There was wild talk of blocking runways at the airport with a caravan of cars. Steve and Phil and Jack McKittrick were among those who volunteered to participate, sitting in their cars on the runways, preventing planes from taking off or landing.
Someone shouted that the pilot was at fault. “The first plane crashed into the riverbed, thanks to the pilot’s skills. He didn’t kill anyone on the ground. But this time…”
Mrs. Barnes’s son stood and in a shaky voice said, “My brother was the pilot of the second plane. He was the best pilot in the world. You want to blame someone, blame him,” and he pointed to Joseph Fluet, the investigator from the Civil Aeronautics Board. “He could have closed down the airport after the first crash. He had the power to do that. But he didn’t, and now my brother is dead, his little girls are fatherless.” His voice caught. “How many people have to die before something is done, before more families are torn apart like ours?”
As the crowd chanted, “Close down Newark Airport or we’ll close it for you!” Fluet was rushed out of the hall by a police escort. Two down, Miri thought.
A woman stood on a chair, stuck two fingers in her mouth and let out a whistle so shrill Miri was sure a taxi in New York could have heard it. “We have a petition right here,” she shouted into a bullhorn. “We urge each and every one of you to sign it. Tomorrow we’re sending it to President Truman and other federal and state officials in vigorous protest—calling for the removal of Newark Airport.”
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.