III
I must rise, Ariana told herself, be on my feet, do something. For how long have I been sprawled on this floor, back to the wall, the television images blaring at me from across the room. An eternity.
But no, a glance at the clock assured her, it was not yet mid-morning in Santa Fe, not yet noon on the east coast despite the quick succession of cataclysmic events in New York and Washington over a mere few hours. The TV coverage seesawed back and forth between the two cities, abruptly switching from the carnage in the streets of Manhattan to that on the lawns of the Pentagon. Journalists in desperate, futile attempts to seek focus amid chaos.
Ariana went to her computer. No delay, nothing out of the ordinary to prevent access of the server and go online. But there was no incoming e-mail. Too soon, she rationalized. Even if Annalisa is perfectly all right, I can't expect communication from her until critical emergencies are met.
Mayor Rudy Giuliani was videoed, stripped of gas mask, leading a group toward Church Street, urging ghostly, ash-caked survivors to "Go north!" President George W Bush was shown receiving whispered news from an aide of the attack on his nation while visiting second-graders at Emma E Booker Elementary School in Sarasota, Florida. Ariana watched Bush's tense and serious expression turn, as the magnitude of tragedy registered, distracted and somber. But he rallied, and resumed interaction with the class. "Really good readers," he told the children. "Whew! These must be sixth-graders!"
Where was he now? No one seemed to know; reporters speculated that the President was aboard Air Force One being whisked away to a secret national command center outside the threatened Capitol.
Ian. Claus. You were both so convinced that you'd helped win insulation from ravishment of the United States, that it could never happen here. And I believed you were right. Annalisa, did you ever for a moment consider that the tower in which you worked might come thundering to the ground? Were you there today, are you there now? Or are you-I need to hope-in the hellish street of flight with Giuliani, in your uptown apartment safely distant from the downtown horror, stranded somewhere enroute to Kennedy International to meet my canceled flight?
Busy yourself, woman. Fill the hours until there is more reliable data on what has happened, is happening. But there was really no alternative to watching developments on television. Ariana remained standing, mesmerized by the broadcasts of horror. She did not hear the knock on the front door, or know that Marquita had entered her home until the neighbor approached and embraced her.
"Ariana, come, sit."
Marquita led her into the kitchen, and gently eased Ariana into a chair. On the table were a tray of food and a thermos of coffee which Marquita had carried across the compound. She fetched cups, and poured coffee.
"The tortillas are fresh, I just made them. Eat something."
Ariana twisted in her chair, looking back toward the living room and the television.
"You've always loved my flour tortillas," Marquita said. "But if not those, try an empanadita. You must keep up your strength. For whatever's ahead for you, ahead for all of us."
Ariana pushed aside the food and drink. "We've got to keep the phone line open," she said.
"I know. That's why I didn't phone again, why I'm here instead. Have you heard from any one?"
