dare he question her at a time like this?
“I was looking for people,” she said. “I was trying to save them, but there’s nobody. There’s just pieces of people.”
She realized she was shouting to be heard over the din.
“Are you hurt?” he shouted back at her. What kind of conversation was this? What kind of madness were they sharing? “Are you hurt?” he asked. He kept asking her the same question. She had to stop him from asking it again.
“No, no,” she said. “Just get me out of here. I don’t want to be here. Help me get out of here.”
He took her hand and led her away from the crime scene. For ten blocks, he pushed through the advancing crowds of would-be rescuers, media saints, journalistic vultures, emergency workers, and the curiously morbid. Everywhere there were still and video cameras. She wondered how many thousands of photographs would be taken, how many films would be made. How many of those photographs and films might include her image? Had somebody captured the very moment when she emerged Jesus-like from her exploded tomb? After all, she thought, Jesus is still here because Jesus was once here and parts of Jesus are still floating in the air. Jesus’ DNA is part of the collective DNA. We’re all part of Jesus; we’re all Jesus in part. If you breathe deep during the storm, you can sometimes taste Jesus in a good hard rain. Maybe pieces of Jesus have burned into skin and bone and cement and wood. Maybe you can see the face of Jesus in every bloodstain. Maybe you can see Jesus in my bloody face, she thought, maybe I look like Jesus. Or maybe I’m not Jesus-like, maybe I’m Jesus himself. Maybe I’m a resurrection of the resurrected.
“Where do you live?” he asked. “Do you want me to take you home?”
“No,” she said. “Take me where you live.”
He hesitated. He didn’t understand what was happening. He wanted to be logical. He wanted to make it make sense. He lived at the end of the next block. It was close and safe, and therefore he decided it was logical to take this stranger, this strange woman, to his apartment. He wondered if they were going to have sex. He knew it happened. He’d read of strangers who fell into each other’s arms during earthquakes and tornadoes and hurricanes and wars. His uncle Ernie, a Vietnam War veteran, had rescued a young Vietnamese woman and her infant son in 1967, married her, adopted the kid, and brought them back to Seattle. They were still married, somewhat unhappily, but stayed together. Who can explain these things? Maybe I’m supposed to take this woman home, he thought, maybe we’re supposed to fall in love. Okay, maybe it’s not logical, maybe it’s nonsensical. But what makes any sense in a world where a man can run into a crowded restaurant and explode a bomb? He looked at this woman with her long black hair and brown skin and brown eyes, and wondered if she was Iraqi or Saudi Arabian or Afghani. Maybe she was a Muslim terrorist who’d exploded the restaurant and was using him to make her escape. God, he thought, I’ve watched too many action movies and too much FOX News, and worse, I’m a racist who has watched too many Stallone flicks and too much Bill O’Reilly.
“I don’t know what to do,” he said. He was being honest. He wondered if his honesty was real.
“Just take me where you live,” she said again. “And then we’ll figure it out.”
He led her to his apartment building in Pioneer Square and three flights up to his place. He unlocked the door, followed her inside, closed the door behind them, and sat her down on his living room couch.
“Do you want something to drink?” he asked. How basic and inane! Why hadn’t he offered her something important, like world peace or spiritual redemption? He couldn’t have delivered either of those wonderful abstractions, but his offer would have been solid.
“I’d love some water,” she said.
“Water is important,” he said. “Whenever I’m depressed
“I was looking for people,” she said. “I was trying to save them, but there’s nobody. There’s just pieces of people.”
She realized she was shouting to be heard over the din.
“Are you hurt?” he shouted back at her. What kind of conversation was this? What kind of madness were they sharing? “Are you hurt?” he asked. He kept asking her the same question. She had to stop him from asking it again.
“No, no,” she said. “Just get me out of here. I don’t want to be here. Help me get out of here.”
He took her hand and led her away from the crime scene. For ten blocks, he pushed through the advancing crowds of would-be rescuers, media saints, journalistic vultures, emergency workers, and the curiously morbid. Everywhere there were still and video cameras. She wondered how many thousands of photographs would be taken, how many films would be made. How many of those photographs and films might include her image? Had somebody captured the very moment when she emerged Jesus-like from her exploded tomb? After all, she thought, Jesus is still here because Jesus was once here and parts of Jesus are still floating in the air. Jesus’ DNA is part of the collective DNA. We’re all part of Jesus; we’re all Jesus in part. If you breathe deep during the storm, you can sometimes taste Jesus in a good hard rain. Maybe pieces of Jesus have burned into skin and bone and cement and wood. Maybe you can see the face of Jesus in every bloodstain. Maybe you can see Jesus in my bloody face, she thought, maybe I look like Jesus. Or maybe I’m not Jesus-like, maybe I’m Jesus himself. Maybe I’m a resurrection of the resurrected.
“Where do you live?” he asked. “Do you want me to take you home?”
“No,” she said. “Take me where you live.”
He hesitated. He didn’t understand what was happening. He wanted to be logical. He wanted to make it make sense. He lived at the end of the next block. It was close and safe, and therefore he decided it was logical to take this stranger, this strange woman, to his apartment. He wondered if they were going to have sex. He knew it happened. He’d read of strangers who fell into each other’s arms during earthquakes and tornadoes and hurricanes and wars. His uncle Ernie, a Vietnam War veteran, had rescued a young Vietnamese woman and her infant son in 1967, married her, adopted the kid, and brought them back to Seattle. They were still married, somewhat unhappily, but stayed together. Who can explain these things? Maybe I’m supposed to take this woman home, he thought, maybe we’re supposed to fall in love. Okay, maybe it’s not logical, maybe it’s nonsensical. But what makes any sense in a world where a man can run into a crowded restaurant and explode a bomb? He looked at this woman with her long black hair and brown skin and brown eyes, and wondered if she was Iraqi or Saudi Arabian or Afghani. Maybe she was a Muslim terrorist who’d exploded the restaurant and was using him to make her escape. God, he thought, I’ve watched too many action movies and too much FOX News, and worse, I’m a racist who has watched too many Stallone flicks and too much Bill O’Reilly.
“I don’t know what to do,” he said. He was being honest. He wondered if his honesty was real.
“Just take me where you live,” she said again. “And then we’ll figure it out.”
He led her to his apartment building in Pioneer Square and three flights up to his place. He unlocked the door, followed her inside, closed the door behind them, and sat her down on his living room couch.
“Do you want something to drink?” he asked. How basic and inane! Why hadn’t he offered her something important, like world peace or spiritual redemption? He couldn’t have delivered either of those wonderful abstractions, but his offer would have been solid.
“I’d love some water,” she said.
“Water is important,” he said. “Whenever I’m depressed
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