Falling Man

She stopped at Harold Apter’s office in the East 80s on her way to 116th Street. She did this periodically, dropping off photocopies of her group’s written pieces and discussing their situations in general. This is where Dr. Apter saw people for consultation, Alzheimer patients and others.

Apter was a slight man with frizzed hair who seemed formulated to say fu

“From this point on, you understand, it’s all about loss. We’re dealing inevitably here with diminishing returns. Their situation will grow increasingly delicate. These encounters need space around them. You don’t want them to feel there’s an urgency to write everything, say everything before it’s too late. You want them to look forward to this, not feel pressed or threatened. The writing is sweet music up to a point. Then other things will take over.”

He looked at her searchingly.

“What I’m saying is simple. This is for them,” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“It’s theirs,” he said. “Don’t make it yours.”

They wrote about the planes. They wrote about where they were when it happened. They wrote about people they knew who were in the towers, or nearby, and they wrote about God.

How could God let this happen? Where was God when this happened?

Be

I am closer to God than ever, Rosellen wrote.

This is the devil. This is hell. All that fire and pain. Never mind God. This is hell.

Omar H. was afraid to go out on the street in the days after. They were looking at him, he thought.

I didn’t see them holding hands. I wanted to see that, Rosellen wrote.

Carmen G. wanted to know whether everything that happens to us has to be part of God’s plan.

I am closer to God than ever, am closer, will be closer, shall be closer.

Eugene A., in a rare appearance, wrote that God knows things we don’t know.

Ashes and bones. That’s what’s left of God’s plan.

But when the towers fell, Omar wrote.

I keep hearing they were holding hands when they jumped.

If God let this happen, with the planes, then did God make me cut my finger when I was slicing bread this morning?

They wrote and then read what they’d written, each in turn, and there were remarks and then exchanges and then monologues.

“Show us the finger,” Be

Lia

“God says something happens, then it happens.”

“I don’t respect God no more, after this.”

“We sit and listen and God tells us or doesn’t.”

“I was walking down the street to get my hair cut. Somebody comes ru

“I was on the crapper. I hated myself later. People said where were you when it happened. I didn’t tell them where I was.”

“But you remember to tell us. That’s beautiful, Be

They interrupted, gestured, changed the subject, talked over each other, shut their eyes in thought or puzzlement or in dismal re-experience of the event itself.

“What about the people God saved? Are they better people than the ones who died?”

“It’s not ours to ask. We don’t ask.”

“A million babies die in Africa and we can’t ask.”

“I thought it was war. I thought it was war,” A

Lia

Eugene A. was seventy-seven years old, hair gelled and spiked, a ring in his ear.

“I was scrubbing the sink for once in my life when the phone rings. It’s my ex-wife,” he said, “that I haven’t talked to in like seventeen years, is she even alive or dead, calling from somewhere I can’t even pronounce it, in Florida. I say what. She says never mind what. That same voice of no respect. She says turn on TV.”

“I had to watch at a neighbor,” Omar said.

“Seventeen years, not one word. Look what has to happen before she finally gets it in her head to call. Turn on TV, she tells me.”

The cross talk continued.

“I don’t forgive God what He did.”

“How do you explain this to a child whose mother or father?”

“You lie to children.”

“I wanted to see that, the ones that were holding hands.”

“When you see something happening, it’s supposed to be real.”

“But God. Did God do this or not?”

“You’re looking right at it. But it’s not really happening.”

“He has the big things that He does. He shakes the world,” said Curtis B.

“I would say to someone at least he didn’t die with a tube in his stomach or wearing a bag for his waste.”

“Ashes and bones.”

“I am closer to God, I know it, we know it, they know it.”

“This is our prayer room,” Omar said.

No one wrote a word about the terrorists. And in the exchanges that followed the readings, no one spoke about the terrorists. She prompted them. There has to be something you want to say, some feeling to express, nineteen men come here to kill us.

She waited, not certain what it was she wanted to hear. Then A

All along A

“If he has a heart attack, we blame him. Eats, overeats, no exercise, no common sense. That’s what I told the wife. Or he dies of cancer. Smoked and couldn’t stop. That was Mike. If it’s cancer, then it’s lung cancer and we blame him. But this, what happened, it’s way too big, it’s outside someplace, on the other side of the world. You can’t get to these people or even see them in their pictures in the paper. You can see their faces but what does it mean? Means nothing to call them names. I’m a name-caller from before I was born. Do I know what to call these people?”

Lia

“He dies in a car crash or walking across the street, hit by a car, you can kill the person in your mind a thousand times, the driver. You couldn’t do the actual thing, in all honesty, because you don’t have the wherewithal, but you could think it, you could see it in your mind and get some trade-off from that. But here, with these people, you can’t even think it. You don’t know what to do. Because they’re a million miles outside your life. Which, besides, they’re dead.”