let this sentence hang for a while, because she liked the sound of it, and she suddenly realized that she was proud. These long, late hours, she’d extended Jill’s idea into something new, and good. She’d been so busy working and looking for a place to live that she hadn’t noticed it until now.
She cleared her throat. “Tragedies happen. But life goes on. Buildings go on, too. They have to, or else they’re shrines to the dead.”
A few people shifted uncomfortably, and the Pozzolanas returned her gaze with something cold. She’d hit a nerve. Since the recession, architecture firms, unable to build, had gotten into the business of grief. Angel-faced memorials were popping up like weeds all over the country, and Vesuvius was responsible for a lot of them. It had become a commonplace Sunday afternoon hobby for people to visit the memorials of people they’d never met and leave flowers. And not just soldiers who’d died in war, either. Plane crashes, car accidents, stray bullet shootings. They were all marked with stone angels, slabs of marble, or plaques posted to trees. The grief industry was burying the country in white baby’s breath flowers, and the scent was sickly sweet.
“New York is about the future and living your dreams. Nobody left Omaha because they liked it. Or Sioux City. Or Des Moines. Or Portland. Pick a Portland. Any Portland. You can have ’em. I’ll take Manhattan.”
A few people chortled. She smiled, because she knew they’d decided to give her another shot. “So! We designed an outdoor roof garden. Like flowers, it’ll be an offering to those who died, but it’ll exist for the living, too.”
She looked down at her hands, which she’d squeezed into fists so she didn’t have to see her knuckles. She straightened them now, so her audience didn’t mistake the habit for hostility. The thing about her work was, she loved it. She was never more comfortable, or happier, as when she was designing, or seeing her plans come to fruition. What could be more satisfying than changing the architecture of the world, and maybe even making it a better place to live?
“We’ve done something new here, and I think you’ll be pleased. Instead of low-lying plants or grass, we chose six-foot-tall hedges. We’ll assemble them into a winding maze, not so different from cubicles, with fixed places for benches and picnic tables. At the center of the maze we’ll place a mourning wall, where the names of the victims will be carved in marble.” She lifted her copy of the plans, and pointed with her pen. “You can see these will be areas for reflection, but here and also here”—she pointed while holding up the plan—“we’ll place sculptures and picnic tables. Finally, we’ll dedicate the mourning wall to ‘The Good Samaritan,’ and the inspiration he has been to all of us. And now, for the really good news: we’ve made preliminary inquiries, and so long as AIAB green lights the fee, Joseph Frick is on board to carve the wall. He’s the same guy who built those steps in New Orleans after the second levees broke.”
A few people sat back in their chairs. Randolph smiled. Her team smiled. Jill smiled. She exhaled with relief so pleasantly contagious that Mortimer finally stopped glaring.
She went for gold, delineating the structure of the roof and the floors below, for the next half hour. When she was done, the room stayed quiet. Her cheeks burned like a fire lived in there. She’d screwed up, yes. She was nuts, maybe. But at least she’d come through when it counted.
The seconds passed. Jill’s eyelids fluttered, and Audrey realized she’d fallen asleep. Randolph scribbled something into his paper datebook—the last man on earth to own one. Mortimer tented his fingers.
“I like it,” Randolph finally said.
“But no statues? No reflection pool? Is a wall enough?” Mortimer asked.
Audrey answered fast, so no middlemen cronies had the chance to chime in and blow the deal. “It’s enough. You make people feel guilty with big memorials. Besides, if it’s too big, AIAB will have to take it down one day because their staff will want something pretty. But by then they’ll have to fight the city and the families, because once they have a memorial in place, any changes they make will look like a betrayal of the dead. With this structure, you’re honestly remembering them, and moving on, too.”
Mortimer nodded. “I’m sick of these bullshit memorials, too. I didn’t get into this business to design cemeteries.