Ten Years Later (23 page)

Ron says both sides of the family were remarkable in their support. Ruth frequently
flew in from Boston to help and sent countless care packages for Monica as she grew
up and grew stronger. After several years, Monica’s health improved and she no longer
was in danger.

In September of 1994, it was Ruth’s turn to marry. She wed David McCourt, who was
introduced to her by mutual friends. She sold her business and moved to New London,
Connecticut, David’s hometown. Three years later, Ruth gave birth to a daughter, Juliana.
Ruth selected her best friend, Paige, as Juliana’s godmother. For Juliana, she chose
the middle name “Valentine,” the first name of Ron and Ruth’s father, who died suddenly
several days before Ruth’s wedding. The two had shared a special bond.

“Dad called Ruth his Strawberry Blonde.” Ron chuckles. “My brothers told me in the
weeks before Ruth would go back to Ireland for vacation, Dad would put this Grecian
Formula in his hair”—Ron pretends to use a comb—“to look good for Ruth!”

Ruth, Ron, and the two other brothers spent their busy adult lives growing businesses
and raising children. With both their father and brother deceased, everyone did their
best to stay connected and to gather for vacations and holidays. Ron describes Ruth
as “the glue”; she sent plane tickets to family when needed and remembered every birthday.
Each autumn, Ruth would send a packet of fall leaves to John, Ron, and Mark, with
a note saying it was time to reflect on their lives.

“There’s an old Irish adage that says, ‘The Irish guy
nearly
told his wife he loved her.’ ” Ron laughs and repeats it with a “
neeeearly.
” “Ruth showed us what love was and how to express love. We talked about love and
the poetry of life. She had a very deep sense of love and caring.”

In the fall of 2001, Ron heard from Ruth that she’d planned yet another fun getaway
with Paige and his now four-year-old niece.
Their plan was to fly to California to see friends and to surprise Juliana with a
visit to Disneyland.

Days earlier, Ron had spoken with Ruth by phone about an important work meeting he
had scheduled in New York City for Tuesday, September 11. He was at home in New Jersey;
she was at home in Connecticut, getting ready for her mini vacation on the West Coast.
Always the loving cheerleader, Ruth advised Ron to dress for success.

“Ruth told me to wear a bright tie. She told me to wear a bright yellow tie to this
meeting,” Ron recalls.

As always, Ron heeded his sister’s advice. He bought a yellow tie and a new suit.
A software executive, Ron’s goal for the breakfast meeting was to bring together two
rival companies.

“I got a call around six o’clock in the morning,” Ron says, “saying the meeting was
moved from the midtown Marriott to the Marriott World Trade Center. That excited me
because it gave me a chance to take the ferry over from home, take a deep breath,
and enjoy the lovely morning.”

It was an important day both professionally and personally. Ron wanted the meeting
to go well, and quickly, so he could get back home to celebrate his daughter’s “golden
birthday.” Monica was turning eleven on the eleventh of September.

At eight thirty
A.M
., Ron arrived at the Marriott hotel, nestled between the Twin Towers. With half an
hour to spare, he walked from the hotel into the lobby of the World Trade Center.
Having studied architecture in college and worked for the housing authority, Ron was
always interested in absorbing the dramatic details of a structure.

“I was just walking around the lobby,” says Ron. “I was always amazed by how high
the arches were and the spans these windows had gained with such a high building.”

Fifteen minutes later, as Ron casually walked back into the hotel lobby, his world
was literally rocked.

“There was a boom. And I could smell what I thought was paraffin, kerosene,” Ron describes,
both palms waving toward his nose. “I didn’t put it together that it was aviation
fuel. I just thought it must have been a ruptured pipe in the basement or something.
The building shook, and there was a haze, and people were running. There was chaos.”

Ron says no one could gauge what had happened. The lobby was thick with smoke, ash,
and confusion.

“All of the sudden, out of the haze, I saw this woman who was extremely badly burned”—Ron
squints—“but I couldn’t figure out why she was burned or how she was burned. She couldn’t
see, and I just said, ‘C’mon, let me help you.’ ”

The injured woman was thirty-eight-year-old Jennieann Maffeo, a computer analyst with
Paine Webber. She’d stumbled in from the street through the revolving doors of the
hotel after being showered with burning aviation fuel as she waited for a bus.

“I remember she had a barrette in her hair and it was melted in,” Ron says, touching
the top of his head, “and she had a zipper on her sweater and it was melted, too.
And the tops of her shoes were burned off.”

Ron grabbed a trash can with a fresh plastic liner and filled it with water in a nearby
restroom. He gently doused Jennieann’s burns. Ron’s calls for help were drowned out
by the initial wave of tumult. After several minutes, a woman in a red blazer approached
them (Ron would learn later she was a nurse from the Marriott), offering gauze pads
and oxygen. In the frenzy of people running by, Ron managed to stop a man with a coat,
asking him to please hold it in front of the severely burned and naked woman whose
clothes had been burned off.

Ron tried to pass time until further help arrived. He asked Jennieann her name and
her boss’s name. He wrote down the information and also her medical allergies on a
notepad he had in a pocket.

“She said to me, ‘Please don’t tell my parents, they’re elderly,’ ” Ron recalls. “ ‘Please,
Sacred Heart of Jesus, please don’t let me die.’ ”

Ron asked Jennieann if she was Catholic, and when she nodded, he suggested they pray
together. He told her he thought she was going to be okay.

“So, we were saying the Lord’s Prayer and—I’ll remember this until the day I die—there
was another explosion. And the floor jumped up and the building just shook incredibly.
It was as if someone just grabbed you and shook you,” Ron says, both fists clenched,
shaking the air.

Ron quickly helped Jennieann to her feet and told her they had to get out of the building.

“I remember the panic in me then, thinking,
This is not right
.” He did not like what he was seeing or hearing from the stressed building. “Pieces
of ceiling were falling down, pieces of glass; there seemed to be a wind blowing through
the building.”

Another man offered to help Ron, and together, with Jennieann’s hands covered in gauze
and oxygen flowing, they began walking through the lobby toward the street.

“We got up to the center of the lobby, and there was a big burly waiter, and I said
to him, ‘Can you give me a big, big tablecloth?’ So he threw me a large, white tablecloth
and I wrapped it around her.”

Ron and several helpers had managed to get Jennieann, burned over 90 percent of her
body, out onto the street. The view from outside of the building took Ron’s breath
away.

“It was gray. There was a big UPS or FedEx truck that had been incinerated, and I
looked up,” Ron continues quietly, “and the building was just dripping. Pieces of
iron were falling down and there were ashes everywhere.” He takes a deep breath, almost
smelling the day again.

Someone alerted the small group assisting Jennieann to an ambulance across the West
Side Highway. They began to move forward, despite the sensory assault of deafening
noise and terrible smells.

“This fireman was coming toward us,” says Ron. “He had on a white hat, a big guy.
And he said, ‘For Jesus Christ’s sake, run! Fucking run!’ ”

They moved as quickly as possible. During the frantic quest toward help, Ron repeatedly
heard a sound he couldn’t place.

“Every so often you’d hear,” Ron says with both hands elevated, “
sheeee-woosh
.” His hands drop down in unison. He adds softly, “I had no idea what it was. All
I wanted to do was to get this woman to an ambulance.”

When they finally spotted help, Ron gave the information he’d gathered about Jennieann
to the emergency medical workers.

A video exists that Ron opted not to view, but his family did. They watched it and
told him of the amazing confirmation of his story. Irish television had interviewed
Ron for a 9/11 documentary and had obtained a color photo of Ron helping Jennieann,
wrapped in a tablecloth, onto the street. Miraculously, producers also obtained FBI
surveillance video from a downtown building camera that captures Ron, alongside Jennieann,
as her gurney is loaded into an ambulance. That yellow tie. It’s captured on tape.
Ron’s special yellow tie, worn for a morning full of promise that turned into the
worst day of his life.

After they loaded Jennieann safely into the ambulance, Ron began walking down the
street. For the first time, he took a good
look at the buildings. It was then that he realized the ghastly nature of the odd
noise. People were jumping from the blazing buildings. Like frames of a horror movie,
the bizarre images were seared into his memory.

“I couldn’t believe it,” Ron says, looking off into space. “I still have these visions
of a woman who jumped with her purse. I could see her holding on to her purse. I could
see couples jumping hand in hand.”

Dazed, Ron made his way through the trappings of catastrophe and asked strangers for
any news of what had happened. They told him that two commercial jetliners had hit
the towers. Ron was now one of millions of people making the mental transition from
accident to terrorist attack. He tried to call Brigid, but cell service was unavailable.
Hoping his calling card would work, Ron ran into the American Express building. He’d
often taken friends and family on tours of the city and always brought them into the
Amex building to see the paintings displayed in the lobby. He knew there was a row
of phone banks right inside the doors. Ron was joined in the building by milling emergency
workers. A gentleman wearing a police badge stood at the phones and told Ron he didn’t
have any change to make a call. Ron dialed his AT&T 800 number for the man, then used
it on a neighboring phone to call Brigid.

“I said, ‘Brigid, I’m down here, I’m okay, I’m looking at it, I will be home. I know
the trains are going to run. I’m going to try to get home for Monica’s birthday.’ ”

Brigid told Ron how relieved she was that he was okay. They spoke for just a few minutes,
Ron managing a mix of relief and disbelief as he watched people dive off the towers
to their deaths.

When he hung up the phone, Ron reached down to pick up his briefcase. His intent was
to leave, but his body slumped to the ground. For a moment, he sat frozen, watching
the jumpers and watching people pray and scream as they witnessed the same appalling
images.

Ron had no way of knowing the worst was yet to come.

Having worked for the city housing authority, Ron knew there was a contingency plan
in place by the Port Authority of New York and New Jersey in the event of a disaster.
Ferries would leave from the New York side and transport people to Hoboken on the
New Jersey side, where they would board trains. The trains would stop at every station
on every rail line that New Jersey Transit serviced. Ron told Brigid his plan was
to make his way to Hoboken and take a train toward home. He first had to run one block
square to get to the ferry that would cross the Hudson. He nearly missed the boat.

“I literally jumped over the gate and got on the ferry. Everybody was stunned. One
Asian chap had a piece of the airplane and was showing it off.” Ron says, “Everyone
wanted to kill him. They were like, ‘You are disgusting.’ ”