I moved away from the racket of the morning news, crossing to the kitchen. Because I lived mostly without her, I liked the background noise to mute my loneliness. But the words World Trade Center and explosion effectively cut through my preoccupation with my to-do list of mundane tasks for the coming day.
Coffee was soon forgotten. I watched the news with both rapt fascination and abject horror for ten minutes. Then I saw the second plane hit in real time.
I stared at the TV screen, hearing nothing, seeing nothing, shocked beyond sense or sensation. I could not comprehend what had just happened.
I didn’t appreciate it at the time, but looking back, my level of shock was a testament to how lucky I was as a citizen of the United States. Since my medical discharge from the Marine Corps, I’d felt relatively safe. US citizens, for the most part, existed in this bubble of doldrums, of first-world problems. We lived apart from the rest of the world, a world where the words explosion and terrorist attack are as common as making the morning coffee.
But my first concrete conviction as I broke through the eerily numb surface of my thoughts was: Fiona and I are getting married. Today. Or Tomorrow.
And we would. Every time we’d been together during the last three years she’d suggested we elope. She hadn’t been pushy. She’d typically cloak the suggestion as teasing, but I knew she was serious. I’d been the one holding out. But not anymore.
I didn’t shower. I didn’t pack. I grabbed my truck keys and passport, and I left.
It didn’t matter that our wedding was scheduled for January, a big extravagant affair planned entirely by her mother. We’d been engaged for three years, and in this moment it felt like three years too long. Too much wasted time. Too much waiting. And waiting.
And waiting.
Too much caution, courage, and bravery, and not enough seizing the fucking day.
The drive from Houston to Iowa took sixteen hours and I listened to the news throughout, gorging myself on repeated sound bites until my brain felt rubbery and bruised.
I stopped at a payphone around midday and left a message on her answering machine.
“Fe, darling, it’s your betrothed. I’m driving up right now. I know we’re not scheduled for another visit until October, but I’ve decided it would be best if we got married today or tomorrow. Can you call the clerk of the court and check on the requirements? I have my passport with me.”
I hung up, then immediately redialed.
“Also, I love you.”
I hung up again. I stared unseeingly at the dusty expanse of the Texas desert, focusing instead on the oil pumpjacks—the visible portion of a reciprocating piston pump—moving up and down in the distance.
Oil.
Oil felt like both the question and the answer to the question I hadn’t asked yet.
The why and the how: Why had they attacked the World Trade Center? And how had they obtained the resources needed? A growing sense of purpose, resolve to do whatever was necessary to keep this kind of senseless tragedy from happening again, infiltrated every part of my sentient thought.
I’d always wanted to do right by the earth, leave the world in a better state than when I’d arrived. Yet now I was struck with a new sense of determination, to make every action count for the better good. Oil was a corrupting influence, but it didn’t have to be. It could be a liberator instead of a tool for oppression. But people needed to be taught. They needed an advocate.
It was after midnight when I pulled into Fiona’s dorm parking lot. Using the phone outside the lobby, I picked up the receiver and dialed her room number. Before it connected, one of the girls from her floor recognized me from my visit last week and permitted me entrance to the building.
“Thank you,” I said, taking the elevator with her to the fourth floor.
“No problem,” she said, sounding dazed. I studied her for a long moment. She’d been crying. Crying and walking around in a daze struck me as an appropriate response to the horrors of the day.
Appropriate, but completely unhelpful.
I scowled at her back as we exited the lift and I stepped quickly to Fiona’s dorm room.
As the resident advisor (RA), she wasn’t required to share a room or a suite. But the RA’s quarters were located in the center of the floor. She was afforded very little privacy. I preferred her visits to Houston, where we could be completely alone, where she wasn’t frequently sought out by college co-eds for her conversation and sage advice. The constant interruptions grated. I wanted her—time, attention, and focus—for myself.
I rapped quickly on her door, then tried the handle. It was unlocked. I frowned, irritated with her lack of security, but then realized why she’d left it open as soon as I peeked inside.
Girls. Crying. Everywhere.