and then jerk the arm forward propelling the ball backwards along the forearm before knocking it into the air with his elbow and then catching it backhanded, she saw a man she’d never known before.
She stopped at Harold Apter’s office in the East 80s on her way to 116th Street. She did this periodically, dropping off photocopies of her group’s written pieces and discussing their situations in general. This is where Dr. Apter saw people for consultation, Alzheimer patients and others.
Apter was a slight man with frizzed hair who seemed formulated to say funny things but never did. They talked about the fade of Rosellen S., the aloof bearing of Curtis B. She told him she would like to increase the frequency of the meetings to twice a week. He told her this would be a mistake.
“From this point on, you understand, it’s all about loss. We’re dealing inevitably here with diminishing returns. Their situation will grow increasingly delicate. These encounters need space around them. You don’t want them to feel there’s an urgency to write everything, say everything before it’s too late. You want them to look forward to this, not feel pressed or threatened. The writing is sweet music up to a point. Then other things will take over.”
He looked at her searchingly.
“What I’m saying is simple. This is for them,” he said.
“What do you mean?”
“It’s theirs,” he said. “Don’t make it yours.”
They wrote about the planes. They wrote about where they were when it happened. They wrote about people they knew who were in the towers, or nearby, and they wrote about God.
How could God let this happen? Where was God when this happened?
Benny T. was glad he was not a man of faith because he would lose it after this.
I am closer to God than ever, Rosellen wrote.
This is the devil. This is hell. All that fire and pain. Never mind God. This is hell.
Omar H. was afraid to go out on the street in the days after. They were looking at him, he thought.
I didn’t see them holding hands. I wanted to see that, Rosellen wrote.
Carmen G. wanted to know whether everything that happens to us has to be part of God’s plan.
I am closer to God than ever, am closer, will be closer, shall be closer.
Eugene A., in a rare appearance, wrote that God knows things we don’t know.
Ashes and bones. That’s what’s left of God’s plan.
But when the towers fell, Omar wrote.
I keep hearing they were holding hands when they jumped.
If God let this happen, with the planes, then did God make me cut my finger when I was slicing bread this morning?
They wrote and then read what they’d written, each in turn, and there were remarks and then exchanges and then monologues.
“Show us the finger,” Benny said. “We want to kiss it.”
Lianne encouraged them to speak and argue. She wanted to hear everything, the things everybody said, ordinary things, and the naked statements of belief, and the depth of feeling, the passion that saturated the room. She needed these men and women. Dr. Apter’s comment disturbed her because there was truth in it. She needed these people. It was possible that the group meant more to her than it did to the members. There was something precious here, something that seeps and bleeds. These people were the living breath of the thing that killed her father.
“God says something happens, then it happens.”
“I don’t respect God no more, after this.”
“We sit and listen and God tells us or doesn’t.”
“I was walking down the street to get my hair cut. Somebody comes running.”
“I was on the crapper. I hated myself later. People said where were you when it happened. I didn’t tell them where I was.”
“But you remember to tell us. That’s beautiful, Benny.”
They interrupted, gestured, changed the subject, talked over each other, shut their eyes in thought or puzzlement or in dismal re-experience of the event itself.
“What about the people God
She stopped at Harold Apter’s office in the East 80s on her way to 116th Street. She did this periodically, dropping off photocopies of her group’s written pieces and discussing their situations in general. This is where Dr. Apter saw people for consultation, Alzheimer patients and others.
Apter was a slight man with frizzed hair who seemed formulated to say funny things but never did. They talked about the fade of Rosellen S., the aloof bearing of Curtis B. She told him she would like to increase the frequency of the meetings to twice a week. He told her this would be a mistake.
“From this point on, you understand, it’s all about loss. We’re dealing inevitably here with diminishing returns. Their situation will grow increasingly delicate. These encounters need space around them. You don’t want them to feel there’s an urgency to write everything, say everything before it’s too late. You want them to look forward to this, not feel pressed or threatened. The writing is sweet music up to a point. Then other things will take over.”
He looked at her searchingly.
“What I’m saying is simple. This is for them,” he said.
“What do you mean?”
“It’s theirs,” he said. “Don’t make it yours.”
They wrote about the planes. They wrote about where they were when it happened. They wrote about people they knew who were in the towers, or nearby, and they wrote about God.
How could God let this happen? Where was God when this happened?
Benny T. was glad he was not a man of faith because he would lose it after this.
I am closer to God than ever, Rosellen wrote.
This is the devil. This is hell. All that fire and pain. Never mind God. This is hell.
Omar H. was afraid to go out on the street in the days after. They were looking at him, he thought.
I didn’t see them holding hands. I wanted to see that, Rosellen wrote.
Carmen G. wanted to know whether everything that happens to us has to be part of God’s plan.
I am closer to God than ever, am closer, will be closer, shall be closer.
Eugene A., in a rare appearance, wrote that God knows things we don’t know.
Ashes and bones. That’s what’s left of God’s plan.
But when the towers fell, Omar wrote.
I keep hearing they were holding hands when they jumped.
If God let this happen, with the planes, then did God make me cut my finger when I was slicing bread this morning?
They wrote and then read what they’d written, each in turn, and there were remarks and then exchanges and then monologues.
“Show us the finger,” Benny said. “We want to kiss it.”
Lianne encouraged them to speak and argue. She wanted to hear everything, the things everybody said, ordinary things, and the naked statements of belief, and the depth of feeling, the passion that saturated the room. She needed these men and women. Dr. Apter’s comment disturbed her because there was truth in it. She needed these people. It was possible that the group meant more to her than it did to the members. There was something precious here, something that seeps and bleeds. These people were the living breath of the thing that killed her father.
“God says something happens, then it happens.”
“I don’t respect God no more, after this.”
“We sit and listen and God tells us or doesn’t.”
“I was walking down the street to get my hair cut. Somebody comes running.”
“I was on the crapper. I hated myself later. People said where were you when it happened. I didn’t tell them where I was.”
“But you remember to tell us. That’s beautiful, Benny.”
They interrupted, gestured, changed the subject, talked over each other, shut their eyes in thought or puzzlement or in dismal re-experience of the event itself.
“What about the people God
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