Thunder Dog - Michael Hingson [52]
The NFB has strengthened me, encouraged me, equipped me, and empowered me to live and to work with confidence and freedom. I’ve had the privilege of becoming a part of a community of blind people who are living abundant, joyful lives and the privilege of serving in a civil rights movement that will guarantee our blind children and grandchildren access to education, literacy, satisfying employment, and purposeful lives.
It’s a big world and I’m excited to be a part of it and to serve people, blind or sighted, in any way I can. Oh, and don’t forget to keep one eye on the rearview mirror. One of these days very soon, you might just see a blond-haired, light-eyed blind guy gaining on you in a snazzy, red sports car.
After being ejected from our subway station refuge, we climb the stairs and pass back through the door to the outside. There are no cars, but I hear people walking and running. No one is saying much. It’s still smoky, but most of the cloud has passed, and the part that lingers is slowly settling onto the street, covering the debris in a thick layer of concrete dust. The sunlight feels great.
David speaks. His voice is full of shock and fear.
“There is no Tower 2,” he says. All he sees is a pillar of smoke hundreds of feet high.
It’s unthinkable. I can’t wrap my mind around it even though I felt the vibration of the collapse and heard the noise.
I search for some other explanation. “Is it possible the smoke is hiding the tower?”
“No,” says David. His voice is flat and toneless. “Mike, the tower is gone.”
We stand there for a moment, David and I. We clasp hands. Tower 2 has died, but we are alive. Two men and a dog.
We turn and walk west on Fulton Street, away from the World Trade Center. It’s time to go home.
11
WOMAN ON WHEELS
Love makes your soul crawl out from its hiding place.
ZORA NEALE HURSTON
It’s 8:47 in the morning, and I’m watching Good Morning America as I start to dress. As usual, Mike was up bright and early and left for work several hours ago. I heard him leave, but it had been a rough night with Roselle’s panic attack, and I’m not a morning person anyway, so I drifted back to sleep after he left.
For some reason, anchor Charlie Gibson’s face has just turned white. My phone rings.
With my eyes on the television, I reach for the phone and hear Mike’s voice. “Karen, there’s been an explosion of some sort. We’re okay, but we’re leaving the building now.” His voice is quiet, but there’s an edge to it. After eighteen years of marriage, I can tell when he’s worried. I can also tell when he is trying to stay calm.
“What happened?” I take a deep breath and wait for his answer. At the same time, I grab the TV remote off the nightstand.
“David, Roselle, and I are together. We’re going to take the stairs.” Click. I turn on the TV. No need to flip channels to see if the Twin Towers are in the news. They pop up immediately on the screen, gigantic plumes of jet-black smoke billowing from one of the towers.
“I’ll call you again as soon as I can, but I have to go.” I hear noise in the background, people talking, voices rushed.
“Okay, Mike. Be careful!” I want to add more, but he’s already ended the call. There’s so much more to say.
I watch. I can’t believe what I’m seeing. It looks like ten or fifteen floors are engulfed in a horrific fire. What happened? How could the fire have spread so fast?
The television reporters seem confused and