We All Fall Down: The True Story of the 9/11 Surfer (29 page)

“Why would she want to contact more of them?” Pasquale asked.

“To use them, just like they did the other women. Remember when I told you P., what one of them told me? She said
PEOPLE
made them stand in the cold along the river at 5:00 a.m. just so they could get a freaking picture with the sun in the right spot! Those idiots made those moms stand in the cold with their little babies, freezing their asses off, all for a stupid picture, like some publicity stunt. And now they want me to set them up with more women they can exploit? I know why though. The anniversary is approaching, and they want to talk about 9/11 ‘cause they have to, you know, strike when the iron is hot or so I’m told. It is so disgusting, P.!”

“I know, Louise. It’s downright sick,” Pasquale said, his blood pressure rising.

“You ain’t kidding. I can’t believe they want a quote from you after the way they treated our request for help with the Foundation.”

“Yeah, well, I have a quote for them.”

“What could you possibly have to say to them?”

“Louise, here it is, and I want you to quote me exactly…”

~ ♦ ~

“Hey, Liz,” Louise said, doing her best to mimic the ultra-sweet tone Liz had used earlier, “I was just calling to let you know that Pasquale said he would love to be quoted in this article.”

“Really? That’s great!”

“Yeah, I have the quote here with me. Do you want it now?”

“Sure! Just let me get a pen and paper.”

Louise said nothing as she listened to the sound of rustling on the other end of the line. Liz wouldn’t need to write it down, for it wasn’t that long, but she figured she may as well toy with the woman for a moment.

“Okay, I’m ready. What’s Pasquale have to say?”

“All right, and he said he wants this quoted directly,” Louise paused for confirmation.

“Of course, of course!”

“This is what he said…” Louise paused again for effect and cleared her throat. “He said to tell you his quote is…‘Don’t trust the media!’”

“Uh…what?”

“His quote is, ‘Don’t trust the media!’ Oh, and he says not to forget the exclamation point at the end.”

“Um, I’m sorry, Mrs. Buzzelli, but I don’t think we can use that quote. We were thinking more along the lines of—”

“Well, that’s his quote, ‘Don’t trust the media!’” Louise said one last time before she politely hung up the phone, feeling a bit victorious.

~ ♦ ~

Pasquale avoided the dresser mirror as he made his way across the bedroom. He opened the closet door, hoping to find one belt that would fit him. He avoided mirrors whenever he could, purposely averting his eyes when he passed one, not wanting to catch a glimpse of the man he’d become. Even when he left the house, which was less and less often now, a store window presented problems, some angled so he couldn’t avoid the image of the huge man in oversized Champion sweatshirt walking toward him, trying to stride confidently, as he used to, but looking only hunted and haunted by the few ghosts he could name and by hundreds more he couldn’t.

Pasquale pulled one belt from a hook and threaded it through the taut loops of the black dress pants his Louise had laid out for him; pants in a size he’d never imagined he might wear. The belt slid easily through the first loop, on to the loop at his left side, on to the back loop, but even there he could barely pull it around to the other side. As if this were one more cautionary finger pushed into his face, the belt refused to accept that that was who he’d become, a man who had outgrown his world, his body too big for the life he used to lead.

Angrily, he pulled the belt from the loops and threw it on the bed. He yanked yet another belt from the hook—black or brown, he no longer cared that it matched his pants. He no longer cared whether or not he would make a good impression at CNN. None of it mattered. That stubborn and mocking belt wouldn’t go around his middle either. For a moment, he stood where he was, the belt hanging uselessly, and hung his head. His chest tightened until every breath had to be pulled in deeply and let out in short gasps.

Pasquale backed away from the closet. Nothing in this familiar bedroom belonged to who he was now, this new and unfamiliar self—a miracle man, a blessed man, a man so lucky the outside world applauded him for surviving. As if a huge maw had opened and swallowed him, there was no life left that he recognized. The weight had come on so rapidly. As he lay, day after day, on the family room sofa, he protected himself—baby-like—with food and with the TV, which fed his insatiable need to watch the buildings fall again and again. Food soothed him, and even more food quieted the growling inside.

“Pasquale, the limo from CNN is here. Are you ready?” Louise called from the base of the stairs. There was that new thing in her voice, a kind of timidity he’d only recently heard, hiding behind her impatience. The beauty did not want to aggravate the beast.

He would never hurt her, but she didn’t seem as sure.
Great. Another guilt to pile on the guilt I already can’t shake.
Louise’s life had been changed too, and she hadn’t asked for any of it. In her short life, she’d been through the loss of her mother, then her father. She’d had to give up the music career she had always dreamt of. All Pasquale had ever wanted was to make her happy and safe, but now he was making her suffer because he, himself, was suffering so.

It had been an amazing thing, that they had found each other—a kind of magic they had trouble believing in at first. Now, everything seemed hidden behind an opaque barricade. They looked for each other around that wall. They yelled across that wall. They reached out. But they no longer met as easily as they once had.

Pasquale didn’t answer Louise. He moved back until his legs hit the bed behind him. He put up a hand, holding the “thing” away. His face warmed. If he could have, he would have told her to go to hell. He would have told her to do the CNN interview herself.
What does any of it mean to me anyway? Nothing! Just another damn TV show. Another interview with a news anchor who barely knows my story and doesn’t really care. Another reporter who doesn’t really want to know the real story behind and beyond that day, but just wants to feed the sensation-hungry masses whatever fodder he could dig up at Pasquale’s expense. “Lucky man. You survived the attack, Pasquale. It’s a miracle...”

“Pasquale?” Louise’s worried voice came up the stairs.

He would have to move, to make a decision about the belt. He knew if she came up to fetch him and hurry him along, she’d find him sitting at the edge of the bed, immobilized by something as simple and insignificant of having no belt to wear. There was another thing against him: letting her down, letting himself down. If he didn’t leave the house, if he saw no one, if he never did another TV interview or gave another story to a newspaper, that would have been just fine with him. It was Louise who wouldn’t let him pull into himself, where he was safe. “Be right there!” he called out.

I’ve never let her down before,
he scolded himself.
This is not who I am. This isn’t what a strong man, a good husband and father, does.
His parents valued strength in a man. They’d worked hard, his father so many years in construction and his mother in a sweatshop making coats. They’d struggled to give him a good childhood and even a car that he’d accidentally destroyed. He’d paid them back by landing a good, respectable job with the Port Authority of New York and New Jersey, marrying his beautiful wife, and presenting them with their wonderful grandchild. They had been so proud of him—their only son, now living the American dream.

But Pasquale’s mind was now empty of those familiar dreams. All of it was just…gone. It was as if the path he’d been on—the straight, narrow path to success and happiness, a trajectory guaranteeing both him and Louise that the years ahead would lead to children, security, peace—all of that had melted in a moment of horror.

His self-disgust was beyond measure. His hands clenched hard at his sides. Breathing became even more difficult, blocked by that growing lump in his chest.

He stood and realized there would be no belt.
Do I even need one? Will my pants fall down if I don’t wear one
? He went to the closet and pulled out a new dark suit jacket to wear. With only a single button, he pulled it closed around him. No one would see; no one would notice that he was beltless—that there was nothing holding his ensemble in place. As if he wore a costume, he could hide down in this huge man’s body he wore.

Anger took hold and shook him as he pulled the suit coat around him. He reached for the dresser edge, held on, and bowed his head. He prayed that the hatred and anger and hopelessness would leave him in time for…
For what? The interview at CNN? More questions? Another head- and heart-stabbing repetition of my fall, in vivid detail, as if I’m telling some urban legend?

“Pasquale, we’ve got to go!”

Louise’s sweet voice grated along his nerves. He didn’t want understanding. What he needed was silence. He needed the terrible voices in his head to stop terrorizing him. He wanted his old life back and yearned for everything he’d been promised to be true. It was his right!
Don’t I pray and go to church? Aren’t I faithful to my wife? Dedicated to my family and friends?
All he’d ever wanted, more than anything, was to make his family proud of him. Instead, he’d dragged them into hell.

He left the bedroom to stand at the top of the stairs.

“Oh, you look nice, Pasquale.” Louise smiled up from the bottom of the curved staircase. Her green eyes were filled with the worry she wore every day now, but her pretty, small face was written over with hope.

Pasquale stared down at her, the woman he loved. Suddenly, it was as if Louise were his torturer. She was the one who made him go to those hellish interrogations. She was the one who said it would be good for him to get out, that people wanted and needed to hear his story. “A bright spot in all of this destruction,” she’d said, trying to encourage him.
No more after this,
he promised himself.
It has to stop.

He moved back from the top step, breathing hard. His hands found the bottom of the heavy, silver-framed mirror that Louise had hung at the top of the stairs. His fingers closed over the thick bottom edge. He breathed harder and, with his eyes closed, pulled the large mirror from the wall, taking its full weight into his hands. He turned and lifted the mirror above his head. His arms shook as he held it there. With the mirror poised high above him, he had one objective: He needed to smash something. He needed to break something, just as he was now broken .
Everything…it all has to stop!
He held the mirror higher.

“Pasquale?” she whispered as she came toward him up the stairs, one step at a time. “Pasquale…don’t!”

The mirror shook in his hands. His mouth went dry. His throat almost closed so that every breath he drew was a knife cutting into his flesh.

“Pasquale…” Her voice had gone soft, cajoling, loving.

He brought the mirror down a little, then lowered it a bit more. The face he looked into wasn’t Louise’s, but his own: wild blue eyes; pitifully drawn, pasty skin; pathetic anger in his reflection.

He saw himself.

He saw who he’d become.

He saw a cursed man full of rage.

He saw a man wracked with guilt because he’d survived while his friends had died.

He saw…the luckiest man on Earth.

~ ♦ ~

Pasquale and Louise sat in a CNN green room, waiting patiently to be interviewed. They were initially supposed to be interviewed by Walter Cronkite or Wolf Blitzer, but those plans were changed without the Buzzellis’ consent.

“Now, who are you and why are you here?” asked a woman named Sheila.

“We are supposed to be interviewed—” Louise began but was rudely cut off before she could finish.

“Well, what do you have for me?” Sheila demanded, as if she was in the biggest hurry. “Let’s see some pictures, home videos, or something we can use as footage.”

“Uh, they didn’t tell us to bring anything,” Louise said. “I’m sorry. Had I known, I would have prepared—”

“Okay. Well, take a seat, and we’ll come and get you when Aaron is ready.”

“Aaron?” Pasquale asked. “I thought we were supposed to be interviewed by—”

“Neither of them could make it,” she said, cutting them off again before leaving the room.

Whatever the reason, whatever the excuse, because Walter Cronkite and Wolf Blitzer were unable to do the interview, the job was given to Aaron Brown, a man who was gaining fame by riding the coattails of the 9/11 aftermath. His first day on air with CNN had been, interestingly enough, 9/11, and while he seemed more than happy to ride the wave that came along with being one of the faces of that day’s coverage, he was less than kind to the Buzzellis. When he was told he would be conducting the interview, he did not want to do it. “I do not have time for this. And who are these people anyway?” the Buzzellis heard him say.

It was particularly hurtful to them, especially since it was the third interview Pasquale and Louise would do for CNN; all of those interviews had been requested by the network, time and time again. This time, they were being treated like an inconvenience. It was yet another low moment in a day filled with them, courtesy of the media.