Day 13

So they made plans for me. Someone switched off the tv and insisted I take at least a drink of water if I wouldn’t eat, They started talking at me, to me and around me, my pastor, my friends and my neighbors, deciding that someone needed to drive me to Reagan National Airport to meet up with the other family members and see what information that American Airlines could give us. I had nothing to add, I could only cry as others decided what next. My pastor was always good at delegating responsibility and he asked Marvelette to take charge of Jay for today and tonight, got someone else to stay here and answer the phone and started trying to find someone to drive me into town.

Before the pastor could assign anyone or someone volunteered there was a knock on my front door. When the door swung open I could see my 11 year old son standing miserably on the front porch accompanied by the headmaster of his school, Pastor Morgan. Jay, poor Jay, had red eyes. He’d obviously been crying. The body language of both seemed to indicate that this was awkward for both of them.

Jay ran through the door and flung himself into my arms, breaking into sobs as he moaned, “Dad’s dead isn’t he? I just know he’s dead.” I knelt and hugged him tightly, finally getting a grip on my own tears. Now I just felt numb, I knelt in front of my son and told him, “Sweetie, we don’t really know for sure but, yeah, it looks like he went home to the Lord today. I’m going to the airport right now so we need to pack you an overnight bag and your school books because it might be late before I get home. You’re going to stay with Marvelette and Jimmy just for tonight.”

Jay hugged me tighter at my words and wouldn’t let go. He’d gone in an instant from being a 11 year old going on 35 to what he actually was, a little boy. Sophistication melted away in the face of his father’s death.

With a gentle touch and the kindest of voices Pastor Waverley steered Jay away from me with the murmured words, “Go get your things son. Your momma needs to leave, to go find out what happened.”

Jay ran to Marvelette and hugged her even tighter than he’d held onto me. I could imagine that her stalwart bulk and unchangeable nature was the very thing he needed in this exact moment. She was like a second mother to my son and I knew with him at her home I didn’t need to worry. She’d mother him all he needed at this time. I knew he loved being with her children, both older and younger than him. Her kind nurturing home was where he needed to be while I tried to determine what the outcome of today would be.

Pastor Waverley picked up his jacket from the bulging coat rack hanging in the tiny entryway between the living room, den and foyer, slipping it on and saying, “My dear, we need to go. Now go comb your hair and tidy up your appearance. I’ll be waiting in the car for you.” The one thing the group had concluded is that I was quite unable to drive myself to the airport and our pastor had been appointed to take on this task.

As I turned to go upstairs to my bedroom Pastor Morgan stepped forward, red faced and said in a quavering voice, “I’ll take her to the airport, that is where you’re going, correct? It’s no trouble.”

While I’d been reunited with my son Pastor Morgan I could see that he stood just inside the front door looking like a man who would rather be anywhere else in this universe than in my home. He shuffled nervously from foot to foot, looking like he was waiting for the very ground to open up and swallow him in one rapid earthen gulp. He added, “Waverly, I think you’re needed over at Bob Johnson’s house. His wife was also on the same plane with Michael Smith. I, I ran into a member of your church at the school, Barb Yowell, she told me about Bob’s wife.”

Before Pastor Waverley could reply Hannah jumped forward to gasp, “You.. Drive.. Mary Martha.. Alone? But what would people think? They’d talk!”

It was one of the few times I’ve seen my minister lose his temper as he whirled and snapped at Hannah Jenkins, the member of our congregation most prone to gossiping about others, “How can you think about things like chaperones at a time like this? Good gravy, woman, people are dead and our nation is torn into bits and all you can do is yammer on about improprieties.”

Hannah blushed to the roots of her hair, suddenly embarrassed to be put in the harsh spotlight like that and she took three steps back from Pastor Waverly, suddenly interested in the books in the shelve behind her.

Before I knew what had happened I found myself sitting in the passengers seat of Pastor Morgan’s newer Volvo station wagon. We rode along in silence in the deserted landscape. There were virtually no cars on the road going in the direction of the city, only a steady stream of commuter cars fleeing Washington DC, going in the opposite direction.

I remember staring out of the window thinking that a day that held such monstrous events shouldn’t be gloriously beautiful and sunny. It was a travesty. There needed to be gray skies, ominous thunderheads, lightening, tornados, driving rain. Not this serene turquoise sky filled with white fluffy cotton candy clouds.

Thankfully Pastor Morgan never tried to engage me in conversation during that long ride. He just kept driving the car. His own comments were every now and again he’d mouth some platitude about the goodness and mercy of God and I’d look at him like he had three heads. What type of freak was he?

I just simply could not wrap my mind around the idea that the man I loved, had loved for many years now, my soul mate, was gone, vaporized in an instant when his plane hit the Pentagon. I could not imagine a life that didn’t contain Michael, a long vista of lonely days and many tears. It wasn’t supposed to be like this, it wasn’t fair, I thought as I looked at the set grim faces in the vehicles leaving Washington.

When we arrived at the airport we walked right into Bedlam, a crazy house. It was crammed with people in states ranging from that of sheer panic to mild hysteria. A collection of misery, I thought as we walked past a group of people arguing with a ticket agent about the fact that the Federal Aviation commission had grounded all flights indefinitely. People were upset that they were literally stuck here. I don’t blame them.

For all Pastor Morgan’s silence and actions indicting a high level of personal uncomfortableness he managed to snag someone from American Airline and tell them that I was the widow of someone on Flight 77 and just like that we were taken to an abandoned flight lounge to sit with many others. I sat silently, now numb, looking around at the others, realizing they too had all lost someone they loved dearly. I was now at a state beyond prayer.

Eventually an airline rep came out and announced that yes, like we’d heard on the television, that there were no survivors on Flight 77. I barely heard the rest of what he said, something about each of us giving contact information to the airline and being taken to wait at a nearby hotel or going home and they would have more information and help in the morning for us.

I know I must have sat with someone official from the airline and given them some information but I have no memory of it. Just that suddenly we were in Pastor Morgan’s car again and he was asking me what I wanted to do, go to the hotel with the other victims families or go on back home and he’d drive me back in the morning.

As we were walking back to the car I’d noticed that I still wore my dirty garden clogs. I had a smear of mud on my right calf and dirt caked under my nails and for the first time I realized the picture I must present. Did I comb my hair at any point in the day? I just didn’t know.

“Can you take me to our condo in Crystal City?” I’d begged Pastor Morgan, indicating I wanted most desperately to at least change shoes and wash my hands before making any real decisions. He’d nodded yes before telling me I needed to give him directions.

Back when Michael and I had been newly weds, with him working as a junior attorney at a large firm in DC and I working shifts in ICU over at INOVA Hospital in Fairfax Virginia we’d decided to buy a place halfway between both. We’d ended up with a new condo in a high rise building near the Pentagon. We’d kept it all these years, even after we’d bought our farm and moved to the countryside. Michael stayed in our condo on those weeks when he was pulling long hours on a case and we all stayed there on weekends we visited the city. We’d rented it out for awhile when money was tight but for the last five years it had been exclusively our second home and a wise investment. It had quadrupled in value in the time we’d owned it.

When we’d driven past the Pentagon on our way to the condo I’d made Pastor Morgan stop the car. We’d stood on the wide concrete shoulder of the road and stared at the blackened hole in the side of the gray granite building. For the first time all day I’d been overtaken with uncontrollable wailing and I’d collapsed onto the pavement, making noises barely human. It felt like my heart had been ripped still beating from my body and I was dying.

Pastor Morgan sprung into action, scooping me up from the pavement to hold me tightly in his arms. I snuggled against his chest, against the black broadcloth of his clerical coat and wept as he whispered, “Shhh, shhh, I know, I know..” into my hair. We stayed like that for a long time, I could feel the light outside shifting into twilight before I looked up. He fished a handkerchief from his pocket and forced me to blow my nose like a child before he wiped my face and pressed the hankie into my hand.

It was almost full darkness before we got back into the car and continued on to my nearby condo. After parking under the building we took the elevator up to the seventh floor. Something had happened between Pastor Morgan and I when I’d started crying. Now he took almost a protective posture over me, helping me in and out of the car and standing here in the elevator with his arm around my back, patting me in a mindless comforting way.

He followed me as we walked down the long hallway leading to 710, the small two bedroom condo overlooking the Potomac. Fortunately I’d picked up my keys when I’d left the house and I quickly found the worn old key that opened up the first home I’d shared with Michael.

But as the door swung open I realized it wasn’t silent and dark as I’d imagined it would be. Light and noise pulsed from the nearby living room and we both stepped towards the sounds. What I’d seen knocked me for a loop, instead of a silent living room containing a tasteful collection of modern furniture in neutral shades what met my eyes looked like something out of a Playboy magazine. My husband, very much alive and wearing only boxer shorts and socks, was hopping around like a madman on a Dance Dance Revolution play mat in front of the television while one of the recent hits by a pop band blared from the TV speakers. I gasped in shocked, stepping backwards, bumping into Pastor Morgan right behind me.

But Michael wasn’t alone. Drinking from a full champagne flute and wearing only a filmy nightgown a tall red head sat on my sofa, my sofa, like she owned the place. I couldn’t help but notice the empty liquor bottles on the coffee table and the fact that the nightie sported by the other one was one of my older ones left in the closet here.

My shock increased as I realized that the other woman was my opposite in every way, she was tall to my short stature. My hand crept up to the kercheif on my head, feeling my braid as I eyed her glossy red curls. Red polished nails, makeup, even a glossy red lipstick, she looked like a model, beautiful and polished. Suddenly I was acutely aware anew of the mud on my legs, my dirty hands and gardening shoes.

They didn’t notice us for a few moments, so caught up in the game of Dance Dance Revolution they were. Eventually the woman spotted up, leaping up unsteadily from the sofa to shriek, “Mikey, who is this?”

I could feel Reverend Morgan tense up behind me, feel him clutch my arm and squeeze, seeking to show me silently his support for the difficult situation I found myself in suddenly. Michael sat down suddenly on the dance mat, his mouth a perfect O of confusion before he gasped out, “That’s my wife.”

The red head drunkenly wobbled over to him and tossed her champagne in his face as she shouted, “Your wife? You told me you were divorced.”

Before I could help myself I added my voice to the confusion before me, “Michael,” I gasped out red faced, “I thought you were dead. You are dead!”

He pulled himself up from the mat and swaggered over to me, “Look, none of this means anything. I was just having some harmless fun so I don’t get why you thought I was dead. So I lied about the LA trip. I’ve been working hard and need some relaxation.”

With his words I didn’t have time to formulate a response before the other woman erupted in a volley of curses, “Not mean anything, you bastard, you dirty bastard. You told me you loved me!” She stomped off and slammed the bedroom door so hard that a nearby picture fell from the wall, glass shattering all over the wood floor.

An idea dawned in my head, unbelievable almost given the scope of this day and all that had happened, “Michael,” I asked, “did you spend the day in here with her drinking? Have you not looked at the news or switched on the television?”

For years Michael had struggled with alcohol and I’d thought he’d been sober for a long time now but after this discovery I wondered how many of these benders, hidden lost weekends, he’d managed to pull without my notice. He seemed a little too casual and unrepentant for this to be a one of.

“And why would I be sitting around looking at the television during the day? I have to work for a living.” Michael snarled, touching on something we’d fought about for years. He hated the fact that I stayed home to run the farmette and raise Jay. He wanted me to work full time because when I had worked I’d pulled down serious money in nursing. I tried to explain to him time and time again that to earn top dollar I too would have to drive into the city every day. I wasn’t willing to leave Jay so far from parental care daily.

“Terrorists,” I gasped out, tears coming finally as I realized my entire marriage was a sham, a carefully constructed lie, “Terrorists flew planes, the plane you were supposed to be on, into the Pentagon and the World Trade Center. I thought you were dead, I came up here to talk to the airline.”

Realization dawned on Michael and he moaned out, “Oh God!”, suddenly sober as he reached to switch on the news. He slumped down on the sofa.

Throughout all of this Pastor Morgan had remained silent, standing just outside of the living room in the hallway. He’d barely shifted when the mystery woman had brushed past him first to get into the bedroom for her clothes and later to storm out of the front door. He simply stared sadly at Michael and myself, a unwilling witness to the end of our marriage.

The conversation that followed Michael’s realization that our world had changed forever was a painful one. In light of the tragedy before us Michael simply came clean, he told me what was in his heart and his mind.

As the years had passed he’d turned from a conservative Christian into someone that no longer believed in God. He hated our church, hated all the fools he saw before him and felt disconnected from me because I still embraced fully our church and our life. This surpassed simply growing apart, it was more like we inhabited different planets. He was city bound, liking the modern times and freed from the constraints of faith while I was increasingly drawn into the world of being a Proverbs 31 wife, faithful, thrifty, Godly and righteous. The lines were drawn.

The most shocking part of my husband’s suddenly candid announcement was that he hadn’t loved me for a very long time. He stayed with me just for the sake of Jay he said, he had never really loved me. Why marry me, I’d wailed to him. He looked at me like I was crazy but had no answer. I knew he was lying to himself to self justify his addictive behaviors but it still hurt, knowing I’d been convenient only, not much loved. Had I misjudged him that much in the years we’d spent together?

He ended his diatribe by asking me for a divorce. “I just want to be free, free of you, free of Jay, free of Plover Creek and it’s hordes of hypocrites. You can have the farm free and clear but I want my freedom regardless of what it costs.”

I reminded him that the church frowns upon divorce and I couldn’t willingly go along with his attempts to shed me like a discarded worn out pair of pants. “Please, Mar,” he begged, “If you ever truly loved me you’d give me my freedom. I swear I’ll keep supporting Jay but I am getting a divorce. You can either cooperate or not.”

I can’t say I was entirely shocked because I’d known something was wrong between for a long time. He spent longer hours at work and here, at the condo, away from Jay and I. I knew now that he’d been living as he pleased as a virtually single man. He’d been defensive and touchy for years now but I never dreamed it would come to this.

Mostly I was glad Michael was alive. In my heart I believed we belonged together and this was just a phase. If I gave Michael this freedom, allowed him to separate from me we’d end up back together. He’d realize how much he loved me, needed both Jay and I and Michael would return soon enough. I hated that he was drinking again and had been dabbling in infidelity but I knew he’d return.

Again, I told him I’d give him time to decide what it was he really wanted, but that I would always welcome him home with open arms and forgiveness if he was truly ready to repent.

Michael had smiled at me suddenly, amused by my assumption that he would tire of single life and he murmured, “But Mar, that’s not going to happen. I’m not going to suddenly give up this life, my life, the right thing for me, just because I made a mistake by getting married in the first place all those years ago. I’m not the marrying type. I ignored my inner misgivings and marrying you. Huge mistake. I only married you because all my friends had gotten married and everyone was pressuring me to the do the same thing. I tried your boring life. I’m not a farmer, I’m not a preacher, I have to be true to who I am.”

But this was too much for me to digest I broke down weeping at his words. Mistake? I thought we’d been happy, well, mostly happy anyway despite a few nasty intervals early on. Michael let me cry, not moving any closer as I wailed but Reverend Morgan moved into the room to sit next to me and hug me tightly. Michael shrugged and walked away, picking up pieces of discarded clothing as he called over his shoulder to us, “Should I stay till she’s calmer?”

Pastor Morgan replied in a deceptively quiet voice, “No, you’ve done enough. Leave us please.”

Michael stopped in the hallway, “But this is my home. You leave. Both of you. Mar, I’ll be in touch to make arrangements to move my things.”

And that’s how we left it. I limped out moaning and wailing, in the arms of Reverend Morgan. Passersby in the underground garage stared at us as if we were dangerous, he in his black ministerial get up and me looking like a good little fundie wife. It was some time before I could quit shaking. Pastor Morgan waiting patiently with me in the car while I tried to get a hold of my emotions. We sat in silence in the dark garage for a long time. I had lost all track of time, day or night, time, season or any other identifying factor. This was the endless day.

But eventually he did start the car and away we went. I remember blinking in confusion under the orange sodium arch street lights, wondering how much longer this hellish day would take. A solemn hush had fallen over our area, there was almost no traffic, the skies were utterly clear of the screaming jets usually circling overhead, it was like the world was ours alone.