Fontana - A widows walk

SIMON & SCHUSTER
Rockefeller Center
1230 Avenue of the Americas
New York, NY 10020
www.SimonandSchuster.com

Copyright 2005 by Marian Fontana
All rights reserved,
including the right of reproduction
in whole or in part in any form.

SIMON & SCHUSTER and colophon are registered trademarks
of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

Designed by Jeanette Olender

Manufactured in the United States of America

1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Fontana, Marian.
A Widows Walk / Marian Fontana.
p. cm.

1. Fontana, Marian. 2. September 11 Terrorist Attacks, 2001Personal narratives. 3. Fire fighters spousesNew York (State)New YorkBiography. 4. WidowsNew York (State)New YorkBiography. 5. Terrorism victims familiesNew York (State)New York. I. Title.

HV6432.7.F66 2005

974.7'1044'092dc22 2005049935

[B]

ISBN-13: 978-0-7432-4624-8
ISBN-10: 978-0-7432-4624-1
ISBN-13: 978-1-4391-2836-7 (ebook)

To my husband, Dave;
for our son, Aidan

A Widows Walk

My eyes creak open and try to read the red numbers, blinking 8:15 A.M. A surge of panic rushes through me. I am late for my sons second full day of kindergarten. I should have laid out his clothes and packed his lunch the night before, but the organizational gene is recessive in my family. I scramble into his room to find him a clean shirt.

Aidan! Wake up! I yell. Aidan is sleeping in the middle room of our small floor-through apartment. When he was a baby, I would tiptoe through his room so carefully, it reminded me of scenes from the movie Kung Fu , trying to walk on rice paper without making an indent. Even at five years old, Aidan still looks like a baby, his mouth hanging wide, cheeks flushed red like tempera paint. I watch the soothing rhythm of his chest rise and fall and I stop to fill my own lungs with gratefulness.

Cmon! Were late!

Aidan stirs and I rush into the kitchen to make lunch and call Dave at the firehouse on Union Street, eight blocks away. Last night we tried to have our usual eleven oclock phone call, but the Squads PA system was broken. Everything was accompanied by a deafening sound resembling a bee caught in a microphone.

I cant talk, hed said. This noise is driving me crazy.

Ten more hours and youll be on vacation for a month, I reminded him before hanging up. Dave wasnt supposed to be at work, but I had insisted he switch shifts to have our anniversary off.

Dave was excited by our plans to go to the Whitney Museum today. Now that Aidan was in school, he could pursue his art again, maybe even apprentice with someone well known. He was also considering massage school or going back to college to get a masters in history. He had lists of projects and ideas scratched on paper all over the house, ways to supplement his meager income until he was promoted.

Aidan shuffles into the kitchen and sinks into a chair. Im tired, he complains, plopping his head into his folded arms. I kiss his hair, inhaling the scent of sweat and baby shampoo, and dial the firehouse.

Squad One. Firefighter Fontana speaking.

Hey. Happy anniversary, I say.

You, too. He sounds exhausted. Ever since we returned from Cape Cod three weeks ago, Dave has been working extra shifts to pay back the firefighters who worked for him so he could go away. Smearing peanut butter on potato bread, I ask him when he will finish.

I just have to shower, he answers. I picture him grimy and smelling of smoke. When he caught a job and worked at a fire, he came home smelling like the bottom of a fireplace. Sometimes the sooty smell could linger for days, Q-tips turning black when he cleaned his ears.

Are you sure youre done? I ask, prying the jelly jar from the refrigerator shelf. Firefighters work two twelve-hour and two nine-hour shifts a week. At the end of his shift, he cannot leave until a member of the new crew arrives and is prepared to take his place. Since Dave is the only firefighter who lives in the neighborhood, he is often the last to go. Despite my complaints, Dave stays late so the other firefighters can begin their lengthy commutes home to Long Island, Rockaway, upstate, and Staten Island. One firefighter travels as far as Harriman State Park.

Yeah, Im done, he answers. I can tell he is as excited as I am to be together today. My neck hurts from squeezing the phone, and Aidan is asking for a waffle.

Im late. Where do you want to meet?

Connecticut Muffin in ten minutes? he suggests. I can hear the deep male voices in the kitchen, the coffee cups clanking into the sink. Some firefighters linger and talk to the incoming crew before they head home, to miss the rush hour and catch up with their friends. Usually they want to know about what kind of runs everyone went on the night before.

Okay. Ill see you at Connecticut Muffin in ten minutes, I repeat, and hang up. Thats it. No profound discussions. I cant even remember if I told him I loved him. We always did, but ingrained habits are forgotten sometimes, like leaving the coffeepot on or forgetting to lock the door.

8:36 A.M.

Outside the sky is so blue, it looks as if it has been ironed. Aidan is walking slowly, a squeeze yogurt hanging from his mouth. There was no time for waffles, and now I guiltily rush him the three blocks down 7th Avenue to his school.

At the corner near the school, local politicians are shaking voters hands while fresh-faced college students hand out flyers. Its Election Day. Id nearly forgotten. I try to get Aidan to walk faster, but he drags behind me like luggage.

Can we get an Anakin Skywalker toy after school? His little hand is warm and clammy. Even on busy days, I enjoy how it feels.

Uncle Jason is picking you up.

How come?

Its Daddys and my anniversary today.

Are you going to have a party?

No. Were going out in the big city.

Can I come?

No. You have school.

Can Jason buy me an Anakin?

If Aidan were a dog, he would be a retriever. I convince myself that his obsessive single-mindedness will serve him well someday as we cross the playground to the school door.

The kindergarten room is noisy and stifling. Aidan bounces toward his seat, oblivious to the little girl next to him crying noisily and clutching her fathers pants leg. I kiss Aidan good-bye on top of his head. His hair is so soft it feels like a new cotton pillow.

I love you, I say.

Love you, too, he answers distractedly.

Outside in the playground, I peek in the window. It is only the second full day of kindergarten, and I am nervous Aidan will miss me. A few other children are crying, but he is talking to a curly-headed boy next to him, his face expressive and sincere. His eyebrows bounce up and down like caterpillars dancing.

The air is warm and in it lingers the smell of summer. I spot my friend Kim, leaning on her blue Volvo and waving at me. Kim speaks crisply, filling her sentences with words I have to look up in a dictionary.

Im so glad I ran into you! Her wide cheeks spread into a smile. Im leaving for the Congo on Friday and I wanted to have a chance to see you.

Kim is a former member of my weekly writing group; she wrote elegant travel essays, until she left last year. Everyone in the group writes from experience. While I spent my teens poured into Sassoon jeans and listening to Led Zeppelin at keg parties, Kim contemplated the evils of apartheid on the dirty back roads of South Africa.