Absent Friends

Eventually someone would bring it up. This was the sort of juicy story that would have been irresistible when gossip was fun. No one had the heart for gossip now. But Marian was entwined in this story—much more than they knew—so someone was bound to bring it up. When they did, she would answer as honestly as she could, because these were her friends.

Marian listened to the talk around her and told herself she was glad that, for the time being, no one was asking. She told herself that their silence on this subject betokened nothing other than courtesy, an unwillingness to bring up what was sure to be a difficult subject, for her, their friend. She buttered bread with quick impatient strokes as she scolded herself for imagining that Ulrich, the most morally strident of them, had avoided her eyes since she'd sat down.

And she hoped that, when finally the topic came up, Sam would remain calm. It would only serve to make everyone uncomfortable if he exploded here the way he had in the office yesterday when the third Tribune article ran. Sipping her wine, Marian watched him. He and Clark were leaning toward each other, both talking at once, Clark shaking his head and laughing, Sam's hands in constant motion as he sketched out his points in the air. Sam caught Marian's eye, gave her a quick, private smile, said something in answer to Clark, and sliced at the air again.

For some time now Marian had been seeing younger men. She had been surprised to find herself drawn to the first one: Frank, a field director for Human Rights Watch. The difference in their ages was not so very great, but enough: Marian by then had roots, commitments, the quiet consolation of expected rhythms. Frank was like a dancing flame. He sought, incessantly, new things to illuminate and to feed on. When he was transferred to Prague, she had been relieved. And then two months later she found herself sitting over martinis with a Japanese video artist even younger than Frank.

The young men suited her in many ways. They had passion, they were tireless, in bed and in the world. Not yet weary, they saw the good in people, as Marian did, and also still had hopes (as Marian wished to have, but some days it was difficult) of helping it to blossom. Because they valued Marian's experience and fulsomeness, they were flattered by her attention, which flattered her in return.

And they were willing to move on. No matter their protests, their broken hearts, and their promises, Marian knew they would begin to forget her as soon as the door had closed. Their need to be lightly connected suited her. It eased the burden of guilt she would otherwise feel as her joy in and desire for each new lover bloomed, flowered, and faded. It always did; it always would. She had come to accept that. No new love was able to last through the seasons in a heart like hers; none could become established where the roots of her first love ran so deep and its branches spread so wide.

What had been between Marian and Sam had ended long ago, but the friendship that had started before and continued after seemed to Marian stronger, like a rosebush once the extraneous growth has been pruned away. She'd approached the start of their affair tentatively: Sam worked for MANY, and it had been new for Marian, poaching on her own preserve. But she'd judged Sam capable of handling the situation—its beginning, its middle, and its inevitable end—and she'd been correct. About character, Marian was rarely wrong. While others marveled at her unerring intuition, Marian understood her skill to be that of an overcompensating athlete injured when young, now running marathons even though—or because—she'd thought she'd never walk again.

Marian was grateful for Sam, for his daily, practical presence in the office, for his willingness to stay friends. Still, when the Fund came up, she hoped he would be calm. In this circle of friends, she would be embarrassed by any attempt at rescue.

A month ago, when this same group had come together for dinner, the first time some of them had seen the others since the attacks, the first time they had been together as a group, someone had asked about the Fund. Jeana, it was; she'd read about the establishment of the McCaffery Fund in the Tribune the day before, and she'd wondered why, with all Marian had to do, had she taken it on, this McCaffery thing? Marian answered, simply, to help, because they'd asked her. Didn't you know him, that firefighter? Katie asked. Oh, well, he was famous, Marian said.

Marian knew many famous people. She never dropped names, but when Tomiko had had trouble with her work visa last year, Marian had called someone in a senator's office; and Ulrich's pictures would not be in the permanent collection at MOMA if he had not met MOMA's photography curator over dinner at Marian's loft. The fallen firefighter in whose name this fund was established had been notoriously publicity-shy but famous for daredevil heroic deeds nonetheless; it stood to reason, then, that Marian knew him.

But though Marian did not expect to get through the evening without mention of the Fund, or of Jimmy, she was completely blindsided by the question that actually came.

She was removing an olive pit discreetly to a bread plate when Clark asked what about that guy Randall, it was on the evening news, that was that guy, wasn't it, and what the hell happened? But Marian had been in meetings all afternoon, she hadn't heard the news, and it seemed Sam had not, either: Which guy, what do you mean what happened? Everyone filled them in, slapping facts down as though in a friendly cutthroat game of hearts: midmorning, on the Verrazano—the inbound side, he must have been on Staten Island—not many other cars around; so far no note, no idea why—or else they just weren't saying; left his car keys behind, and his wallet, they say most jumpers do that, why, for God's sake? until someone—Sue—focused in on Marian's silence, on her wide eyes. “But, honey, you hate him,” Sue said, half question, half reminder. Marian drank her chardonnay in an attempt to refloat her heart, which seemed to have suddenly run aground.

“Hate,” Marian repeated, holding her wineglass by the delicate stem. “I guess. But there's just been so much death. . . .”

In the rustling forest of talk around them, in the clinking of dinnerware and the teasing and laughter, a withering drought of silence descended on their table. Marian, her stomach clenching, said, “Oh no, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to bring you guys down. Look, just give me a minute. I'll be right back.” She stood, dropped her napkin on her chair, hurried from the table, but not before she stopped to smile at Sam and answer his “Are you okay?” with an unwavering “Of course.” Then she headed for the ladies' room, up front by the bar; but once close, she slipped past it, out onto the street.

The night was warm; Marian was wearing a jacket of loose-woven cotton and needed nothing else. She stood at the end of the narrow street, waiting to cross the highway. The traffic seemed normal, it seemed almost like before. Two weeks ago the city had begun to allow even trucks downtown again, and the perimeter was pulled in a little every few days.

When the light changed, Marian crossed to the river. The scent of salt water overwhelmed the faint, astringent odor from Ground Zero, the odor of cars and furniture, papers, family photographs, clothing and its owners, jet fuel still smoldering underground.

The river flowed smoothly; an ocean smell this strong meant the tide was pushing the water north, and a barge moved that way, too, placidly allowing itself to be towed by a hardworking tug with yellow lights glowing in its cabin. On the day of the attacks, the squat and ugly tugboats, along with lumbering ferries and sleek commuter launches and polished yachts, had rushed to the shores of Lower Manhattan and swept dust-caked survivors across