There is nothing to do but daydream. Seconds seem like minutes, minutes seem like hours. I constantly glance at my watch, wishing for time to accelerate. I fantasize about the moment I pull up into the driveway and into Suzanne’s open arms, to feel her embrace, and her mine. I may never let go.

Meanwhile, I linger here, alone among 2,000 people in this cavernous but crowded hockey coliseum nestled in the remote eastern regions of New Brunswick, Canada. I thought I was good at geography, but the town of Moncton was new to me. Now, I will never forget it.

It is my second day in this giant building. We are all strangers with a common bond, weary travelers from overseas thirsting for any tid-bit of information, wondering, hoping we will finally go home. A tall mustached man with a distinct Canadian accent ( Eh?) commandeers the podium and takes the microphone. The stark hush is sudden, but welcome. His voice echoes off the rafters. The message is repeated by others, in French, German and Dutch.

We are not going home today. We did not go home yesterday. We may not go home tomorrow. The uncertainty, the unknown gnaws at the gut.

I glance over my left shoulder at the huge video screen and watch, once more, the chilling sight of that airplane impaling the World Trade Center and think of those moments of terror that filled the cabin before impact. The image is repeated, over and over, and I’m wishing the media would go on to other things. Our emotions are surged enough.

It is humbling, indeed, to suddenly feel so small, so insignificant, a minnow among a swarm of thousands, all of us with the same fears and apprehensions, waiting ... waiting ... waiting. For now, I have lost control of my life, dependant upon others who will decide where and how I will go anywhere. I am thankful that my plane was more than halfway over the Atlantic from London when the news broke, or else England would have become my home indefinitely.

There is no information from the podium. I tote my little green bag with me to a far corner of the building to a pay phone where I stand in a long waiting line to exchange a few precious words with Suzanne. She is waiting anxiously at our home in Maggie Valley, wondering. Finally, we speak. Her voice is comforting, my angel. Dozens more wait behind me, so I must be brief. She tells me how much she loves me, and I choke with emotion, and cannot speak.

I look up at the video again, and there it is, the perpetual horror in motion. A pang of guilt comes over me as I witness those thousands of lives being lost, families wrecked forever, the havoc this nation is and will be enduring, and here I am crying over a few days of inconvenience. The giant screen put it all into perspective.

I think about the office secretary on the 60th floor who heard a loud whirring noise coming closer, then glanced out the window at the sight of a huge aircraft heading directly at her, how she must have screamed, alerting other workers. By the time they looked up, they were incinerated.

I think about the men and women who were peacefully at the job one minute, then standing on the window’s edge the next, choosing between death by fire or by jumping a thousand feet below.

I think about the pedestrians crossing the street, the businessmen parking their cars, and in one instant, the catastrophic explosion will have altered their lives forever, if they still had their lives.

I think about the fathers and mothers, sons and daughters, wives, husbands, friends and neighbors of those sacrificed in all the crashes, and their suffering which will not end for the rest of their lives, all at the whim of a small band of fanatics hell-bent on imposing their brand of religion on earth’s inhabitants.
I teach my grand children to never use the word “hate.” It is a wasteful emotion. There is no reason to hate anyone, I tell them.

I take it back.

I think about how this will change the world in this new millennium, for it surely will.

The booming voice echoes again. “Everyone is ordered out of the coliseum, now please, in an orderly fashion!” We spend the next three hours sitting on lawns while police and dogs comb the arena for bombs. Thank goodness for a pad and pen.

Welcome to the 21st century.

Throughout all the uncertainty and discomfort, I hear not an angry word from anyone. It’s as though we all are sharing the experience in a small way, and there is no one to be angry at, but the fanatics.

I am duly impressed by the state of order amid disorder. The Canadians of Moncton have risen to the occasion, with compassion, energy, great assistance and smiles. I’m told that citizens responded in droves to offer their help, so many that some were turned away. This small town has never experienced an intrusion of such immense proportions as 20 international planes landing at their tiny airport in a period of three hours, dumping 2,000 people into their placid community. Officials are doing a marvelous job, while Red Cross volunteers provide a sense of cheer and hope, offering food, shelter and comfort.

I can’t help but feel lonely.

Finally, on the third day, after the borders have been opened and the United States was accepting the international flights in waiting, I learn that British Airways has decided to turn around and head back to London. I’m welcome to hop on. I ponder the possibility of more terrorism and international skies shut down for time ad infinitum. That could mean being a virtual refugee prisoner in the United Kingdom for a very long time. I think about my wife, my kids and grandkids, my friends and my work, and realize I must find my own way home. I may not ever see my luggage again.

There are no buses running. Trains don’t go south, they go to Montreal and Toronto. I hire a local to take me five hours to Bangor, Maine, and pay him handsomely. From there, a rented car. In 34 hours I will have driven 1,500 miles, my mind focused on that moment I’d unite with Suzanne and feel whole again.

We arranged the rendezvous at the Asheville airport where I am to return the rental car. But, the finale to this ordeal does not go as planned. I’m met with a blockade at the last quarter mile. The airport is cordoned off by dozens of police cars with flashing blue lights. So near and yet so far. I know she is here, somewhere. But where? I use the pay phone at the Amoco station to call her cell phone. Ironically, she is standing directly outside.

The reunion is like something from a 1950s movie. I feel like I’ll never let go.

As I finally settle in, I think about my little journey, and how it pales in comparison to the great suffering going on out there. We are going to war, indeed. And there will be much more suffering. I clench my wife’s hand and I realize we are among the lucky ones.

Welcome to the 21st century.

(Marshall Frank is a retired Metro Dade police officer and the author of two crime novels. He lives in Maggie Valley and can be reached at mlf283@aol.com)

 

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