after getting out of the family automobile.

23

Miri

Miri tried to imagine what went wrong. What would make Kathleen, the tall bride-to-be, decide at the last minute she didn’t want to marry Walter? Had she come to her senses and realized all they had in common was their height? Did she find him hopelessly boring? Or maybe she wasn’t attracted to him. Maybe she was disgusted by the idea of having sex with him. Maybe she didn’t like the way he smelled or the way he chewed his food or the way he mispronounced certain words. Maybe she never wanted to get married in the first place but her mother told her she’d better find somebody soon or she
was going to wind up an old maid. He could have had a terrible temper or criticized everything she did. Or maybe she loved to dance and he wouldn’t even try. Maybe he drank. Maybe she was in love with someone else. Miri wished she could talk to Kathleen and find out the truth.

—

SHE TRIED
to convince Irene to invite Mason to dinner on Valentine’s Day. “He’s a hero. Everybody says so. Just ask Uncle Henry.”

“He was very brave,” Rusty said, backing up Miri, “rushing into a burning plane and saving the stewardess.”

Miri said, “She’s not the only one he saved.”

“A hero is always welcome at my table,” Irene said.

Miri threw her arms around Irene.

“What?” Irene asked.

“Thank you,” Miri said.

“I’m not inviting him as your boyfriend,” Irene told her. “So don’t go getting any ideas. I’m saying it would be a
shonda
not to include him.”

“Relax, Mama,” Rusty said. “They’re just kids.”

“I remember when I thought
you
were just a kid, Naomi.”

Irene used Rusty’s real name only when she was dead serious. And it always shut Rusty up. She turned and walked out of the kitchen.

Miri felt bad for Rusty that night and went to her room, where she sat on the edge of the bed and held Rusty’s hand. No words were necessary. They both knew what Irene meant even if she hadn’t spelled it out, as if what happened with Mike Monsky was Rusty’s fault. Well, in a way Miri supposed it was. She’d let Mike Monsky trick her into going all the way, hadn’t she? Getting into that Nash with him, a car where the seat actually turned into a bed. She would never go out with a boy who drove a Nash. No boy was going to trick her into doing anything she didn’t want to do. Which made her think, maybe Rusty wanted to do it. Maybe he didn’t have to trick her at all.

She’d learned about the Nash a few years ago when Rusty was teasing Henry about his car. They thought she was asleep. “It’s so
old,” Rusty had said. “And that rumble seat! You can’t make love in a rumble seat.”

“I suppose you think I should get a Nash,” Henry said. “One with a seat that turns into a bed.”

At which point Rusty threw her shoe at Henry. But Henry ducked and laughed.

“I will never get into another Nash as long as I live,” Rusty said. “And neither will my daughter.”

Miri kissed Rusty goodnight, something she didn’t automatically do these days. Rusty gave her such an appreciative look she vowed to be kinder to her mother.

On her way out of Rusty’s room, Miri spied part of a white box tied with a red ribbon, sticking out from under Rusty’s bed. Could it be a gift from Longy? That would be disgusting! Or from Natalie’s cousin Tewky? Even worse. Or wait, maybe it was for
her
. Rusty might have bought her something for Valentine’s Day. Maybe pajamas with hearts, or a set of day-of-the-week underpants. She knew she was way too old for day-of-the-week underpants but she’d always wanted them. Natalie said when she was young she’d never worn hers on the right days.
Too much trouble
. But Fern was obsessive about getting the days of the week right.

—

ON VALENTINE
’
S DAY
the Other Naomi came home from the office with Rusty to join the family for dinner. Miri thought of the Other Naomi as “Miss Rheingold” because she’d been a finalist in the national contest. She lived in a studio apartment in Greenwich Village, a fourth-floor walk-up opening into a tiny kitchenette. Miri and Rusty once spent the night when Miss Rheingold got them tickets to see a production of
Peter Pan
. Miss Rheingold knew the guy who wrote the music and lyrics, Lenny Bernstein. She showed Miri his photo. He was sitting at a piano.
Good-looking, isn’t he?
Miss Rheingold had asked Miri. The photo was signed
To Naomi, Best wishes, Lenny
. Now Miss Rheingold was thirty-one and single. Miri didn’t know about Lenny. But she knew Miss Rheingold’s fiancé had been killed in the war and she swore she’d never fall in love again, though
she wouldn’t mind marrying somebody rich. Miri didn’t understand why Rusty enjoyed spending time with Miss Rheingold, except they were close to the same age and single. All of Rusty’s old friends from Battin High were married and didn’t include her when they threw parties or went out with their husbands on Saturday nights. She was a double threat—too good-looking, and with a reputation for being loose, which she wasn’t. As far as Miri knew she’d never had another boyfriend—not since Mike Monsky got her in trouble. Once a month Rusty spent the night at Miss Rheingold’s apartment and always brought the
Playbill
and theater ticket stub home to Miri.