The Submission - Amy Waldman [42]
Sean was listing all of the relatives’ and first responders’ associations represented in the high-school auditorium when the families before him broke into outsize applause. Governor Bitman was striding across the stage toward him, her hair burnished by the theatrical lights. “This is a surprise” was all he had time to say before she had one manicured hand on his back and the other easing the microphone from his grip.
“I’m here today so you know you have my support,” she said, speaking with practiced empathy. Her arm casually slid off of Sean so she could clutch the microphone with both hands. A tiny American flag pin glinted from the lapel of her forest-green pantsuit. “My goal is—has always been—a memorial the families, especially, can embrace. It’s all you have.”
Sean knew that most of those present hadn’t voted for Bitman, who was a Democrat. But their applause now promised they would. Having taken office less than a year before the attack, she’d been publicly stalwart in its wake, donning a mask to visit the site, air-kissing her way through hundreds of firefighters’ funerals. And now she was here, with them.
“We can’t take this away from the jury,” she continued. “We have to respect the process. But the process includes public input, and that allows us to expand the jury to include all of you—to include all Americans, if necessary. We’re going to have a public hearing on this design, so if you don’t like it, go to the hearing and say so.”
“What if we don’t like the designer?” Sean said. “I’m sorry to interrupt, Governor, but that’s why we’re all here today.”
“Not liking the designer is not a legitimate objection, I’m afraid.” When he started to speak again she held up a “let me finish” hand. “But I think it’s safe to say that if you don’t like the designer, you’re probably not going to like his design.” She smiled. The crowd roared.
“Before I go I just want to thank Sean Gallagher for leading the fight for this memorial,” the governor said. “He’s showing the same bravery as those who gave their lives that fateful day.”
Sean reddened. He didn’t need to see his parents’ faces to read their scorn. He couldn’t even pretend that he would have been as brave as Patrick if given the chance: faced with a building pouring fire and smoke, he would have run away as fast as he could. Nor was he sure this would have been wrong. Patrick had charged into a building that pancaked almost immediately on top of him, and he’d left three sad-eyed children behind.
The governor took Sean’s hand and raised it high and from somewhere a rock ’n’ roll version of “America the Beautiful” began to play. Then, with the air seeming to slosh like water in her wake, she was gone.
With his microphone back, Sean tried to reclaim his audience’s attention. He began to pace. “You know, the night they picked the memorial, the jurors were up at Gracie Mansion, drinking Dom Pérignon. And they find out they picked a Muslim, and they say, ‘Wow, that’s terrific, what a message that will send to Muslims, that we’re their friend, that we have nothing against Islam, because what did Islam ever do to us?’” Knowing, bitter laughter rose from the seats. “And the families? They need to just get over it. Even our supposed family member on the jury—Claire Burwell—hasn’t reached out to us.”
That this was particularly bitter for him, he didn’t say. Knowing that Sean’s support would be crucial for whatever memorial they picked, Claire had cultivated him. His awareness of this only partly diminished its effect. After one of the meetings between the jury and various family members, she invited Sean, who had been outspoken as usual, for a beer. When he said he didn’t drink, she seemed slightly thrown, as if she had counted on booze to bond them. She ordered a beer anyway, sipped it as if it was wine, and plied Sean with questions. He was awed by her beauty, her wealth, her intelligence; he’d never met a woman with so many advantages. At the end of the night—two beers for her, three jittery-making Cokes for him—he