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A TIME TO REMEMBER 9/10/2011 6:11:25 AM
September 10, 2001 I spent the night at the Red Roof Inn near Hartsfield Jackson airport because I had a flight the next morning at 6 AM to Vancouver, British Columbia, by way of St. Louis. Needless to say, I never made it.
At age 70, my peers regarded me as something of a legendary Regional Manager, and this trip to Vancouver was to be my last general convention before retiring. My first novel had just been published, and I wanted to devote full time to writing books (since then, I have completed six additional tomes, all destined for blockbustersville once published.)
Changing planes in St. Louis, I was seated in 1st Class and, still on the tarmac, had just ordered breakfast when the nervous American Airline’s stew informed us “a plane has crashed into the World Trade Center in New York, and the captain has requested everyone get off and check in with the counter to see what’s going on.”
Within minutes the airport was closed, we were ushered outside into brilliant sunshine, and all 5,000 flights in North America were cancelled. My friend Cliff Scrivener, whom I called, lives in St. Louis and was on his way to pick me up; I spent the day and night glued to TV at his and his wife’s home in the suburbs. (Cliff and Nancy were the parents of Rev. Patty Roberts, my personal Episcopal priest who passed last year, in 2010.)
I spoke to my own wife via telephone several times, assuring her I was all right; our main concern was for our grandson, Capt. Jason Pifer, USAF, who was attached to the Pentagon in Washington. Later that day, to great relief, we learned that he was on temporary assignment at Ft. Mead and not at the Pentagon when another plane smashed into it that fateful morning.
The next day I received a call from Lee Wentworth, a fellow colleague who had found refuge in a local hotel, informing me the entire contingent was renting cars for the return trip to Atlanta. Cliff and Nancy’s son drove me to the rental agency, where I rendezvoused with our group and was assigned to a “non-smoking” vehicle with two others for the 10-hour trip home, listening to reports on the radio all the way. We arrived at about 8 PM, and my wife picked me up in the parking lot of the Fairview Inn. I was in my own bed on 9/12 before midnight.
There was a great deal more to the story than I have revealed here, but the essence of what happened that day when America was attacked by four aircraft commandeered by fourteen Islamic idiots is of far greater consequence than can be covered by my inept scribblings. I captured, I think, the shock and horror of it all in the final pages of my novel WELL!:
At floor 89 Ronnie and Glennade stepped off the elevator and into a wide vestibule leading to gold-framed doors: the offices of Lummis, Jarvis, Jenkins and Meltz, LLD, LLP, Attorneys-at-Law. A marbleized plaque beside the doors announced the names of each partner, engraved as a deep carving in bold silver letters above the names of thirty-five associates inscribed in letters two-thirds smaller. To Ronnie’s surprise, they did not have to open the doors; when Glennade “Van” Johnson reached for the knob, when he was still three feet from touching it, an invisible beam was broken and the doors swung inward, inviting them inside the ornate, gaily lit, richly festive, inner sanctum of old leather and polished brass. Ronnie glanced at his watch. It was just 8:36.
“May I help you?”
To their right, behind a semi-circular receptionist’s enclosure, sat a stunningly beautiful magazine-cover model, a brunette, her shining, curled hair cascading casually just beyond the tops of her shoulders, her dark eyes flashing and twinkling intermittently, her full lips pursed in a perpetual crimson smile of curiosity, and her ivory face aglow with practiced concern and anticipation. The nameplate just off to her left read: REBECCA de WINTER.
Ronnie said the first thing that came into his mind: “That can’t be your real name.”
The incredible vision laughed. “How did you know?”
Ronnie shrugged. “Wild guess.”
For a fleeting second, he wished she would stand up — but then, he hoped she would not. What if, under that sheer taffeta and snug white blouse, she were short, fat, and floppy-breasted, and the part visible above the counter was nothing more than a superficial flash of legal propaganda designed to energize clients and confuse adversaries into thinking that any firm that could employ central-casting magazine models would certainly be permitted to charge exorbitant fees?
Although there was no physical resemblance aside from abject beauty, the receptionist brought Ronnie’s daughter Marion to mind, a married lady in her mid-forties now, nearly as old as Ronnie was when he made his Atlantic Ocean flight; she and Paul were expatriates who lived in Berne, Switzerland, with their two boys, Ronald and Edward, aged twenty-one and nineteen. Ronald was in dental school at Universität Bern and could not wait to join his father’s practice; Edward, Ronnie’s secret favorite, was a sophomore at the Institut für Ur-und Frühgeschichte and had no idea what he wanted to do with his life. Late at night, alone and after a single martini, Ronnie often wondered when — if ever — the defiance hurlers would get to Edward. The proud and doting grandparents flew to Europe and visited twice or three times a year, and the Guillemettes always came to Stonehenge for extended vacations at Thanksgiving and Christmas.
Ronnie said, “I’m Ronald Coalman. This is my associate, ‘Van’ Johnson.”
Rebecca nodded. “I know who you are, sir — my parents watched you on TV all the time. I loved your movie with Warren Beatty — it was on Turner Classic Movies just last week.” She was tempted to ask if Ronald Coalman and Van Johnson were their real names, but she did not.
“I’m here to see Robert Jarvis,” he added, but he suspected she already knew that.
The receptionist glanced down at the computer screen embedded in front of her and said, “Of course . . . Oh. He’s expecting you, Mr. Coalman, but he’s not in yet. He had an earlier meeting in midtown that came up unexpectedly.”
“Oh.” Ronnie tried to hide his annoyance; he wondered with whom the lawyer had probably played Nine Ball all night. “Will he be delayed long? We plan to fly back to Atlanta this afternoon.”
“No, I doubt it. He will be only a few minutes tardy. He asked if you could wait — he does want to see you. Can I get you all some coffee, or anything?”
“No, thanks.” He looked about. “Where shall we wait?”
“If you don’t mind, you can take a seat here — over there,” she indicated a lounge area across the room. “There’re TVs tuned in to NBC, of course, and the other channels: CBS, ABC, Fox, and CNN. I’d be happy to ring the galley and have coffee and Danish . . . oh, and here’s a letter Mr. Jarvis left for you. He says it will explain everything and — let me see — his note says, uh — it’s ‘the answer the world’s been waiting for’.”
Ronnie took a step forward, his heart now racing not because of the delicate beauty of the creature before him, but rather the final words she had spoken, offering him the long white envelope Jarvis had left: The answer the world’s been waiting for.
His voice nearly failed him as he snatched the envelope from her. “Ah — yes — yeah — thanks!”
The moment it was in his hand he completely forgot Rebecca de Winter. Quickly, he walked across the heavy carpet and stood beside a window facing west. Glennade followed him and sat down in a huge leather armchair. Ronnie’s cell phone rang, and he answered it, accidentally letting the letter slip from his fingers.
“Yes?” He spoke with annoyance into the phone.
“Hey, this is Jarvis. You get my letter?”
“Yes, I just opened it — dropped it when the phone rang.”
“Well, what d’ya think, old man?”
“I haven’t read it. Where are you?”
“In the elevator. Be there in a couple minutes.”
“Do you really have the proof?”
“Yeah. It’s all right here, in my briefcase.”
“Is it . . . ?”
“Hold on. I’m just getting off the elevator.”
Ronnie closed the phone and bent to retrieve the letter, which had fluttered to the floor when the cell phone had rung. He glanced at it, and the words jumped off the page.
When he stood up, he turned to say something to Glennade, and that was when he saw an airplane outside the window. It was extremely close to the building and appeared to be heading directly toward them; he could make out the bright red and blue AA as it came closer.
He dropped the letter again and glanced back to where the receptionist was sitting; she was looking past him and out the window, her gorgeous face ashen.
“Look at that crazy plane!” he said to her.
Van Johnson started to stand up. “Shoot, man, he almos—”
