We All Fall Down: The True Story of the 9/11 Surfer (4 page)

At that moment, the fire alarm went off, low at first, then escalating into hysteria.

Pasquale assured Maria that Joe would be in touch and got off the phone. Outside his office, a strobe light at the siren box flashed on and off.

Terrorists!
He knew it immediately.
Two planes just don’t stray off course on the same day. Two planes don’t hit two separate Towers.

When he got off the phone, Pasquale looked for Pat and found him with Steve Fiorelli. They already knew about the second plane.

“It’s a terrorist attack.”

He could feel the electricity around them, that sense of awe and fear and disbelief. Some of his co-workers ran for the phones. Some huddled, talking amongst themselves, trying to be heard above the terrible sirens.

Pasquale, Steve, and Pat, their steady-handed boss, awaited the evacuation order that would surely come soon; it had to. Everyone was nervous, and no one knew what was happening or what could happen.

“Let’s go see if we can get the TV in the conference room to work,” Pat offered as a suggestion.

In the small room, filled mostly with a large table and chairs, Pat and Steve fiddled with the controls on the TV: nothing but static.

Pasquale stood at the window, watching fires burning on buildings all around them.
Terrorists. How could this be happening…again?

“Look!” Pat called over to him. “Here it is!”

In very faint outline, as they all leaned in close to the TV. They could make out an airplane flying slowly toward the second Tower, just across from them: Two World Trade Center, struck; an explosion; flames shooting out; and a huge hole in the building.

To Pasquale, none of it seemed real. It could have been any disaster movie. It could have been anywhere else in the world. He felt completely disconnected from the smoke filling the rooms, from his friends, from what was happening.

There were gasps behind them as the men stood watching television. Lisa Trerotola, Rosa Gonzalez, Genelle Guzman, and Deborah Kaplan had seen the faint outline of the flying plane, followed by the cruel burst of destruction. Others came in, demanding to know what they should do. There was despair in their usually calm eyes, smudges on their smoke-stained cheeks, tears streaking their faces.

Has anyone else heard anything?
Pasquale wondered.

Pat Hoey and Jean Andrucki got on their cell phones to call the Port Authority offices. Someone had to make a decision. They had to know what was happening and what they should do about it.

Over panicked yelling in the offices, the fire alarm screeched on. The strobe lights pulsed. People stood around nervously, waiting for word that it was safe for them to leave, but that word never came. As if the world outside their smoke-filled offices had ceased to exist or forgotten that they still did, no one said anything to them.

Pasquale called Louise again. He knew by now that she’d seen that second plane slam into the other building. He had to be careful of what he said to her. He would reassure her that he was fine. He wiped at his face and stood still for a minute, collecting himself, willing air down into his lungs. He dialed and held tightly to the phone.

“Pasquale?” Louise demanded. “There were two planes. Building Two’s been hit. It’s terrible. Are you out of there yet?”

“We’re waiting to hear if it’s safe to leave,” he told her. “I’ll be fine. We’re all here together, just…waiting.”

“Waiting for what? GET OUT, Pasquale!”

“We will as soon as we can. Our side of the floor has lights. Maybe we’re better off staying right here.”

“You can’t see what’s happened to your building and the other one. I can see it, Pasquale. It’s just…it’s horrible!
When
will you get out of there?”

“As soon as they give us the go-ahead.”

“Call me then. Call me as soon as you’re down to the street. I need to know!”

He wasn’t sure what to do after he hung up.

Pat was on the phone with his boss, Ken Philmus. He called over to Steve, “Ken’s on his way down from Boston.”

Next, Pat was in touch with John Lesko, a co-worker who’d already started down the stairwell. John responded from his alphanumeric beeper. “He says it’s slow going toward the bottom floors!” Pat yelled over at Pasquale. “There’re a lot of burn victims going down the stairs.” He hesitated, listened, and then called out to everyone standing around him. “He says they’re opening a lane so people with burns can get down faster, and they’re trying to keep a lane open for the firemen. They’re on their way up.”

Good news. No…GREAT news! The firemen will take care of it. Soon the fire—wherever it is—will be out. This nightmare will be over. I’ll be home by evening.

“We’re probably going to have to go down,” Pat called to everyone who could hear him. “We’ll need something to cover our mouths and noses.”

Jean Andrucki and some of the others cut up anything they could find to wet for that very purpose as they made their exodus out of the building.

Pasquale, Pat, and Steve, along with some of the others, stood together. No one was sure what they should be doing.

“We’ll stay as long as possible,” Steve said in his usual decisive manner. “No sense clogging the stairs so the firemen can’t get to the upper floors. John said it’s pretty tight down there,” Steve went on. He coughed, putting one hand to his throat. “Maybe it’s better though. At least we’d be on our way out, and—”

He stopped speaking as a shudder ran through the building. The walls began to vibrate, then the floor and even the air shook. There was one long shudder, followed by a longer, even more terrible quiet.

CHAPTER FOUR

The One with the Antenna on Top

“I am home right now. I can see the smoke from my rooftop. Louise, don’t worry.

Pasquale’s going to be all right. He is going to be okay.”

~ Ralph Molfetta

Louise put the phone down and leaned against it, trying to breathe. There seemed to be so little air in the room around her. Her hands went to her mouth. The bedroom walls were moving in close. Every ordinary thing was losing its ordinary shape. The bed, the dresser, the photos—all lurked in semi-darkness, a kind of fog, as if the things were half-alive.

She stared at the TV screen, at two once-proud buildings, damaged and vomiting smoke out over New York, into that clear morning sky.

The phone rang.

Maybe it’s Pasquale, on his way down to the street,
she hoped.

But it wasn’t. It was his cousin Ralph Molfetta, the brother Pasquale never had.

She took a deep breath and waited for the inevitable questions that she wouldn’t have answers to.

“Er, have you talked to Pasquale today? Have you talked to him?” Ralph asked, cautiously tiptoeing around what she already knew.

“Yes, Ralph. I talked to him a few minutes ago. He’s in the building, but he’s okay.”

“Did you see what happened?” His voice was tentative, as if he didn’t want to take a chance with his cousin’s pregnant wife. Ralph had been best man at their wedding. He loved Pasquale as much as she did, and she knew his own feelings mirrored hers. She was sure he must have been feeling something of what she felt: that same paralyzing fear.

“I’m…watching,” she answered.

“I’m at home right now.” Ralph lived in West New York, New Jersey, directly across the Hudson from the Manhattan skyline, giving him a clear view of the Twin Towers. “Don’t worry, Louise,” Ralph reassured her in true Italian big-brother fashion. “Pasquale’s gonna be all right. He’ll be okay. You know Pasquale. Nothing’s going to get him.”

“I know, Ralph. I know.”

As soon as she hung up, the phone rang again. She answered.
This will be Pasquale, and this will all be over. It will be Pasquale, and he’ll say, “Louise?” and I’ll finally wake up…

“Louise?” said her cousin Joanne, her former maid of honor. “I’m coming over.” She’d be coming from Westchester. “I’m leaving work now. I’ll get there as soon as I can.”

Louise nodded, as if Joanne could see her indicating,
“Yes, it would be all right to come over. Please come.”
She knew someone should be there with her. If it couldn’t be Pasquale, then another person she loved would help her through it. She would need others
. But only until Pasquale gets home.

She tried to sit on the bench by the phone but couldn’t stay still. She couldn’t stand and look out the window, not down at the empty yard with the mowed green lawn, the beds of colorful September flowers, and the blue of their pool. It was all too ordinary, too peaceful, and too unreal.

She couldn’t get dressed either. She couldn’t get out of the orange Gap shorts and white t-shirt that now held her captive. She couldn’t bother with her long, honey-colored hair. All she could do was pace and watch, first the phone, then the television. There was nothing she could do; no one to call; no way to save him. All Louise Buzzelli could do was wait…and pray.

Pasquale’s white work shirt, the shirt he’d worn the day before, still hung on the bedpost. Usually she hated when he didn’t bother picking up after himself, but not that day. That day, she grabbed the shirt and put it on. There was the feel of him to it, the smell of him, as if he were there with his arms around her, making life better—the way he always had: her big, gorgeous Italian husband. She hugged the shirt to her body, squeezed the fabric in her hand, and held on.

He shouldn’t have gone back to work there after that ‘93 bombing,
she told herself angrily as she searched the room for something else of comfort, something from their life together.
I knew it! I hate that building. I hate where he works, up there near the top.

Somewhere in her mind, there’d always lurked the fear of fire.
How would he get out if the building burned?
she’d often silently and audibly wondered, but Pasquale had always assured her that the building would never burn. “They have…technology,” he’d said.

But now…
she thought as she stood in the house they’d dreamt of together, soon to hold the baby they’d always wanted,
now he can’t go back there. He’s okay. I just talked to him. He’s all right. They’ll have to give him time off. We can fix up Hope’s room and spend time together until she gets here…

The phone rang: Cousin Ralph again, keeping in touch and being reassuring. “I can see the Towers. I’m standing on top of my building.”

Louise could see too. She could see that other plane into the building, flying low, almost in slow motion.
Maybe a rescue plane,
she’d thought when she’d first seen it
. Maybe that’s what it was. But…
It was the same kind of fireball.
What’s going on? Where is Air Traffic Control? It’s a clear day—at least down here. Why would planes be crashing into the Towers?

“He’ll be okay, Louise,” Ralph kept repeating on the other end of the phone. “He’ll be okay. Don’t worry, Louise. He’ll be—”

“I’ve gotta go.”

As soon as she put the phone down, it rang again.
God, please let this be him. Please let it be Pasquale.

“Louise? Have you heard?
Two
planes! It’s a terrorist attack,” said Maria, the wife of Joe Calautti, who worked in the building with Pasquale. “I can’t get a hold of Joe.”

Louise assured Maria she’d talked to Pasquale, that he’d told her there was no smoke on their floor and they’d be out of the building soon. She hung up quickly, too afraid to tie up the line, just in case.

Again the phone: Rob Carlton’s wife, Lisa. Again, they had to hurry. The phone kept clicking with more incoming calls demanding attention, demanding answers. There were so many people—family, friends, and neighbors—all worried. None wanted to upset Louise, but they needed to know what she knew.

“Is he okay? Have you talked to him?”

She reassured one after the other, “I just talked to Pasquale. He’s fine.”

But the phone kept clicking with more calls, then more—none of them the person she most needed to hear from.

At last, the call came. “Louise?”

Pasquale! He must be out on the street. He must be hurrying home. Maybe I can breathe again.
“Wh-where are you?”

“We’re still on the sixty-fourth.”

“WHAT?! WHY? Why are you still up there, Pasquale? GET THE FUCK OUT! Please, Pasquale. Don’t you know what’s going on? A second plane hit, and—”

“I know. We heard. We’re leaving right away. I just wanted you to know I’m okay and I love you…and I’m getting out.”

“YES, NOW! Now, Pasquale. Please…now!” She lowered the phone, hung up, and put her hands to her head, having only his promise and his shirt to cling to. Everything was beyond her. She had no power. It was all so crazy, not at all a dream. Nevertheless, there was no sense of reality to wrap around her.
Madness like this doesn’t happen. Not here. Not in our country. Not to my husband.

“Louise!” a voice called from downstairs.

Joanne
. Louise stopped only long enough to take a look at the room she and Pasquale shared. It was already different: the bed unmade, the down-filled comforter on the floor, and nothing as it should have been. But then, the world beyond that home they’d built together wasn’t as it should have been either.