to the next and repeated the same job all over again while a different crew moved in behind them.” Michael glances at her. “You following?”
“I think so.”
“The work overlapped,” he explains, walking carefully around other tourists. “You know, electricians and plasterers worked on the lower floors, while up above them, workers put together the steel frame and got that floor ready for the electricians and plasterers behind them, while the roof was still only a drawing in the architect’s office. It was a tight operation. They even had a little railroad set up on each floor to bring the supplies where they were needed. So it’s an impressive building, but fourteen men were killed assembling this tinkertoy.”
“Maybe it isn’t the closest thing to heaven in New York. Maybe in a way, it is heaven. For those guys. They’re here.”
“Heaven in sixty thousand tons of steel, sixty miles of water pipe and three thousand five hundred miles of telephone and telegraph wire, with sixty-five hundred windows to look out from.”
“You know a little more than the average bear about this place.” With the skyline spread before her, she feels what Michael must feel so often from atop his horse, or emerging from the subway, or upon turning a corner and catching a glimpse of this landmark. “You said your grandfather was a mason. He worked on this building, didn’t he?”
“Side by side with Joe’s father. The two masons. And when you think that sixteen thousand people come to work here each day, and another thirty-five thousand come to either do business or just visit the building, well, it’s pretty damn amazing.”
“No wonder you’ve researched it. You’ve got a personal connection.”
“No research. I heard it all firsthand from my grandfather and later from Pop. You know, stories like having lunch out of a pail on the fifty-third floor beams, and the wind blowing construction debris from the upper floors. Stuff you never read about in encyclopedias.” Michael slips his hand into hers and they start to walk. “But that was a long time ago.” They turn to the elevators. “Careful,” he says as the doors open.
Stopping back on the lower deck to see if Sara Beth might be there, the wind touches Rachel’s eyes, her cheeks, blows her hair. She wants to feel it, to remember Michael’s New York heaven.
“What did you wish for?” he asks.
“I can’t tell. It won’t come true that way,” she says as he leans on the wall beside her.
“No, not tonight. When you were with Sara Beth at the beach. What was your wish when you were sixteen?”
“You know how they say this is the closest thing to heaven in New York? This building? Well, where I lived, the closest thing to heaven was that beach. So every summer my wish was that some day I could have my own little cottage at the shore.” She looks up at the stars. “My own little piece of heaven.”
“Ready?”
“I think so. Wait.” She takes a quick breath. “Yes. Yes, I’m ready,” Sara Beth answers.
“Don’t move now.”
“I won’t.” She sits on a stool in a Village boutique. It feels like she’s sitting at an easel, working on that oil painting. One color paints over another in oils, and color not only creates visual impact, it creates form. This is how you form yourself, adding another layer of color. It makes her think of the Matrioshka dolls she bought for her mother, the beautiful blue and gold painted dolls layered within, waiting to be discovered.
She watches every move in the mirror. Embroidered tunics are reflected behind her, racks of turquoise and yellow and red, and Pashmina scarves and skinny jeans. She longs to be some of the person who shops in a boutique like this. She used to, years ago. Just finding a little of that woman might be enough. The splash of fabric colors don’t take her attention from the boutique attendant, though. It’s the only way to gauge when the trigger will be pulled. Then comes the
“I think so.”
“The work overlapped,” he explains, walking carefully around other tourists. “You know, electricians and plasterers worked on the lower floors, while up above them, workers put together the steel frame and got that floor ready for the electricians and plasterers behind them, while the roof was still only a drawing in the architect’s office. It was a tight operation. They even had a little railroad set up on each floor to bring the supplies where they were needed. So it’s an impressive building, but fourteen men were killed assembling this tinkertoy.”
“Maybe it isn’t the closest thing to heaven in New York. Maybe in a way, it is heaven. For those guys. They’re here.”
“Heaven in sixty thousand tons of steel, sixty miles of water pipe and three thousand five hundred miles of telephone and telegraph wire, with sixty-five hundred windows to look out from.”
“You know a little more than the average bear about this place.” With the skyline spread before her, she feels what Michael must feel so often from atop his horse, or emerging from the subway, or upon turning a corner and catching a glimpse of this landmark. “You said your grandfather was a mason. He worked on this building, didn’t he?”
“Side by side with Joe’s father. The two masons. And when you think that sixteen thousand people come to work here each day, and another thirty-five thousand come to either do business or just visit the building, well, it’s pretty damn amazing.”
“No wonder you’ve researched it. You’ve got a personal connection.”
“No research. I heard it all firsthand from my grandfather and later from Pop. You know, stories like having lunch out of a pail on the fifty-third floor beams, and the wind blowing construction debris from the upper floors. Stuff you never read about in encyclopedias.” Michael slips his hand into hers and they start to walk. “But that was a long time ago.” They turn to the elevators. “Careful,” he says as the doors open.
Stopping back on the lower deck to see if Sara Beth might be there, the wind touches Rachel’s eyes, her cheeks, blows her hair. She wants to feel it, to remember Michael’s New York heaven.
“What did you wish for?” he asks.
“I can’t tell. It won’t come true that way,” she says as he leans on the wall beside her.
“No, not tonight. When you were with Sara Beth at the beach. What was your wish when you were sixteen?”
“You know how they say this is the closest thing to heaven in New York? This building? Well, where I lived, the closest thing to heaven was that beach. So every summer my wish was that some day I could have my own little cottage at the shore.” She looks up at the stars. “My own little piece of heaven.”
“Ready?”
“I think so. Wait.” She takes a quick breath. “Yes. Yes, I’m ready,” Sara Beth answers.
“Don’t move now.”
“I won’t.” She sits on a stool in a Village boutique. It feels like she’s sitting at an easel, working on that oil painting. One color paints over another in oils, and color not only creates visual impact, it creates form. This is how you form yourself, adding another layer of color. It makes her think of the Matrioshka dolls she bought for her mother, the beautiful blue and gold painted dolls layered within, waiting to be discovered.
She watches every move in the mirror. Embroidered tunics are reflected behind her, racks of turquoise and yellow and red, and Pashmina scarves and skinny jeans. She longs to be some of the person who shops in a boutique like this. She used to, years ago. Just finding a little of that woman might be enough. The splash of fabric colors don’t take her attention from the boutique attendant, though. It’s the only way to gauge when the trigger will be pulled. Then comes the
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