“Here’s your drink, sir,” the waitress says, handing me a glass.
“Thank you,” I reply, giving the drink a stir.
Over the waitress’ shoulder, I glimpse a brunette conversing with a distinguished pair, a knee-length blue dress gracefully accentuating her willowy figure. In comparison, I consider my uninspired, aged slacks and mismatched sport coat hiding the imperfections. Catching her glance, I quickly take a sip of my drink.
The taste makes me wrench in revulsion.
“Excuse me, waitress,” I motion.
Serving the woman I had just spied, the waitress turns back to me.
“Yes sir?”
“This is a vodka tonic. I ordered a–”
“Vodka club soda?” says a voice – the brunette, now walking over.
“Yes,” I reply, turning toward her.
“I’m terribly sorry sir,” the waitress says apologetically, “ma’am.”
“It’s fine, thank you,” I tell her, my attention squarely on the woman now before me.
“I saw you staring,” she says.
I smirk in embarrassment, pointing to her glass. “Can I buy you another?”
She takes the drink I hold in my hand, sipping from it. “No, this one is fine.”
“Are you sure? I could have some vile condition,” I joke.
“That would be disappointing.” She smiles, extending her hand. “Amy Langston.”
I take her hand. “Pleasure to meet you. Sam Jacobs.”
The two of us find a table in the corner, the hours passing in a blur. Strangely, an unexplainable familiarity exists between us – her craving for pickles from the smell of coffee, my fear of windows in tall buildings. As if we already had shared a fulfilled, everlasting life together. An elaborately pleasant fantasy, it all seems.
With the crowd gradually dissipating as evening turns into early morning, Amy hesitantly calls it a night as well.
“I do hate to end this wonderful evening, but I should make my way home. It’s been a long day. I had a great time though.”
“Can I call you for another?” I ask.
Again, she smiles. “I would like that. How about next weekend?”
“Sounds good,” I say, pulling out my phone. “What’s your number?”
Our information exchanged, she punctuates it with a gentle kiss on my cheek. After brief good-byes to a few remaining acquaintances, she walks out the bar.
Not long after, I do the same.
A few days pass. I listen intently yet again as the phone rings on the other end, the interminable pause between weighing heavy. There is no answer.
Staring at the kitchen’s hardwood floor, I contemplate the situation. Perhaps I should file a missing persons report, I think, uncertain whether the police would believe my story. No one even remembers her though, not our friends or even people at her work. No one.
The phone’s busy signal stirs me from my confused thoughts. Halfheartedly returning it to the cradle, I stand motionless in a daze.
Jarringly, the phone rings. After a moment of trepidation, I answer.
“If you want to know what happened to her,” a raspy voice proclaims, “meet me at the corner of 67th & Columbus in one hour.”
“W-Who is this? What do you know?” I ask, my voice trembling.
There is nothing but the sound of a click, and then silence. Hanging up the phone, I rush quickly from the kitchen to get dressed.
The cab slows near the designated corner. I pay the driver, stepping onto the sidewalk. A few pedestrians make their way past, none paying me any attention. I am certain this is the spot.
From the shadows comes a voice, just out of sight.
“Hello, Mr. Jacobs. Thank you for coming.”
A figure steps from the darkness, a policeman’s gold shield reflected in the streetlight.
“Y-You’re a cop?” I puzzlingly ask, stammering. “Wh-What is this about? Do you know where Amy is?”
“I’m Detective Anderson, but it’s not that simple. Trust me, everything will become clear soon enough.”
“H-How do you even know Amy?” I inquire, confused. “No one I’ve talked to lately has any memory of her. It’s as if she never existed.”
“I was at the scene. Remember? Understandably, you were in a state of panic and hysteria. Everyone was. I tried calming you best I could until we knew more details. Unfortunately, think we all knew-”
“Wh-What scene? What are you talking about?” I question, interrupting him. “Wh-Where is she?” I repeat, my voice shaking.
“Do you really want to know?”
“Yes, please,” I wearily reply, panic in my voice. “I-I have to find her.”
“Very well. She’s up there,” Anderson tenders, pointing up, “on the roof.”
I gaze slowly upward, the building extending skyward before me. An eerie familiarity washes over, as I pale from the thought…
Violently, I shake awake. Despite a slight fever, a cold sweat is present on my brow. I lay there for a few seconds, letting the world come into focus. The room is a haze of disjointed dullness. I blink my eyes slowly, my head pounding from the effort. Confusion takes hold of my mind, positive that I had just been somewhere else.
Where? What happened? I have only a vague notion, nothing tangible.
I look next to me at the empty space in the bed. For a moment, I think I see the outline of a sleeping body. A woman’s body. I know, however, it is just my imagination. Another twisted memory, another delusional nightmare, I muse to myself.
As the ceiling comes into full view, I gingerly raise myself upright. After a few more seconds of blurred lucidity, I shove off the covers and throw my legs over the side of the bed. Rubbing tired, heavy eyes, I turn my attention to the clock. It reads 5:30. Morning, I figure, though uncertain it is necessarily the morning normally following the previous night, or nights for that matter. It could be any morning.
The empty bottle of Jack Daniels makes that a certainty.
Eventually, I stumble out of bed, making my way to the kitchen. I trip over a pizza box, sending an empty beer bottle flying. Flicking a switch, the light hurts my eyes. With them half-closed, I feel around in the cupboard until I come across a small can of coffee grounds. A generic store-bought brand. Amy always bought the more expensive kind, not concerned with spending extra money for the extra flavor. I enjoyed that touch of sophistication about her.
Now, however, I feel lucky just for the can I have.
Finding my last filter, I fill the pot with cold water and turn on the coffee maker. Either from fatigue or emotion – or both – I collapse to the floor. As my thoughts recede into the past, tears well in the corners of my eyes and flow down my cheeks…
In actuality, the two of us had met at a coffee shop, in the lobby of the building where Amy worked for a modest, yet respected advertising agency. Seeking a fresh career direction, I was interviewing for a management position with a foodservice distributor on the third floor. Hopeful for a cup of coffee beforehand, I arrived early. We found ourselves waiting in line next to each other, the time, on several levels, seeming not to move.
Shy as I was, I could not help but stare at her. Possessing an unassuming regal look and contemplatively pursed lips, her natural beauty nearly obscured both. She mesmerized me, like Bacall in an old noir film. Catching my glance, I quickly buried myself back into my newspaper.
“They could at least give us something to snack on while we wait,” she commented, smirking at me. “Perhaps complimentary pickles.”
Bemused by the odd remark, I peered at her from over the tabloid.
“That’s only at lunchtime,” I replied, smiling back.
Sharing a laugh, we began a quiet conversation. We chatted about nothing in particular, our implicit mutual attraction palpable if not veiled.
Eventually, we made it through the line, proceeding our respective ways.
“Well, Mr. Jacobs, good luck with your interview,” she offered, sitting at a nearby table. “It was pleasant meeting you.”
“Nice talking to you, Ms. Langston,” I responded. “Hope you have a good day.”
“Thanks, you too.”
As I headed toward the elevators, I turned back to her. It was not typical of me.
“Not to seem forward, but would you be interested in having lunch?”
Looking up from her magazine, a subtle frown formed as she gave it a thought.
“I-I’m afraid I can’t today,” she answered, nervously regretful. “I have a working lunch with a client.”
“I understand,” I replied, uncertain whether to press the issue. I turned to leave. “Well, I’ll let you get back to your reading.”
“He gives up so easily,” she contemptuously implied, returning to her journal. Her eyes brightened, flirtively gazing up. “I’m free tomorrow.”
“Great. How about the deli around the corner?” I suggested, adding a teasing lure. “You probably can get a nice kosher dill.”
“A singular wit, Mr. Jacobs, I like that. Shall we say noon?”
I brimmed with enthusiasm, heightened by her smile. “I’ll see you then.”
After that initial encounter, we saw each other as often as possible. Coffee, dinner or simply drinks and conversation. On several occasions, I missed my floor “accidentally” just to keep talking to her. Inseparable, we ultimately moved in together and planned our future. We decide on a beach wedding, under bright sunshine and swaying palm trees, with just a few friends and family in tow. It would be intimately romantic, reminiscent of a Hemingway novel.
World events, however, interceded and altered our paths forever…
Like any typical Tuesday morning, Amy quietly readied for work. Having worked for weeks on a proposal for a potential client, she was unable to reschedule an important appointment with them. The client wanted to finalize the project by the end of the week, which required her personal attention. It would mean steady business for her growing advertising company, LM Promotions, she co-founded after leaving her old agency only a few months earlier.
As she went to leave, I crept out of bed to give her a kiss.
“Good luck today,” I offered, “hope it goes well.”
“Thanks. See you later,” she replied, smirking, “if you’re awake.”
Closing the door behind her, I headed back to bed.
The New York morning was bustling as Amy stepped out of the cab, the sun cresting on the horizon. Her meeting was with a vice-president of a new start-up company, looking to expand internationally. Temporarily located on the 79th floor in Building One of the World Trade Center, they sought an advertising agency for an upcoming promotional campaign.
The meeting was scheduled for nine. Only a few minutes past eight, she was early.
Meanwhile, I could not fall back to sleep, too used to waking at the hour. Intent on taking full advantage of my second day of vacation, I laid in bed a while longer. I gazed out the bedroom window, watching as the sun ascended the morning sky. Looking at the clock, it read just past nine.
Sitting up, I turned on the television.
Flipping through the channels searching for a distraction, I stopped at a breaking news report. I watched with bewilderment, reading the news crawl on the bottom of the screen to learn the details. The anchor’s voice cracked with shock and confusion.
“. . . airliners have slammed into the towers of the World Trade Center. Authorities not sure whether the planes . . .”
My heart raced. Where was her appointment? I thought.
Instantly, I jumped from the bed, searching frantically for some pants. My mind could not comprehend what I had just heard, let alone seen. It was too unbelievable.
Continuing to dress as I left, I catatonically tripped out the door. Unbeknownst to me, before I even turned on the television, Amy already had been killed.
She never had a chance.
Despite the passage of time, and experiences since, I cannot help but think back almost daily to that day.
Standing, I run my hands over my face. I will never forget, I can never forget, I ruminate to myself, the nightmares won’t let me.
As that thought enters my mind, a feeling of complete isolation surrounds me. I open a counter drawer close by, contemplating its contents. Cool metal eases into my grip, my thoughts still in the past.
Suddenly, just as the coffee finishes brewing, the sound of the phone echoes in my ears. Shaking myself from the glum reminiscence, I reach for the ringing phone.
“H-Hello?” I answer, clearing my throat.
“Captain Jacobs?” the voice asks.
I straighten myself. “Yes, this is him.”
“This is Major Nortcutt, Captain. You are hereby recalled to active duty. Report to the adjutant’s office Monday morning, 0800 hours.”
“I-I don’t understand.”
“Your request for reassignment has been approved. The adjutant will brief you with further information.”
“Understood sir. Thank you.”
I hang up the phone, my hand still gripping the contents of the drawer. Drawing a breath, I pull out a framed picture: Amy and I, photographed in Central Park. I could not bear looking at it since that fateful morning, having torn it up so many times in my mind.
After a moment, I place it on the counter. I study it deeply, tears again streaming down my cheeks. Again, I think back, when not too long after the attacks – out of either a sense of duty or an unbridled human need for vengeance – I enlist in the Army. To fight. Like many, to fight against the latest tragic era to befall mankind, devastatingly ushered in that day by unrepentant extremists.
I will now return to that mission. To continue the fight.
Still, I feel it strange. Despite witnessing civilians and comrades lost to the conflict, my thoughts always turn back to her. To Amy, to them all. The military shrinks likened it to survivor’s guilt, brought about by the tragedy but overridden by a sense of duty. They always said the same thing too, about how veterans of Pearl Harbor had experienced a similar effect. How their combat experience numbed them to a point, but never desensitized the motivation behind it.
And that it would eventually subside, once I let it.
Turning on the sink, I splash cold water over my face and pour a cup of coffee. I look at the picture again, then the calendar. I take a sip from the cup. With two days left in my leave, there is no urgency to pack.
Not that anything was unpacked, I think, my duffle still stuffed with my gear.
I walk solemnly out of the kitchen, toward the bedroom. A sense of peace and hope washes over me, if only for a moment.
©2004 Steve Sagarra
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