Page 15 of The Castaways
Reed!
She ran down the stairs to her car, dialing. Number one on her speed dial, before Addison even, was Reed at work. Cantor Fitzgerald, hundred and first floor, the World Trade Center, Tower One.
She got his voicemail.
“Jesus, Reed, call me!” she screamed.
Two women Phoebe knew vaguely were getting out of their cars in the parking lot. One of them, Jamie, said, “Hey, Phoebe! Are you okay?”
Phoebe waved, got into her car. Call Addison! The receptionist at Addison’s office, Florabel, answered the phone. Phoebe detested Florabel and suspected the feeling was mutual.
Phoebe said, “Addison, please?”
Florabel didn’t recognize Phoebe’s voice, because Phoebe’s voice was held hostage by panic. Florabel said, “Mr. Wheeler is out of the office today. Would you like his voicemail?”
Shit! Addison was fishing! Phoebe hung up. She tried Addison’s cell phone and got his voicemail. He was so far offshore, he would never have reception.
She called Reed back. It was five after nine.
“Hey, Twist,” he said. His voice was calm, but in the background Phoebe could hear shouting, which seemed more frenzied than the usual Cantor shouting. “You would not believe what is happening here. Have you seen the news?”
“Sort of,” she said. “Are you okay?”
“Well, I just threw up in my trash can,” he said. “Because I tell you what, people aredeadover in that other building. You should see the smoke. It stinks, even in here.”
“What are they… are they saying anything?”
“We’re supposed to sit tight. Some of the guys—Ernie, Jake, you know—they want to go to the ground to watch, but there’s debris falling. It’s safer, I think, to stay put.”
“You think?”
“That’s what…”
“What?” Phoebe said. She couldn’t hear.
“I’ll call you back when the dust settles, okay? I love you. I’m going to be fine, I promise.”
“Okay,” Phoebe said.
“I have to call Ellen Paige. She’s at play group with Domino, but when she hears about this, she’s going to freak.”
“Okay. I love you,” Phoebe said.
“Hey,” he said. “How are you feeling?”
“Me?” Phoebe said. “I feel fine.”
There was a noise. Honestly, it sounded like a lion roaring, or a wave crashing over her head. The line went dead. Phoebe nearly sideswiped the mailman, who was filling boxes on Old South Road.
She watched footage of the plane hitting the second tower on Addison’s sixty-inch plasma TV, in the closed-up, air-conditioned, professionally decorated comfort of her own home. Outside, the day shimmered. Nantucket was as tranquil and lovely as it had ever been. Phoebe turned her stare outside, in a daze. According to Tom Brokaw, America was under attack. Phoebe waited for the planes to come screaming over the ocean. Nothing. A monarch butterfly settled momentarily on the picnic table, then flew away.
On the TV a plane hit the second tower, which was Tower One. Again and again. Phoebe was riveted. Show it again! She was counting floors and dialing Reed from her landline.
“Pick up!” she screamed into the phone. No one was around, no one could hear her. Their neighbors on both sides had left after Labor Day.
Her call went to Reed’s voicemail. “Call me!” she screamed.
It looked like the plane had hit the second tower, Tower One, about two thirds of the way up. Definitely lower than the hundred and first floor. Were there a hundred and five floors or a hundred and ten? She couldn’t remember.
