This is an excerpt from a novel in progress. Prior to this section, it is established that the date is September 11th 2001. The narrative follows a family of 4: Phil the husband/father works on Capitol Hill for a powerful Republican senator from Alaska; Candace the wife/mother is a SAHM in the suburbs; daughter Eliza is age 8; son Artie is age 5. Phil and all Capitol staff have been instructed to leave; he offers a ride home to a custodian named Joe who is older with a bad knee and is unsure how he’ll make it home now that DC public transit is starting to close.
The streets of Washington DC are full. Worse than normal weekday traffic, Phil tries to wind his way through the crowded mess of cars. Usually, his commute is pretty straight forward: get from the Hill north to New York Ave then on the highway eastbound to home, but, today he will navigate through Anacostia first to drop off Joe.
“I really appreciate this,” Joe says for the third time since they left thirty minutes ago. On a normal day, they would have made this five block journey in under two minutes. Phil knows that Joe must realize this is out of his way and that he’s desperate to get to his wife and kids.
“Don’t mention it, really,” Phil says.
And he means it. Today is a day that brings out the best in people because they’re scared for their lives in a manner that forces them to wonder what might be said about them if they were to die of a sudden, unexpected catastrophe. Phil would like to be the man who looks after those around him, not the workaholic who misses soccer practice and family dinner in an effort to move politics forward.
They make a lefthand turn to cross the 11th Street bridge, from which they have a perfect view of the billows of smoke coming from the Pentagon, or, what must be left of the Pentagon. Neither man knows the extent of the damage, just that the pristine blue skies are blotted with gray plumes overhead.
“Jesus,” Phil says.
“My word,” Joe whispers.
They catch each other’s eyes briefly then look away. It feels personal to share this witness to disaster. Before today, Phil knew that Joe had worked at the Capitol for over thirty years, was on good terms with his teammates, and had only missed two days of work in his life: for the birth of this daughter and his father’s funeral. He’s not sure what Joe recalls of him, but he seems to know the name of everyone who has ever passed through the halls of the Capitol. Now, Phil knows that Joe doesn’t like talk radio, reclines his car seat a bit far back, and is the kind of man who bows his head in prayer when he sees something horrendous.
“The kids are going to be scared,” Joe says. “My wife works at the local elementary school in the before and after care. There’s no way the kids won’t be able to see all of that smoke, hear all of those sirens.”
“Yeah,” Phil says.
He has tried to avoid thinking about what he and Candance will tell the kids. Maybe she has already explained everything to them, or maybe she hasn’t said a word at all. Candance has deferred to Phil on who to vote for in every election, local and national, since they were married as well as which house to buy, which car to drive, and where to vacation every year. Phil depends on her for the rest. It sounds imbalanced, he recognizes, but his wife is the one who makes the million small decisions that operate the rest of his life while he on occasion takes the helm on something bigger. He doesn’t know which category this particular responsibility will fall under.
“How old are your kids now?” Joe asks.
He already remembers more than Phil expected.
“Eliza is eight and Artie is five. So, around the ages of the kids your wife works with.”
Joe nods.
“Best of luck to you. I remember talking to my little girl about the Challenger explosion. Of course, she was at school watching the rocket launch like everyone else in America that day, but we still had to talk about the crash and what it meant when she got home. Not an easy day.”
“Yeah, I remember that. I had only been with the Senator’s team for a few months. It was horrible. Everyone felt like they wanted to do something, but what?”
On that day in 1986, Phil had stood close by with everyone in his office consuming the story together. Today he had to be the one to tell them to move along and get themselves home, no matter how much they wanted to remain in front of the television.
“Can I ask something?” Phil asks.
“Of course,” Joe agrees.
They’ve made it across the bridge and only have a few blocks left to reach Joe’s house. The traffic has begun to dissolve now that they are off of the main downtown roads headed into a residential neighborhood that is predominately public housing, aside from the few members of Joe’s older generation who have held onto their homes rather than sell out to the government and retire across the District line in Maryland.
“What kind of questions did your daughter ask that day? I really,” he pauses and tries to figure out how to express the enormity of his cluelessness over how his children will react to this news. “I just have no idea what to expect.”
Joe nods.
“That’s a good question. I remember the one that hit me the hardest was her confusion about what happens after people die. We hadn’t had any close relatives pass, her grandparents were all still alive. She asked about their families and kids. She said to me, ‘so they’re dead, and now what? What happens to them next?’ and I started talking about Heaven and all that and she says ‘no I mean their kids, what happens next?’ There had been all that footage of the families of the astronauts and that teacher who was going up in space. That’s what had stuck with her the most, wondering what happens to the people left behind. I didn’t have much of an answer. I told her that those kids would be sad, but that they had many friends and family members like their grandparents or aunts and uncles who loved them and would help them feel better. And that they would have all of their happiest memories to think about when they felt sad. It was a hard one. It was hard.”
Phil feels a small lump in his throat. This is the kind of question Artie will ask. Artie is sensitive to the point that Phil worries about him. Meanwhile, Eliza will want to know why this happened. She’s nosy and likes to feel smart. He’s not sure which child’s questions will be more difficult to answer.
In another fifteen minutes of idle chit chat about the Redskins upcoming season and the unusually warm weather, they arrive to Joe’s house. It’s a brick duplex with a covered porch. The grass on the front lawn and flower arrangements are immaculate.
“Wow, lovely yard you have here,” Phil says.
“It’s my wife’s pride and joy. You should see the flack I get for letting my wife mow the lawn,” Joe says and laughs. “But she doesn’t let me near it. That’s her yard.”
Joe gathers his jacket and bag from the back seat of the car. He walks around to the driver’s side and motions for Phil to roll down the window. He puts his hand out for Phil to shake.
“Thank you so much for the ride. I’m not sure how long it would’ve taken me to get back here with my bad knee. It really means a lot to make sure I’m back before my wife gets home from the school. This will make her very happy, very relieved.”
Phil nods. It is easier for both men to pretend that this act of kindness was for the benefit of Joe’s wife rather than born out of a shared fear that they didn’t know if the Capitol was next or how long until the city entered into a fray of doomsday anarchy.
“You’re welcome. I hope you two take care tonight and I’ll see you,” Phil pauses.
He’s about to say he’ll see Joe tomorrow, but he has no idea who, if anyone, will be allowed in the Capitol tomorrow. It’s only 1:00 in the afternoon; anything can happen.
“I’ll see you later,” he finishes. “And thank you again for the advice.”
“You take care, now,” Joe says and walks into the house.
Two hours later Phil pulls into the same grocery store parking lot where Candace had called him from just a few hours earlier. The highways back into the suburbs were packed with fellow commuters desperate to get home.
He doesn’t do much of the grocery shopping. The store’s intense air conditioning gives him goosebumps when he first arrives. The aisles are crowded with other customers in suits. Everyone else who raced home from the city has the same idea as him to stock up on food.
He wonders if he had the right idea in lying to Candace about why they needed additional groceries. She can panic all she needs when he gets home, but alone with the kids, whose on state of mind is a mystery, Phil wants her calm.
Aisle by aisle he fills a cart with peanut butter, crackers, canned beans and vegetables, granola bars, and paper goods. He’s glad to see the store is well stocked with batteries, duct tape, and first aid supplies. These are unnecessary precautions, he tells himself. Tomorrow he will go back to work, the kids will go back to school, and the country will work itself towards normal; unless it doesn’t.
At the check out the cashier is a young guy, probably in his late teens maybe fresh out of high school. He works slower than Phil would like.
“Crazy day out there, huh,” the cashier says.
“Yeah,” Phil responds.
He wants to grab the groceries from the checkout counter and run out of the store all the way home, leaving the car for another day to just get this journey over with. In the same moment, he wants to be the kind of guy who doesn’t cut off the young cashier and says something friendly and hopeful to make this poor kid’s day easier.
“Have a nice day,” Phil says when the last items are bagged and his credit card clears. The cashier responds in kind with a hollow tone. They both know these words are meaningless today but don’t know what to say instead.
In the parking lot Phil balances three bags in each hand. The heaviest bag, leaden with batteries and jugs of filtered water, sags in his fingers. There are indents in his knuckles when he drops the bags in the car. They’ll stay in the trunk, he decides, only needed in an event of an emergency which he does not want Candace to be afraid of. A few months from now Phil will remember the bags and will move them into the basement storage area when he arrives home late after Candance is already asleep. He’ll hope the provisions blend in with their other bulk stacks of pasta boxes, toilet paper, canned goods, and the other miscellany that Candace keeps track of to help the house run.
After hours in the car, this last trip from the grocery store to his house is painfully quick. Phil hits every green light and is home in record time. The neighborhood is quiet. No kids play outside on this beautiful day, just a few dogs bark in the distance.
When he pulls into the garage Phil braces himself to go inside to find that his body isn’t ready to move. He heaves a deep sigh and lets tears fall until he has none left for himself and is ready to manage those of his family. He rolls up his sleeves so the damp edges he used to wipe off the tears aren’t visible. In the rear mirror he blinks quickly in the hopes that his eyes will look less red. There’s no more time. He leaves the car and goes inside.
*
Candace chops up a head of broccoli with imprecision. Three chicken breasts rest in a Ziploc bag in the fridge to marinate in Italian salad dressing. She’s picked out a box of Rice-A-Roni from their stock in the basement to go as a side.
Part of her feels ridiculous as she whittles the stalk from the head to make little bite sized pieces that the kids will tolerate. She wants to put a frozen pizza in the oven and sit them in front of a Disney movie in the basement while she has wine for dinner and watches the news and Phil fends for himself.
The oven beeps to let her know it has preheated and is ready for the chicken. She lays out the three lean slabs of meat onto a roasting pan. They feel slimy in her hands with the marinade coating them. She places them in the oven then washes her hands. The cucumber melon soap from Bath and Body Works is artificially sweet when mixed with the scents of raw chicken and salad dressing.
She fills two pots with water to place on the stove. One will be filled with a steamer basket full of broccoli, the other will cook the rice. She watches the timer for the chicken count down, down, down while she waits for the water to boil. In the background she can hear Phil pacing around his office. He’s on the phone, but she doesn’t know who he’s talking to. Most likely the Senator, or maybe he finally called his parents to let them know he’s alright. This is one of those tasks that he would like Candace to do for him, his mother loves her after all, but she knows they will want to hear his own voice today the same way she did.
From the basement she can hear the television. She has no idea how many hours of Nickelodeon Artie has consumed today, nor does she care, as long as he hasn’t flipped through the channels and caught any news. It’s quiet upstairs. Eliza is probably reading or knotting together one of those friendship bracelets she and her friends all learned how to make over the summer. Candace smiles as she thinks of the thin threaded bracelets that Eliza had dangling around her wrists and ankles. By the end of the summer the colors were unrecognizable as they had been washed out by chlorine and sunscreen. Those girls live in another cul de sac and go to one of the nearby Catholic schools, so Candace isn’t sure if Eliza will be able to maintain the friendship. Her daughter doesn’t always make new friends very easily and this summer had been a pleasant surprise. Today, she feels summertime has ended with a crashing halt.
She worries about how Eliza will take all of this news. Artie is unlikely to remember much of today, she hopes, but Eliza pays attention to everything. Even at Artie’s age she had an eye and a memory for details that Candace would have preferred she just forgot. Every curse word or piece of gossip Candance had ever accidentally slip would be repeated by Eliza weeks or even months later, just as Candace had let herself believe that she was in the clear and Eliza didn’t notice or perhaps forgot. Someday she’ll have to confront Artie’s absentmindedness, but not today, certainly not this day.
On a normal day she’d ask the children to set the table, but today she wants to keep them occupied for as long as possible. She folds the napkins into neat triangles to be placed beneath the knives on the right side of the plate. With great care each child gets their favorite character cup, Lion King for Eliza and Pokémon for Artie, with wine glasses for her and Phil. In the wine fridge she finds a nice bottle of merlot for them to share with little doubt that they will open another as soon as the kids are put to bed. It will be a long night of keeping up with the new stories and making plans for the next day.
The four of them sit in the same seats at their square kitchen table for every meal: Phil sits across from Candace with his back to the doors which lead outside to their deck and her back to the hallway and foyer. Artie sits facing Eliza with his back to the television, in an attempt to distract him from the fact that he’s not watching TV, and Eliza’s back to the rest of the kitchen. She places their cups at the appropriate spots.
When the timer beeps for the chicken to be done she pulls it out to rest. The broccoli is done and gets tossed into a bowl with some olive oil and lemon juice while the rice–the rice! Candance realizes she didn’t set an additional alarm for the rice, which cannot be eyeballed the same as the broccoli. She takes the lid off the pot and is met with a plume of steam. The seared seasonings make her cough as she tries to stir the rice but is met with resistance. What few spoonfuls are not baked into the bottom and sides of the pot are a globby mess. She slams the spoon down on the counter and lets out a quiet “aw fuck” under her breath.
“Mom?” she hears Eliza ask behind her.
“Yeah,” she says still looking down at the pot of ruined Rice-A-Roni.
“What’s wrong? You sound mad.”
Candace has been caught once again.
“The rice burned,” she says.
She turns around to face Eliza. Her daughter’s hair is a mess. Now she wishes she had remembered to braid it this morning so that it would be nicely pulled away from her face. Otherwise, her daughter looks frighteningly similar to the way she did this morning in the same spot in the kitchen waiting for her lunch box. She wears the same denim shorts with an elastic waistband and a T-Shirt with a large yellow daisy pattern. How could this all be the same day?
“Can you please take out the bag of potato chips?” Candace asks, thinking on her feet. “We’ll have those with dinner instead of the rice.”
Eliza smiles. “Okay!”
Candace plates the chicken and the broccoli, one breast for her and Phil each and the third split in two for Eliza and Artie. Her attempt at normal has been thwarted. Never have potato chips been served at her dinner table.
“Phil, can you get Artie?” she hollers out. “It’s dinner time.”
Artie is as pleasantly surprised as Eliza when he sees the large opened bag of Lay’s potato chips sitting on their table. Candace doesn’t even place them into a chip bowl, just lets her children take handfuls of chips, as many as they want.
“This is great, thank you,” Phil says.
He doesn’t comment on the chips or the smell of burned food. Candace is grateful, until she wonders if this is perhaps not a sign of grace and rather evidence of how distracted her husband is by the day’s events.
No one asks how each other’s day was or what happened at school. They know the answers already, at least, they know enough to know that it’s not worth asking about. The dinner is eaten in near silence aside from Eliza and Artie’s compliments on the decision to serve potato chips with dinner. The rest of their meal is unnoticed.