Pinky

a last call from the burning tower sent abel on a desperate quest

I was stuck at Norfolk International Airport for seven hours on September 11. I had flown down there the night before to give a Tuesday-morning talk to an important group of educators about the reading habits of teenagers in the inner city. I had been working as a researcher, studying adolescent school behavior and doing postdoc work at NYU for the past six years, but this was the first time I had been called upon to discuss my findings.

The conference was canceled, of course. Thousands dead and the world on the brink of war; no one seemed to care about much other than the television news reports.

Everybody was talking about the World Trade Center and the number of bodies, about terrorists and the Middle East, as if the Middle East had never existed before that day. Pictures of men and women in traditional Arabic and Islamic dress appeared now and then on the airport TV screens. The president spoke and everyone listened closely, and afterward they discussed his innuendos and the possible ramifications.

But mostly they talked about the dead and expressed shock that terrorists could be so cunning and evil. People cried and held on to one another. I saw the towers fall dozens of times on CNN.

''Terrible, terrible,'' a woman sitting next to me said over and over. I finally had to move away from her.

I've lived in New York for 13 years, but I couldn't think of anyone I knew who worked in the towers, or even near them. The spectacle was terrifying--the jet almost languidly gliding until it exploded into a fireball against the tower.

I was upset about the death and devastation, but I was also upset that the conference had been canceled. This was going to be my big chance. There were people in attendance who might have given me a good job in one of the larger school systems, or maybe even a tenure track at a university. I really didn't see why one tragedy should stop a whole nation from functioning.

''You look so sad,'' a gray-haired woman said to me. ''Did you have someone in the towers?''

''No,'' I said. ''I don't think I did. I mean, I don't know of anyone. No.''

I excused myself because I was ashamed to admit I was worried about a job I might have lost because of the terrorist attack.

To get away from her pitying eyes I went to the ticket counter, hoping there might be a cleared flight going near New York.

I stood in line behind a young woman who wore a shark-gray business suit with a short skirt and dark stockings. She was weeping and kept touching her heart and her head with delicate, restless hands. I tried not to make eye contact with her. Every time it seemed as if she might turn in my direction I glanced up at the departures board or concentrated on the flight schedule in my hand, pretending to be absorbed in its numbers and lines.

''Excuse me,'' she asked nonetheless. ''Excuse me, sir.''

''Me?''

''Is your cell phone working?'' she asked in a strained tone. ''I keep trying to call Kim, but I can't get through on mine.''

She held the phone out in a helpless gesture. I handed her my Nokia and opened the timetable again. It afforded me a kind of solace, the certainty of flights scheduled to take off and land with regularity. I yearned for a world like that, a world where I could give my talk and take my plane, get to my destination without delays and grief-stricken, slim-waisted girls.

''This damn phone doesn't work, either,'' she said, thrusting the sleek little knob back into my hand. ''Nothing fucking works.''

I shrugged. ''I'm sorry,'' I said.

She started crying again, grabbing my jacket. I put a hand on her shoulder and she seized me around the waist. I felt uncomfortable, but didn't know how to stave her off. Her need was so great that I was paralyzed by it.

''It's your turn,'' I said to her when the ticket counter was free.

She went toward the woman standing there but didn't let go of me. She pulled me along like I was an aluminum walker.

''My name is Lenora. My sister works in the towers,'' the young woman was saying. ''I can't call her and I have to get back there. I have to look for her. I . . . I. . . .''

The attendant began crying along with Lenora. She was tall with yellow hair. She had color in her face, whereas Lenora was dark-haired and pale. The attendant came out from behind her post and folded the sad girl in her arms. The embrace included me, at least the arm that Lenora still held on to.

They cried together, and, for a moment, I yelped and cried real tears. But that was over as soon as it started. I didn't have a sister named Kim in the fallen towers.

''There won't be any flights, honey,'' the attendant said. ''Every airport in America is closed.''

I didn't believe that. Nothing could close down America, I thought.

''If you want to get back you'll have to drive or take the train,'' the attendant said.

''I don't drive,'' the young woman said. ''Kim is the one with the license.''

''I could drive you,'' I said, surprising myself. ''I could.''

We were able to get the last car in the last lot we visited. It was a Jaguar convertible for $300 a day, but we could return it in New York and Lenora told me she'd pay half the expenses.

We took Highway 64 to I-95 and that to the Jersey Turnpike. All the way, Lenora talked about her sister, listened to the news, tried to call New York and touched her heart and head.

''Kim is my big sister,'' she said. ''She always took care of me. When I decided to leave Oakland and come to New York, my parents tried to stop me. But Kim called them and said, 'Are you crazy? There's more crime in the Bay Area than there is in New York. And anyway, I can look after her here. She'll be safer with me than anywhere else.'

''Do you think she's OK?''

''Sure, I bet she is,'' I said. ''The way it sounds, most people got out. And she was in the south tower, right?''

''I think so. I'm not sure. I couldn't visit her because of my job at Landers and Landers. It's a really good job. Kim even said so. But I have to work a lot and then I'm on the road.''

''Yeah,'' I said. ''Sounds like a really good job.''

''What do you do, Abel?'' she asked me after four hours of driving.

''I study teenagers, their general habits. Reading, sex, popular culture.''

''You're at a university?''

''NYU. I have a research position.''

''Can't you drive faster?'' she said. ''The cops won't stop us. Not tonight. They have to protect the airports. How could anybody do that? How could they kill so many innocent people without even knowing them?

''Could you put the top down?'' she asked then. ''Please.''

''It'll be cold,'' I argued. ''With the wind and all.''

''I need open space. I'll go crazy if I don't get it.''

After a while the cold didn't bother me much. Lenora wrapped herself in a sweater and mumbled about her sister.

I wanted to ask her what floor her sister worked on. But then I worried that she might be on an upper level. I couldn't bear if it Lenora got any more upset.

We had to go up to the George Washington Bridge because the tunnels were closed for fear of more attacks. The wait at the bridge was long because many of the cars were being searched for weapons and bombs.

''Where you coming from?'' a big cop with a red nose asked me.

''Norfolk, Officer,'' I said. ''We were stranded at the airport there.''

''Why do you have the top down?'' he asked.

''It was warmer down South,'' I said meaninglessly.

He didn't argue and waved us on.

I let Lenora off at 89th and Broadway. She left without saying goodbye or leaving me a number. I was almost home before realizing I couldn't call to get her half of the expense--I didn't even know her last name. I drove to my neighborhood and parked on the street. I figured that alternate-side parking would be suspended, and it was too late to hope that the car rental office would be open.

From the fire escape of my apartment on Sullivan I could see the great wraithlike cloud of smoke in the gap left by the towers. The cloud was illuminated by the lights of the rescue effort and in stark contrast to the blackness of the sky. There was an acrid odor in the air, and people wandered aimlessly down the street. I fell into my bed fully dressed and was immediately asleep.

The next morning I watched the news for three and a half hours. After that I played music and watched the Cartoon Network. I read a book by Platonov called Happy Moscow that a grad student named Nina Trivet had loaned me. The rental company said on the phone that they weren't taking back cars that day; they said I could bring the car in free of charge at the end of the week. I knew then that America had been deeply wounded. When businesses throw away their profits, you know that in their hearts they feel the end is near.

(continued on page 112) Pinky (continued from page 72)

There were messages on my answering machine, but instead of retrieving them I called my mother's number in Atlanta--27 times before finally getting through.

''Hey, Mama. It's me, Abel.''

''Thank God. Are you OK?''

''Fine. How are Carter and Mary?''

''They're out buying groceries and bottled water. Are you OK?''

''Yeah. Yeah, fine. I was stuck in Norfolk, but I rented a car and drove home.''

''You should have come down here,'' she said. ''They say New York is on fire.''

''Just the WTC.''

''It's terrible, terrible. How could anyone do something like that?''

''I don't know, Mama. It's really bad. I guess it could have been worse, though. It was early enough that not everybody was in and the south tower had already begun evacuating--''

''Terrible,'' my mother said. ''Do you have fresh water?''

''I should go,'' I said. ''I'll try to call back tonight.''

''I'm glad your stepfather didn't live to see a day like this.''

''Bye, Mama. I'll call later when Carter and Mary get back.''

I had 17 messages, most from acquaintances in the city. Alan Cartier, the director of the education program, called (actually his secretary did) to tell me the center would reopen Friday. Nina Trivet wanted to know if I could get together for coffee--to talk. My friend Alex Sartell had volunteered for the rescue operation and asked if I'd go, too.

I didn't hear all of the messages because of the eighth one. It was a man's voice with lots of noise in the background--people calling to one another and something like static.

''Pinky? Pinky, are you there, baby? I have to talk fast, honey. There's been an explosion or something like that, and there's fire and smoke rising through the building. The exits are blocked and, oh God, Pinky. Whatever else I ever did, I love you, baby. I'm gonna try and make it down, but it doesn't look good--''

I couldn't tell if he'd hung up the phone or was cut off. I played the message again. His voice was strained, but he wasn't yelling or even desperate. I figured that he had to be in the north tower because he didn't refer to the first explosion.

I replayed the message. The noise in the background was probably the wind coming through shattered windows. The people I'd heard talking were actually shouting. They were dying, I thought. I was afraid to hang up, worried that the message might be lost because of some aftereffect of the collapsed towers. I found a pencil and notepad and wrote down the message word for word. I had to listen to it 11 times before I was sure it was right.

The only name the man mentioned was Pinky. He didn't say his own name or where he was calling from. I didn't know the company he worked for. He'd probably misdialed. My message was the one automatically provided by the answering service--maybe Pinky had the same one. If it were just one digit off, there were 70 possible configurations, and some of those were impossible--like making the first digit a 1 or a 0. I called all of the valid numbers. There were 48. Twenty-six people answered. There was one fax machine, four calls went unanswered, and the rest were answering services or machines. I asked for Pinky at every number, but no one who answered even knew anyone by that name. I left my number on the answering machines, saying I had an important message for someone named Pinky.

I wrote down all the numbers in a spiral binder with a turquoise cover. Next to each number I scribbled a note such as Machine Answered, Left Message, or didn't know Pinky or anyone in WTC. It took more than two hours to make the calls. Somewhere in the middle of that I wondered if the caller had misdialed two or more numbers. How many variations could there be? Every number in the 212 area code.

I wondered if Kim had survived the collapse, if Lenora was sitting with her sister now, smiling or crying, planning to move back to Oakland.

I waited by the phone for the rest of the day, the Cartoon Network playing in the background. Every now and then I'd turn to the news. Calls had come in from the downed planes. The Pentagon was still on fire. The jet in Pennsylvania might have been taken over by some of the passengers before it crashed. Thousands were feared dead but less than 100 bodies had been recovered. Most of America was closed for business.

At five the phone rang.

''Hello?''

''Mr. Garnett?'' a woman's voice asked.

''Yes?''

''You called Pinky,'' she said.

I realized that all the years of my life my mind had been filled with nonsense and chattering. I became conscious of it because for the first time the background noise ceased. It was as if my entire life had been leading toward that moment, when I could pass a dying man's words to someone he'd loved and reached out to in the last minute of his life.

''Yes, I did.''

''Well, um, she doesn't work here anymore, but I would be happy to take your order. You realize, of course, due to the situation, we wouldn't be able to make delivery until after the emergency has subsided.''

''What?''

''What kind of computer would you be needing, Mr. Garnett?''

''Computer?''

''Yes,'' she said. ''You were calling Computer Leasing Associates, weren't you?''

''I wanted to talk to Pinky,'' I said.

''But we don't have a Pinky here, sir. I'm calling you from my home. I picked up your message off the office machine--''

I slammed the phone down so hard that the plastic guard popped off the receiver. The phone still worked, but now the metallic insides were jabbing against my ear. I had to tape the guard back on.

I went to the market later that night and bought bottled water and NyQuil.

The next morning I woke up a little hungover from the cold medicine. I had to take it four times during the night in order to stay asleep. I kept waking up, thinking about the man who'd called Pinky. I also wondered about Lenora.

Later that day, I made my way down to ground zero, as the news was calling it. Policemen were standing guard near the disaster. I don't know if they would have let me in as a relief worker. I didn't ask.

I stopped at a phone booth and called the operator. After a long time, someone answered.

''I got a phone message yesterday from a man who was in the north tower, I think,'' I said. ''I'd like to know if I could trace it back to the phone that made it.''

''Why?'' she said, not unkindly. ''The tower's down now.''

''But it was a wrong number. I want to find out who he was so that I can tell his family what he said.''

(continued on page 144)Pinky (continued from page 112)

''Most of the records for those calls were destroyed in the attack, sir. And even if they weren't, the calls probably came from an internal exchange. There's no telling what specific phone was used or who was on it.''

When I got to my door the phone was ringing, but I just missed it. The message was from Nina Trivet.

''If you're too freaked out to leave your house, it's OK,'' her message said. ''But just call to tell me you're OK.''

I'd always liked Nina. We'd been in the same department for four years. Now and then she'd audit one of my classes. She liked me but always seemed to have a boyfriend. The newest one was a rugby player named Cyril who was an anthropologist from Manchester. I didn't call her because I was afraid that we'd do something foolish in the mood of the attack. Instead, I walked up to the convention center to see if I could lend a hand to the rescuers.

It was a lovely day. Some people in the street seemed sad and lost, as I'm sure I did, but others were talking, some even laughed. Sirens blared up and down the avenues. Fighter jets roared overhead.

The workers at the convention center said they didn't need any volunteers, but they took down my name and number. I bought the three city papers and studied the articles about the victims, hoping to find a mention of someone named Pinky. Then I wandered back toward my neighborhood.

The police stopped me at a blockade set up at Eighth and 14th.

''You work down here?'' a brawny young policeman asked.

''No,'' I said. ''I live here.''

''ID,'' he said.

I reached for my wallet, but it wasn't there. I had put it in my knapsack when the bridge cop asked for it.

''I must have left it at home.''

The policeman sent me toward a group of six officers standing in the middle of the street.

''What's your business here?'' a gray-haired man asked. He had the insignia of some kind of higher-ranking officer.

''I live on Sullivan.''

''You from this country?'' another cop asked.

''What?''

''You heard the man,'' said a third cop, a black guy.

The hazy funk I'd been under lifted for a brief moment.

''My mother is a black woman from Decatur,'' I said. ''But my father's Irish. I take after him, that's what my mother says. They separated when I was nine.'' I added the last line in a lame attempt to show that I was just another American trying to make it through life.

They asked for my address and Social Security number. When they asked where I worked, I lied and said I was a computer salesman because I thought they might have been more suspicious of a university researcher.

That night I tried the four telephone numbers that hadn't answered. No one knew a Pinky or anyone who went by that name.

I went down to ground zero again the next day, trying to find a news crew who might be interested in my story. Maybe they could broadcast the message. But most were too busy to talk to me, and for the few who would, my story seemed to go on too long. One woman from a New Jersey radio station took my number. She said she'd call me when the emergency died down.

The next day notices started appearing on walls and bulletin boards around the Village. Copies of photographs of the victims, with their names and the phone numbers of their families. Lost children and husbands, fathers-in-law and aunties, friends and lovers, firemen and policemen. I studied every word of every poster I saw. At St. Vincent's Hospital there were hundreds of them, some with the most intimate details: the tattoo of a red cardinal on an inner thigh, a missing baby finger on a left hand. One man was said to have smiling eyes.

The families and friends of the missing were there at the hospital and later at the bereavement center. I wandered among them asking if anyone knew a Pinky, saying I had a message. people were mostly kind.

One woman asked me if I had lost someone. When I told her no, she touched my cheek and shook her head. It felt as if she were sorry for me, that without something, anything, even loss to hold on to, I lacked a center or purpose. I knew this was crazy, but that's how it seemed to me.

After three days of wandering among the families of the lost, I decided to make my own poster. Alan Cartier had called me himself that morning asking if I were all right and saying, in an uncharacteristically kind manner, that I was expected to be back at work. I had unplugged my phone by that time. I didn't want to talk to anybody, except about Pinky. That was my job, given to me by the unnamed victim who represented everyone who had died. I felt that if I could connect the dying man's words with the faceless, even genderless Pinky, I would have done what I could.

Pinky was my American flag, my stand against terrorism.

I typed out a message that was too sterile and staid. So I wrote it out in bold print: Pinky's name followed by an exclamation mark even bolder.

My bank account was getting low, so I went to the education office at the university to use their copy machine. While the posters were running off, Nina Trivet saw me from the hall.

''Abel,'' she cried. She embraced me and kissed me on the lips, leaving them moist and cool.

''Hey, Nina. Hey,'' I said. ''Sorry I didn't call you. I don't know, but I just can't seem to return any calls. I--''

''It's OK,'' she said, taking my hand. ''I understand. I just wanted to make sure you were fine.''

''The police stopped me at the blockade on 14th,'' I told her. ''I think they thought I was a terrorist.''

''Do you think there'll be a war?'' she asked.

''No,'' I said. ''I can't see that. I mean, we don't even really know who did it.''

''The president thinks so,'' she said.

''Wasn't it great how Mayor Giuliani was down there helping and keeping things together?''

''I have to put up these posters,'' I said.

Nina read the message and asked, ''What is this?''

I told her about the phone message and she agreed to help me. We decided the Village was the best place to put them up. I thought we should go out separately, but Nina wanted to stay with me and I guess that turned out better, because we were able to talk.

Cyril was in Britain, but due back in a few days. After the attack, he had proposed to Nina over the phone.

''I wasn't really thinking about marriage before,'' she said. ''But now everything seems so, so . . . I don't know. It just seems like we have to do something with our lives. Not just study or go out. Something meaningful and real.''

After we had put up 100 posters we stopped for coffee at Cafe Borgia II.

''Dr. Cartier has been asking about you, Abel,'' Nina said.

She was a small woman, almost 30, with brown hair and one freckle in the middle of her chin. She was a runner and proud of her strong legs. Her short skirts were often discussed among the male professors and grad students.

''Yeah,'' I said. ''I'm going to call him in a couple of days. I just have to work this Pinky thing out first.''

''You're not the only one who has stayed away,'' Nina said. ''He's getting pretty mad. You know he's kind of a hawk. He wants to dismiss any employee who doesn't show up by the end of the week.''

I walked Nina to her apartment building. She invited me upstairs, but I declined. She kissed me goodbye, on the lips again. I wiped my mouth afterward, and I think she was hurt.

I went home and watched The Powerpuff Girls and Dexter's Laboratory, took a double dose of NyQuil and fell asleep. In the middle of the night I awoke and called my message service. I skipped the new messages and listened once again to the last cry for Pinky.

The day we started bombing Afghanistan, I found that the message for Pinky had been automatically deleted from my service. I called to see if I could get it back, but the operator didn't even know who I could ask. I had a few calls from family members of victims, hoping that the message was for them. I never went back to my job. My brother, Carter, lent me enough money for three months' rent. Nina got engaged to Cyril and asked him if I could be the best man.

I've been staying at home, trying to remember how it felt to want to be an expert on adolescent sex problems and reading habits. That's really what I'd wanted before I got the message. But now I don't know. My mother tells me I have to snap out of it, that I have to get to work.

''You'll be homeless,'' she warns me. It doesn't seem to matter much. Nothing does. Maybe in a week or two I'll do something. I don't know what it will be. Maybe I'll go to Australia and look for work as a teacher among the aborigines. Maybe I'll go back to Georgia, look up my father and see if I really do resemble him.

"Are you there, baby? I have to talk fast, honey. There's been an explosion or something.''

After three days of wandering among the families of the lost, I decided to make my own poster.