15 Minutes More, by Matthew Hamilton
Friday, April 16 2010 @ 12:00 AM MST
Views: 64
Views: 64
Some wounds take a long time to heal as this story about guilt and loss from one of our regular contributors reminds us. Fiction Editor
15 Minutes More, by Matthew Hamilton
Ray stood in front of the gravestone and stared at his friend’s name. He'd been doing this every year now for eight years, every September 11th, at exactly 8:46a.m. And every year, he looked at the ground that held his friend’s body and asked the same question: Why?
Ray doesn't believe in the spiritual life. He doesn’t believe in God. Not anymore. The falling towers took that away from him. But he believes in hell. He lived in hell for a day that seemed like decades, in the smoke and ash, New York covered in blood and fear, before guys named Muhammad were slammed on police cars and handcuffed.
Every time he visits the cemetery, he reflects about that day. He prays to a God he doesn’t believe in. But somehow each memory, each prayer, brings him that much closer to peace. He doesn’t know how or why; it just does.
***
The walk to Mike’s house seemed like yesterday. It always seemed like yesterday. One hundred years from now it will seem like yesterday. How he wished to erase it all from his mind. How he wished to erase the sadness in Sarah’s eyes and the sound of her screams as she fell to the porch, her fists beating on his chest, her two children standing behind her with uncertainty and fear. He pulled her to him and held on. Her perfume, mixed with sweat and hate, smelled like dead flowers. He took her inside, looked at her kids and told them in the best way he knew how that their daddy was not coming home. They asked if Daddy went to heaven to be with Jesus. Not knowing what to say, Ray said yes.
Ray and Mike joined the fire department together, young and eager, in the best shape of their lives, clad in their dark suits with yellow strips. Even after all those years, Ray still saw the towers right before they collapsed: a pair of gray skeletons tortured by two flaming horns. He was on his way to the south tower and, had a black Mercedes not run a red light and smashed into a station wagon full of children, slowing him and his crew down, if the south tower had stood for fifteen minutes more, he would have been dead, too.
Mike’s truck was the first one on the scene. He was probably touching the flames right before the tower’s steel supports melted into nothing, gravity hurling massive chunks of concrete and glass down on them, the floor giving way, the last screams of men and women holding hands as they jumped into hell in the hope of landing in heaven.
Ray and his crew, in a storm of gray ash and debris, were giving medical attention to survivors, pulling them to safety, when the north tower collapsed. The noise was fierce, like a million thunderclaps at once. People ran and screamed, kicked in doors to escape the rushing clouds. The police ran, too, pushed bystanders into open doors, under cars, and rushed back into the storm. They were covered in white and looked like mud people rising out of death, a sign of the apocalypse, the morning sun covered in a dusty pall.
Ray grabbed hold of this one kid whose face had been peppered with glass and as a result was blind in one eye. His bloody hand, thumb dislocated, still held tightly to a briefcase. Ray pulled him over to the fire truck and wrapped the side of his face with bandages, stabilized his thumb and dressed his hand, helped him into the ambulance already crammed with people. They all looked like war victims on their way to the field hospital. Everyone prayed that day; everyone but Ray. Ray cursed and put his fist through a wall.
The day after the towers fell, the dust began to settle, but smoke continued to rise from the smouldering crater. Rescue teams searched for survivors beneath the rubble. German Shepherds sniffed and scratched and dug up both the living and the dead. Then evening came, but the search continued and continued and continued until all that was left was hope. And then hope continued. By some miracle had Mike survived? Ray knew it wasn’t true, but felt compelled to asked, anyway. It gave him the strength to keep digging and searching until exhaustion forced him to take a break. A cup of coffee only and maybe a doughnut and then it was back with the spade and the dogs and the heat and the sweat and red eyes, eyes of fire and pain and determination.
On the third day, Ray noticed the flag; stars against blue, red and white strips. Hidden in the rubble, spade in his blistered hands, he wept silently. He knew Mike was dead.
***
A warm hand touched his shoulder and woke him from his memories. He turned, but the hand was nothing but the wind. He studied a crucifix nearby. He searched for God, but nothing was there except for cement and bronze and an artist’s imagination.
Before getting up to go, he looked at Mike’s gravestone one more time. He scanned the whole cemetery, then turned away and walked to his car. He'd always found it strange that such a place existed, a quiet place surrounded by the noise of eight million restless people.
15 Minutes More, by Matthew Hamilton
Ray stood in front of the gravestone and stared at his friend’s name. He'd been doing this every year now for eight years, every September 11th, at exactly 8:46a.m. And every year, he looked at the ground that held his friend’s body and asked the same question: Why?
Ray doesn't believe in the spiritual life. He doesn’t believe in God. Not anymore. The falling towers took that away from him. But he believes in hell. He lived in hell for a day that seemed like decades, in the smoke and ash, New York covered in blood and fear, before guys named Muhammad were slammed on police cars and handcuffed.
Every time he visits the cemetery, he reflects about that day. He prays to a God he doesn’t believe in. But somehow each memory, each prayer, brings him that much closer to peace. He doesn’t know how or why; it just does.
***
The walk to Mike’s house seemed like yesterday. It always seemed like yesterday. One hundred years from now it will seem like yesterday. How he wished to erase it all from his mind. How he wished to erase the sadness in Sarah’s eyes and the sound of her screams as she fell to the porch, her fists beating on his chest, her two children standing behind her with uncertainty and fear. He pulled her to him and held on. Her perfume, mixed with sweat and hate, smelled like dead flowers. He took her inside, looked at her kids and told them in the best way he knew how that their daddy was not coming home. They asked if Daddy went to heaven to be with Jesus. Not knowing what to say, Ray said yes.
Ray and Mike joined the fire department together, young and eager, in the best shape of their lives, clad in their dark suits with yellow strips. Even after all those years, Ray still saw the towers right before they collapsed: a pair of gray skeletons tortured by two flaming horns. He was on his way to the south tower and, had a black Mercedes not run a red light and smashed into a station wagon full of children, slowing him and his crew down, if the south tower had stood for fifteen minutes more, he would have been dead, too.
Mike’s truck was the first one on the scene. He was probably touching the flames right before the tower’s steel supports melted into nothing, gravity hurling massive chunks of concrete and glass down on them, the floor giving way, the last screams of men and women holding hands as they jumped into hell in the hope of landing in heaven.
Ray and his crew, in a storm of gray ash and debris, were giving medical attention to survivors, pulling them to safety, when the north tower collapsed. The noise was fierce, like a million thunderclaps at once. People ran and screamed, kicked in doors to escape the rushing clouds. The police ran, too, pushed bystanders into open doors, under cars, and rushed back into the storm. They were covered in white and looked like mud people rising out of death, a sign of the apocalypse, the morning sun covered in a dusty pall.
Ray grabbed hold of this one kid whose face had been peppered with glass and as a result was blind in one eye. His bloody hand, thumb dislocated, still held tightly to a briefcase. Ray pulled him over to the fire truck and wrapped the side of his face with bandages, stabilized his thumb and dressed his hand, helped him into the ambulance already crammed with people. They all looked like war victims on their way to the field hospital. Everyone prayed that day; everyone but Ray. Ray cursed and put his fist through a wall.
The day after the towers fell, the dust began to settle, but smoke continued to rise from the smouldering crater. Rescue teams searched for survivors beneath the rubble. German Shepherds sniffed and scratched and dug up both the living and the dead. Then evening came, but the search continued and continued and continued until all that was left was hope. And then hope continued. By some miracle had Mike survived? Ray knew it wasn’t true, but felt compelled to asked, anyway. It gave him the strength to keep digging and searching until exhaustion forced him to take a break. A cup of coffee only and maybe a doughnut and then it was back with the spade and the dogs and the heat and the sweat and red eyes, eyes of fire and pain and determination.
On the third day, Ray noticed the flag; stars against blue, red and white strips. Hidden in the rubble, spade in his blistered hands, he wept silently. He knew Mike was dead.
***
A warm hand touched his shoulder and woke him from his memories. He turned, but the hand was nothing but the wind. He studied a crucifix nearby. He searched for God, but nothing was there except for cement and bronze and an artist’s imagination.
Before getting up to go, he looked at Mike’s gravestone one more time. He scanned the whole cemetery, then turned away and walked to his car. He'd always found it strange that such a place existed, a quiet place surrounded by the noise of eight million restless people.