We Lost Him

September 11, 1976

I was lying perfectly still in a lavender-scented bath thinking about the man who would slip into bed with me in another hour, run his hand down my back until I turned around, show me that sheepish grin, and kiss me with those lips that tasted like Lucky Strikes and smelled like the night air. I traced the constellation of freckles along my chest that he would outline with his fingers after we made love. We were trying for a girl. We had been hoping for a girl since our second son was born two years before.

"This is a special report from CBS News. TWA flight 355 to Chicago carrying eighty-six passengers and seven crew members has been hijacked." I opened my eyes to hear the eleven o'clock news coming from our bedroom. "Shortly after takeoff from New York's LaGuardia Airport at 8:00 p.m., the aircraft was commandeered by Zvonko and Julie Busic, a Croatian and his American wife. They claim to have a bomb on board the plane and a second device located in New York City." I stood up, grabbed a towel, and ran into the bedroom.

The camera left Walter Cronkite and panned Grand Central Station, and the most familiar face in the world to me came into focus: my husband Brian in a Kevlar vest, "Bomb Squad" written on the back. Bath water dripped onto the rug as I stared at the tiny black-and-white TV. The scene panned across a row of twenty-five cent luggage lockers, the doors torn off their hinges, to Brian lifting a shopping bag from inside one of the lockers. The white Macy's bag looked harmless. NYPD uniforms crowded around as Brian placed the bag on top of the bomb blanket and clipped the ends together. I watched as he and Hank Dworkin threaded a long pole into the blanket's loops and balanced it across their shoulders. The camera followed them to the disposal truck parked outside Grand Central where they disappeared from my view.

Backing away from the TV, I sat on the bed holding the towel in a tight ball. Croatia? Where was it — Yugoslavia? Stay calm, I told myself. Brian worked hundreds of bomb cases. All of them were dangerous. He always assured me he never took risks. Don't panic. I had dipped chicken in breadcrumbs that afternoon and made potato salad for our picnic at the beach tomorrow. Wait for him to call. But, without knowing why, this time felt different.

Down the hall, in the glow of the tiny nightlight, our four-year-old son Keith slept, his sheets tangled around his legs, his forehead damp from the heat that our ceiling fan did little to ease. It was so hot the blacktop stuck to his sneakers, Brian told me that afternoon before he left for work. Chris, the baby, was snuggled at the top of his crib, his hands under his chin as though in prayer. I stood in the doorway watching them sleep, and listening to them breathe.

Back in the bedroom I dropped the towel and pulled a nightgown from the dresser drawer. The hijacking was still unfolding on the TV. It was almost midnight. The news should have been over. Brian should have been on his way home. I crawled into bed, shivering despite the day's heat, and reminded myself the bomb squad had lost two men in its entire history, and that was back in `39 at the World's Fair.

Still, there was LaGuardia last December, when a bomb detonated in a luggage locker. Twenty-five sticks of dynamite shattered the TWA terminal, killing eleven people, injuring hundreds. A makeshift morgue was set up in the airport, and Brian waited all night as the medical examiner extracted pieces of the bomb from the dead. The case remained unsolved. TWA. LaGuardia. Coincidence?

I looked over at the dress shirts in Brian's closet, lined up like mock military soldiers, his wing tips polished, waiting for their rotation. "Come home," I whispered into the dark. When I closed my eyes, I saw that Macy's shopping bag with its cheerful red star.

I woke to red lights flashing off our bedroom walls. I could almost feel them crawling across my face. I thought I heard the swishing of clothes, the soft drop of rubber-soled shoes. The clock said 4:00 a.m.

When I pulled back the curtains, I saw police cars scattered along the street below, doors left ajar. Red lights moved in unrelenting slow circles. The doorbell echoed up the stairs — a hesitant sound, like the person standing at the door really didn't mean to ring it. I felt I might be sick. This isn't happening. I looked back at the unmade bed. If I just crawl back in bed and bring the boys with me ... But the doorbell rang again — this time it was persistent — and I was propelled to the stairs which loomed menacingly below me.

I'd left a lamp on for Brian in the foyer. Under it, a frame held a photo of us the day he graduated from the police academy. His crooked smile matched the tilt of his police hat.

On the way home from work that afternoon I picked up more pictures of Brian from our camping trip the week before. At twenty-seven he still looked like a happy kid in his cut-offs and sneakers.

I heard the doorknob rattle and looked down at my nightgown, one reserved for Brian. I leaned against the wall, knowing I could not walk up the stairs for a robe, and let the wall support me as I inched toward the door.

"Kathy, it's Charlie. Open the door, please." He sounded like he had been asking for a long time.

The doorknob didn't seem to work, and I wasn't sure which way to turn the lock. When I finally opened it, I found Charlie standing in front of two men in police uniform. His blue eyes reminded me of Brian's. "You two look like brothers," I had told him when they were assigned to the bomb squad together. Shadows shifted under the porch light, and Charlie looked down to study the flagstones. When he looked up, his eyes were haunted, terrified.

"We lost him."

I shivered uncontrollably. NO. I shook my head. NO. My legs wouldn't work. NO. I looked past Charlie into the street ringed with flashing lights and uniforms.

Charlie tried to lead me to the living room, but I found myself climbing the stairs in a body that felt borrowed from someone else.

Upstairs, the boys' room was still dark. The weight of Chris's sleeping body was almost too heavy to lift, and I sank to the floor with him in my lap. He smelled of baby shampoo and boy sweat. He slept, completely unaware his tiny world would never be the same. Across the room, the nightlight illuminated Keith's deep red hair. I watched his face until he woke up. Sliding off his bed, he sat on the floor beside us. With my free arm I pulled him to my side.

"What's the matter, Mommy?" He had Brian's eyes — those dark, feathery lashes.

"Daddy went to heaven." I didn't recognize my voice.

"How did he get there?"

"God came to get him."

"Can we go see him?"

"Not for a long time, honey." I didn't trust myself to say more.

* * *

The sun was beginning to rise, its red glow sliding over blue sailboat wallpaper. It was going to be another hot day. The milk bottles had to go out. Library books were due. My husband just died, I would tell the librarian, and thought she might forgive the fine.

Chris woke and blinked sleepily at me. His hair was almost white from the summer sun, his deep green eyes — like mine — were set in a face that called for blue, the difference striking. He put his arms around my neck and...