All The Things We Didn’t Say. Sara Shepard

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СКАЧАТЬ front steps. The bags Steven had brought downstairs were waiting patiently at the curb next to an old diesel Mercedes, but Steven was standing in the middle of the street, his hands on his hips, glaring at Renee Klinefelter, our forty-something neighbor down the block. Renee was in her uniform, jeans cut off at the knees and a slightly-too-small black t-shirt that stretched tight over her paunchy stomach. As usual, her two grumpy-faced pugs flanked her, one on each side.

      ‘Don’t pull that amnesty stuff on me,’ Steven was shouting. ‘That bomb could have decimated one of our most vulnerable buildings. He should’ve been shot on the spot.’

      ‘So what do you suggest we do?’ Renee shouted back, spitting a little. ‘Deport everyone? Take away political asylum as a whole?’

      ‘If that’s what it takes.’

      ‘Some people need political asylum.’

      ‘And some people who have it like to blow things up.’ Steven was moving closer and closer to Renee’s face. ‘And do you realize you’re arguing for terrorism? You’re arguing for people with those ideals to…to infiltrate here and do this to us when we aren’t expecting it?’

      He wheeled around, glaring pointedly at Iqbal, who owned the M&J deli down the block. Iqbal had innocently walked into the street to check on the fresh flowers he sold, but when he realized Steven was near, he inched back inside. Steven had gone off on Iqbal a month or so ago-people from your country do this. How does that make you feel? Iqbal dealt with it quietly, neither calling the cops nor barring Steven from the store-although maybe he should have. During Desert Storm, there were several yellow ribbons affixed to Iqbal’s register. He still slipped me loose candy he kept in the plastic bins above the register, barrel-shaped Tootsie Rolls and mini York Peppermint Patties, whenever I went in there to buy a Coke.

      ‘If that van would’ve been a little closer to the concrete foundation in the basement, both buildings would’ve collapsed,’ Steven yelled to Renee. ‘Do you even realize that?’

      ‘Of course I realize that!’ Renee shouted. ‘But it doesn’t mean we should persecute everyone!’

      ‘You should do something,’ I murmured to my father, who, as usual, had halted, paralyzed, on the curb. He cradled his right hand in his left, running his fingers over the scar on his right palm he’d gotten a few months ago from the broken snow globe. The deep cut had healed, but he often thoughtfully traced the scar over and over, maybe finding the motion soothing, maybe remembering what happened. I never wanted to ask. A curious, passive crowd had gathered to watch Steven and Renee. People were stepping out of their buildings, heads tilted toward the noise, and passersby had paused, leaning against railings, reining in their dogs, trying to understand what was transpiring.

      I moved out to the street and pulled Steven’s arm. He wrenched it away without even looking at me. Renee leaned over like a bull ready to charge. My father, finally, pushed around me. ‘We have to go,’ he said in Steven’s ear. ‘You’ve made your point.’

      We both managed to pull Steven backwards, returning to our pile of luggage at the curb. Luckily, the car service rolled up then, and I waved it over. We threw our suitcases in the trunk fast, piling them on top of empty water bottles, frayed straps to secure luggage, and a little box that looked either like a tool kit or a small suitcase for a gun. Steven craned his neck to get a look at the driver, a pale man with high cheekbones. When he greeted us, he had a Staten Island accent. Visibly relieved, Steven got in.

      As we pulled away, Renee remained in the middle of the street, her stance solid and righteous. A man I didn’t recognize approached her, and Renee’s mouth started moving fast. It wasn’t hard to figure out what she was saying. Steven used to be such a nice boy, so quiet. And then all that happened, with the mother. What a pity.

      Steven ran his hand over his hair, which he’d recently taken my father’s beard clippers to. It was so short, I could see his skull in spots, pinkish and bumpy. ‘She started it,’ he muttered.

      ‘It doesn’t matter who started it,’ my father countered wearily.

      The car took the exit for the Brooklyn Bridge. There were the mammoth Lower Manhattan buildings from a different angle than how we saw them from our apartment. Looming atop the Municipal Building was the giant Civic Fame statue, a bronze woman holding a shield, a bunch of leaves, and a crown. The World Trade towers jutted up like two prongs of an electrical plug. Out of habit, my eyes drifted to the North tower-last February, terrorists drove the truck into its underground parking garage and set off a bomb. Steven knew every detail of the incident: the bomb was made of urea pellets, bottled hydrogen and various other things. It was supposed to go up the ventilation shafts and suffocate everyone working there. Officials found bombbuilding plans in one of the terrorist’s suitcases when he entered the country, but he claimed political asylum so they couldn’t arrest him on the spot. Because of that loophole, 1,042 people had been injured, and six people had died. The New York Times listed the names of the dead, but not all those who had been hurt. Every day, when the paper came, Steven leafed through it, maybe checking, though he never explained.

      Since then, whenever he wasn’t doing his NYU coursework, Steven read about airplane hijackings, bus attacks, and suicide bombings, most of which take place in far-flung countries like Lebanon, Sri Lanka, Israel. But Steven thought they could happen here, too. We could be walking down the street, he hypothesized, and boom. No more street. No more us. There was nothing we could do to control it.

      Our car reached the highest point of the bridge. I eyeballed twenty-two flights from the top of the North tower. The entire floor was dark.

      My father jiggled his legs up and down as we descended off the bridge and turned onto the looping road to the FDR. ‘Are you all right?’ I asked.

      ‘I’m fine.’

      ‘Are you sure you’re okay to drive?’ We were headed for a car rental agency in the Village.

      He shrugged.

      ‘I could drive,’ I volunteered.

      ‘You don’t know how to drive,’ Steven snapped.

      ‘Neither do you.’

      ‘I’ll drive,’ my father interrupted. ‘I’m the one who knows how to get there.’

      He looked longingly over his shoulder for a moment, back toward Brooklyn, pulling in his bottom lip until it vanished.

      ‘It’s only three days,’ I said in his ear. He nodded quietly, as if this were the vitamin he’d been looking for, as though these few, simple words had made everything better.

      Later, my father became talkative. ‘We couldn’t get that fishhook out of Petey’s foot, so we had to take him to the emergency room!’

      There was a pause. He swiveled his head around at me, taking his hands off the steering wheel. I realized I was supposed to be paying attention.

      ‘That’s funny,’ I sputtered.

      My father frowned. ‘It’s not funny, Summer. Petey’s dad’s car didn’t go much above forty-five. It took us over an hour to get to the hospital.’

      We passed a truck stop. McDonald’s, Arby’s, Dairy Queen. We passed a field of cows and then a field of horses. ‘This is the real Pennsylvania,’ my father yelled, his voice diffused through the open window. His accent СКАЧАТЬ