Let The Great World Spin: A Novel - By Colum McCann Page 0,48

hell of a hell of a hell of a lot about her helicopters, her hell of helicopters.

She has told them, in her own house, on Staten Island, that Mike Junior had been on his third tour of duty, routine fly mission over the coast at Qui Nhon, bringing cigars to some general or other in a Huey with the 57th Medical Detachment—cigars, can you imagine? and why the hell were the medevacs flying cigars?—and it was a good helicopter, top speed of ninety knots, she said. The figures had trilled off her tongue. It had something wrong with the steering column, she had said, and had gone into detail about the engine and the gearing ratio and the length of the two-bladed metal tail rotor, when what really mattered, all that truly mattered, was that Mike Junior had clipped the top of a goalpost, of all things, a soccer goalpost, only six feet off the ground—and who in the world plays soccer in Vietnam?—which sent the whirligig spinning and he landed awkwardly, sideways, and he smashed his head awkwardly, broke his neck, no flames, even, just a freak fall, the helicopter still intact; she had played it over in her mind a million times, and that was it, and Marcia woke at night dreaming of an army general opening and reopening the cigar boxes, finding bits and pieces of her son inside.

She knows her helicopters, yes she does, and more’s the pity.

—So, anyway, I told him he should mind his own damn business.

—Indeed, says Gloria.

—And sure enough the captain of the ferry, looking through his binoculars, he says to everyone, That’s no projection.

—That’s right.

—And all I could think of, was, Maybe that’s my boy and he’s come to say hello.

—Oh, no.

—Oh.

—Lord.

A deep swell in her heart for Marcia.

—Man in the air.

—Imagine.

—Very brave.

—Exactly. That’s why I thought of Mike Junior.

—Of course.

—And did he fall? says Jacqueline.

—Shh, shh, says Janet. Let her speak.

—I’m just asking.

—So the captain swings the ferry out so we can get a better look and then brings the boat into dock. You know, it bumped against the river wall. I couldn’t see anything from there. The wrong angle. Our view was blocked. The north tower, south tower, I don’t know which, but we couldn’t see what was happening. And I didn’t even say another word to the guy with the ponytail. I just turned on my heels. I was the very first person off. I wanted to run and see my boy.

—Of course, says Janet. There, there.

—Shh, says Jacqueline.

The room tight now. One turn of the screw and the whole thing could explode. Janet stares across at Jacqueline, who flicks her long red hair, as if tossing off a fly, even a flyman, and Claire looks back and forth between them, anticipating an overturned table, a broken vase. And she thinks, I should do something, say something, hit the release valve, the escape button, and she reaches across to Gloria to take the flowers from her, petunias, lovely petunias, gorgeous green stalks, neatly clipped at the bottom.

—I should put these in water.

—Yes, yes, says Marcia, relieved.

—Back in a jiffy.

—Hurry, Claire.

—Be right back.

The correct thing to do. Absolutely, positively. She tiptoes to the kitchen and stops at the louvered door. Too much farther in and she won’t be able to hear. How silly to say I’d put them in water. Should have delayed somehow, bought more time. She leans against the door slats, straining to hear.

—… so I’m running in those old mazy side streets. Past the auction houses and cheap electronic joints and fabric stores and tenements. You’d think you’d be able to see the big buildings from there. I mean, they’re huge.

—One hundred stories.

—A hundred ten.

—Shh.

—But they’re not in view. I get glimpses of them but they’re not the right angle. I was trying to take the most direct route. I should have just gone along the water. But I’m running, running. That’s my boy up there and he’s come to say hello.

Everyone silent, even Janet.

—I kept darting around corners, thinking I’d get a better view. Ducking this way and that. Looking up all the time. But I can’t see them, the helicopter or the walker. I haven’t run so fast since junior high. I mean, my boobs were bouncing.

—Marcia!

—Most days I forget I have them anymore.

—Ain’t my dilemma, says Gloria, hitching her chest.

There is a swell of laughter around the room and, at the moment of levity, Claire moves back across the carpet, still holding Gloria’s