Something bubbled up inside of Miri, a surge so intense she could taste it. She pushed her way through the crowd, calling, “Let me sign that. Let me sign that petition.” Mason was right behind her, hanging on to her jacket. Was he trying to hold her back, or was he trying to protect her?
“Are you eighteen?” someone asked. “You have to be eighteen to sign.”
“I’m old enough. Just give me the pen!” Rusty was waving frantically for her to stop. Just try and stop her. Just try and see what would happen. She didn’t know what she’d do but she knew it would be something Henry would have to put in his next story. Niece or no niece. “Give me the pen!” she shouted, until Phil Stein handed one to her. She signed her name. Miri Ammerman, and her age, 15.
Mason signed right after her. Mason McKittrick, 17. He wasn’t seventeen yet, but he would be soon. Miri supposed it didn’t really matter.
Rusty made her way to Miri’s side. “Enough is enough! Mason, will you walk her home?”
Mason nodded.
They didn’t say much on the way home. Miri was seething, her gloved hands shoved deep into her coat pockets.
“What?” Mason asked.
“That,” Miri answered, turning back toward City Hall. “And that!” This time she pointed to the sky.
“It’s not what you think,” he said.
“I don’t know what I think.”
—
WHEN SHE GOT HOME, Miri began to write a story for the school newspaper, but crumpled it up in frustration when she couldn’t get it right. She tossed it into the trash and sat looking out her window for what seemed like a long time. Then she retrieved the story, smoothed it out and shoved it into her desk drawer. Why shouldn’t her mind be as messed up as everything else?
Elizabeth Daily Post
A COMMUNITY PULLS TOGETHER
By Henry Ammerman
JAN. 26—The mayor calls it “The Umbrella of Death.” Others are calling it “Plane Crash City.”
No matter what you call it, the citizens of Elizabeth are reeling. An angry crowd of more than 1,000 gathered at City Hall last night, demanding the closing of Newark Airport following the second crash of a plane in 38 days. They did not believe that a new runway under construction at Newark Airport would make a substantial difference to the safety of the passengers on the planes or the residents on the ground.
They formed committees, threatened to stage a caravan of cars parked on runways, making it impossible for planes to take off or land, and signed petitions. Thousands more are expected to sign similar petitions in county churches at Sunday services. The meeting ended with a series of threats—Close Newark Airport or we’ll close it for you!
Where Will It End?
When a man shouted, “Where will it end?” there were no answers to his question.
Captain Eddie Rickenbacker, president of Eastern Air Lines, said in a press conference called by the Air Transport Association that Newark was “a preferred airport” to pilots under any weather conditions. He said in most pilots’ opinion “it is the best situated, the best equipped and the safest airport in the entire country.” Ten pilots representing five airlines confirmed the statement. They said their personal choice in bad weather would always be Newark. But such talk had little effect on the people of Elizabeth. Indignation, which had run in angry undercurrents through the city, boiled to the surface.
Now the community is pulling together. The Red Cross is asking for blood donations for those injured on the ground, and for food and clothing for the displaced. Volunteers are needed to provide temporary housing. “It’s time to take action,” says Richard F. Green, Red Cross disaster director. “This could have happened to any of us.”
16
Daisy
Christina told Daisy about Polina, the young mother who worked in the kitchen at Janet Memorial, who’d lost everything when the plane smashed into her apartment house on Williamson Street. “She has a little boy,” Christina said, showing her a photo of a towheaded three-year-old. “My family can’t take them in. We already have my sister, her husband and their little boy sleeping in the attic room, and my grandparents in my sister’s old bedroom.”
That was more than Christina had ever said about her family. Daisy lived in a small house in Linden with her older sister, Evelyn. They had a spare room as big as a closet. Daisy knew if she asked, Evelyn would say no. So she didn’t ask. She brought Polina and Stash home that night.
Evelyn didn’t make a scene in front of Polina. She waited until Daisy had made up the bed in the spare room, before giving Daisy hell. “You have no right—this is my house as much as yours. How dare you?” Daisy listened to her sister’s whispered outrage, said she understood, then poured herself a drink, went to her room, closed the door, lit up a Camel and picked up a book.
Evelyn came around after a few days, thanks to Stash, who’d taken a liking to her. He chose to sit in her lap after dinner, asking her to read him a story. She began to bring him little surprises when she came home from work. A toy car, then a truck and finally a bus. He said he wanted to live with her forever.
Polina was still learning to speak English but Daisy had no trouble understanding her. The young mother was so grateful to have a roof over her head and a warm, safe place to stay with Stash, she couldn’t do enough to help. “Please, Miss Daisy, I cook you supper tonight.” She shopped for food, paid for it out of her meager salary and scrubbed Daisy’s kitchen and bathroom without ever being asked. On Sundays Polina got herself up like a glamour-puss. Then she and Stash went off to church, taking the bus into Elizabeth from Linden. Daisy admired Polina’s optimism. She’d lost everyone close to her in the war but she was committed to giving Stash the chance she’d never had.
Daisy drove Polina and Stash to Elizabeth every morning. Polina looked much younger without makeup. So lovely, with clear skin, plump arms and a nice bosom. Polina had to be in the kitchen at Janet Memorial at six. She dropped Stash off at the babysitter’s house first. It was an hour earlier than Daisy usually came to work but she didn’t mind. That extra hour gave her the time to catch up on billing and correspondence. If she finished in time she enjoyed relaxing in the waiting room reading magazines, sipping a coffee from Three Brothers, trying to think of a nice young man to introduce to Polina. There was someone who worked in the lab down the hall…
Miri
Miri went through her closet, pulling out shoes that didn’t fit, skirts she hadn’t worn since sixth grade, her old lime-green dress coat. Rusty said the rule for grown-ups was, If you haven’t worn it in five years, you’ll probably never wear it again. For kids it was two years.
Irene didn’t agree. “When you’ve been through two world wars and the Depression you don’t think that way.” Irene saved everything. But even she was putting together a box of clothing.
“I wish I’d saved Estelle’s things,” Ben said.
“It’s not like you sold them,” Irene said. “You donated them to a good cause.”
Miri went to Natalie’s house to help her clean out her closet. Natalie grabbed armloads of clothes, still on their hangers, and threw them onto her bed. “Just give it all away,” she told Corinne, when she came into the room. “Including my cashmere sweaters,” Natalie said, scooping them out of her dresser drawer.
But Corinne hung all the good things back in Natalie’s closet. “You’re overreacting, Nat.”
“I don’t care about any of it,” Natalie said, flopping down on her bed.
Miri was about to volunteer to take the cashmere sweaters herself, but Corinne saved her. “We’ll give away anything you haven’t worn in two years.” So Corinne knew about Rusty’s two-year rule. Two years meant since Miri and Natalie had been best friends. It felt like way longer than two years to Miri. She could hardly remember life without Natalie. That she was able to covet Natalie’s cashmere sweaters at a time like this, when the people who’d lost everything in the crash had nothing, made her feel ashamed. She, after all, had Charlotte Whitten’s hand-me-down dresses. Wasn’t that enough? What was wrong with her? Why was she thinking such selfish thoughts?
At school they had a drive for pots and pans, canned goods, toys and books. The Red Cross was collecting boxes from all over town. Ben Sapphire was picking up and delivering. Irene was cooking and baking by day and knitting by night. After work, Rusty volunteered at the Red Cross house, putting together boxes of household goods and clothing to match each family’s needs. Some nights Rusty would stay out late, serving coffee and sandwiches to the volunteers working at the morgue. It was much harder to identify the victims this time. This time they were all burned beyond recognition. Dental records were often the only way to find out who they were. Except for the pilot. He was the first to be identified by what was left of the stripes on his uniform.
The busier they kept, the better they felt. At least they were doing something positive.
Elizabeth Daily Post
WHAT WENT WRONG
Will They Ever Know?
By Henry Ammerman
JAN. 28—The initial findings in the probe of the Jan. 22 crash of an American Airlines Convair point to a sharp, almost vertical drop of the plane. When it was noted that this must have resulted from a radical equipment breakdown, chief CAB investigator Joseph O. Fluet said he was not yet ready to draw any conclusions.