A Passing Stranger:

A Modern Cartwright Story

Robin & Ginny

Introduction:

A Passing Stranger is based on the Bonanza episode “A Stranger Passed this Way”. We already wrote a fan fic based on that episode called “Together“

http://www.womenwritersblock.net/Ginny/ginny9.htm

A Passing Stranger  is the fourth story we wrote about modern Cartwrights.

The first is Windmills and Rememberances

http://www.womenwritersblock.net/Ginny/ginny7.htm

The other 2 modern Cartwright stories are:

Substitutes In The Cemetery

http://www.womenwritersblock.net/Ginny/ginny16.htm

and A Quarter’s Worth Of Glory: Joe in the Machine

http://www.womenwritersblock.net/Robin/Robinstory11.htm

 

Thanks to Gwynne for being a thorough and supportive beta reader who helped bring our writing to a higher level.

This is the first section of three sections.

 

 

A Passing Stranger:

A Modern Cartwright Story

Robin & Ginny

PART ONE

CHAPTER 1

May, 2002

The Ponderosa, Nevada

 

 

Ben Cartwright slowly pulled his car into the garage and eased it into the space between the red pickup truck and the canvas covered wreck. Under the canvas was the ancient black and white Ford Pinto that Joe had insisted on keeping. It had become obvious to Ben that the Pinto would never be restored now. Like many other plans, much of their lives had become dust in the winds this year

 

The Pinto had been Joe’s first car. He had purchased the ancient wreck for $35 and had hidden it in an outbuilding near an abandoned mine. Adam secretly taught his kid brother how to drive it out on some back roads crisscrossing the Ponderosa. How old was Joe then?  Thirteen? Fourteen?   Ben shook his head wondering what secret the boy had black mailed Adam with to get his way. Perhaps Adam knew Joe would do what he wanted and decided protectively that the risk of Joe breaking his neck or crashing into some of the livestock would be lessened if he watched out for the boy.

 

Ben sighed and wondered if Hoss had been involved in that long ago brotherly conspiracy. His sons were good boys, close brothers despite their age differences.

 

In the dim light of the garage, Ben lifted the corner of the canvas and looked at the old Pinto. Then, he remembered Hoss was the one who got the engine running for Little Joe. Hoss even searched the junk yards and found the replacement fenders and bumper for the car. The Pinto was rusty black and the fenders were shiny white which gave the Pinto a strange two-tone look but Little Joe didn’t much care as long as his car ran.

 

 

The rancher had spent another unproductive day riding around the Ponderosa ostensibly checking the cattle and seeing to the men who were extending the irrigation lines in the south pasture. Neither the cattle nor the digging crew needed his attention but the tasks gave him an excuse to be out of the house and exercise his late son’s neglected horse. He was trying to take an interest in the activities on the ranch, for the sake of his two surviving sons but most days it was completely impossible. He knew from sad personal experiences that passing time would eventually sand the harsh splinters off his fresh grief if he could just keep putting one foot in front of the other.

 

After eating a quick early supper alone, Ben had driven all the way into Virginia City for a meeting with the Cattleman’s Association. That was equally a waste but filled his time. Friends and neighbors greeted Ben and said the usual cliché sad words of condolence A few shook his hand and smiled those awkward smiles people had when they didn’t know what to say to a heartbroken man who had out lived his beloved son. They had moved on with their lives. They all wished that he had as well. Instead, he was the living reminder of that awful day.

 

At the meeting, Ben paid little attention to a drawn out discussion on the scholarship fund raiser that ran on endlessly. He tried to focus on the Xeroxed flyer about anthrax threats that the Federal government had distributed. During the discussion, George Devlin mentioned that their favorite home town boy, Andy Walker, had agreed to perform the highlights from his Broadway show and donate all the proceeds to the memorial scholarship fund. The only hitch was Andy refused to fly. He insisted on coming back to Virginia City by train instead. Ben’s stomach lurched.

 

Just as Ben was trying to figure how he could sneak out the back door of the meeting room without anyone noticing, Charlie Hightower from the Circle H ranch reminded them all it was pushing on past ten and last fall the Association had voted to halt all their meetings by ten thirty for security reasons. Jigger Thurmond quickly made motion to adjourn that was swiftly seconded. The meeting concluded, none too soon for Ben who elbowed his way out the door before anyone could invite him out for a drink or ask for a picture of his late son for the posters advertising the memorial scholarship.

 

 

 

As he automatically drove the winding road back to the Ponderosa, Ben realized that he couldn’t remember the association making any policy to end meetings by ten thirty. As he turned into the ranch road, it hit him that Charlie had said they had voted on it the previous fall. It must have been the meeting at the end of September.

 

****

 

Chapter 2

 

Stretched out on the rubble, he choked and gasped for air like a trout that had been yanked out of the lake. Then he tried to catch his breath but his chest hurt even more. All he knew was he was trying to fill his lungs with air instead of choking dust and smoke and he couldn’t get a good breath. Lying on his back on hard broken ground and some rocks, his ears were filled with screams and shouts and ear piercing wails. His eyes burned and he tried to wipe them with his hands but realized he couldn’t lift his arms. He couldn’t see for all the dirt in his eyes. His left arm wouldn’t move but he was able to wiggle his fingers. He struggled to figure out where he was and why his head hurt so much.

 

He realized someone was holding fast to his right hand, and a voice was saying, softly, “Squeeze my hand if you can.

 

He did and the other hand, squeezed back.

 

“Good,” said a soft, gentle female voice.  The woman had some sort of European accent. “You are alive! That was quite a fall.”

 

“I’m alive?” he whispered hoarsely. His mouth was filled with dust and blood.

 

“Yes you are alive, thank goodness.”

 

No one holds your hand tighter than someone holding on to life & Hoss Cartwright was holding on fast to his quickly fading life

 

“Thank goodness! “she repeated. “Hang on; help is on its way, son, “the voice said.

 

“Looks like something hit him in the back of his head,” This time, a man’s voice.

 

Another harsh voice directed firmly. “Get him out of here. We have plenty more to take care of besides him.”

 

Suddenly, another explosion shock everyone and the ground rocked beneath them

 

********

Chapter 3

 

Perhaps, if there had been a body to bury, grieving would have been less painful and more defined. His family could have had a conventional funeral.

 

“Maybe he really isn’t dead Pa… “Joe blurted out. This wasn’t the first time Joe gave voice to the idea that haunted him. It kept him distracted from his college classes during the day and gave him nightmares many nights.

 

“Not dead? It is not logical. Tell him, Pa. I’ve been repeating the same answer since just after dinner. I was trying to have a civil discussion with your son about his college plans for the fall and before I knew it we were on this. Again, Now you can tell him,” Adam said angrily.

 

 He had gone over this time and time again in the days since they last heard from Hoss. Fed up with repeating the same discussion once again, Adam stood up and grabbed the jet black wrought iron poker and jabbed the tower of logs in the hearth. One near the top fell over sending an eruption of orange sparks up the chimney.

 

“Like it or not, Hoss is dead. We have the reports. He was there and people saw him there and they found his jacket and his wallet.

”He is dead, Joe. I know it’s hard for you to accept it. It’s hard for all of us to accept Hoss is dead,” Ben said wearily. He squeezed Joe’s shoulder wishing he could do more eliminate some of the pain his son was feeling, to eliminate some of the pain they all were feeling.

 

“But we’re not completely sure, Pa. No one knows for sure where he went after he turned around. Maybe he is alive. Maybe he is Pa.”

 

 

“Joe, it’s almost a year. If Hoss was alive, he would have come home, “Ben reminded him again.

 

“Hoss is dead. He would have contacted us if he was alive,” Adam repeated firmly. He stared into the fire, his back to his father and Joe.

 

“Maybe he couldn’t contact us,” Joe suggested. His voice was louder and had a strange brittle edge to it. “Maybe he … maybe he is being held prisoner by one of the group who did this. You yourself said that soul-less evil knows no limits.”

 

“Joseph….” Ben started. He was at a loss for words. This wasn’t the first time in the last year that Ben or Adam had to deal with Joe’s nightmares or irrational panic or moodiness or conspiracy theories.” I’ll always grieve for your brother and what we all lost, for the whole future we won’t have with him but he is gone.”

 

“Soul-less evil knows no limits,” Joe repeated.

 

Adam’s eyes met his father’s. The raw pain the Cartwrights felt was unimaginable. ” Soul-less evil knows no limits,” Adam growled. “Joe, he is dead. Turned to ashes and dust and …”

 

Joe nodded. Ben could see he had a manila envelope and some papers spread out in front of him on the desk. Ben sincerely hoped his youngest was finally getting it together, registering for the fall semester of college but that probably just triggered this argument with Adam.

 

“He’s dead but your brother wouldn’t want us to continue like this. Is that clear?” Ben said firmly. “Joseph? Is that clear?”

Joe didn’t answer. For a moment, he didn’t even move. Then he picked up a piece of paper from the manila envelope that sat on the coffee table and stared at it. Ben had assumed it contained registration information from Joe’s college.

 

“I said, is that clear, Joseph?” Ben walked over to Joe and put his hand on his son’s shoulder and turned him around to face him. “Joe? What’s going on? What are you looking at?”

“Adam said I shouldn’t tell you about this but I ‘m going to. It’s my fault that Hoss is gone. It was all my idea. I killed my brother.” Joe confessed to Ben.

”Joe, don’t,” Adam sighed and shook his head. As if his legs could no longer hold him up, Adam sunk into the blue chair next to the fire place.  He hunched over, his elbow on his knees and rested his chin braced on his clenched fist. “I agreed it was a great idea, and sprang for his plane ticket.”

 

Perplexed, Ben looked from one son to the other.  “What are you two talking about?  Why is Hoss going to New York to see Andy on Broadway your doing?”

 

“I asked Andy to invite him! “ Joe choked out.  “I…. I called Andy and told him about Hoss and Bessie Sue breaking up and her going off to England to study with that British psychologist she admires so much, and how hard Hoss was taking it.”

 

“Listen to me.”  Ben hated to be stern with his two remaining sons, but he had to snap them out of this shared delusion that they had any responsibility.  “The trip you arranged to New York for your brother was an act of love.  You wanted to help heal his broken heart. He told me how much he appreciated it and how glad he was that you forced him to go.  Am I guilty because I was happy he was going?  Is poor Andy guilty because he invited Hoss to breakfast at Windows on the World?  Are you also guilty of Andy being injured because it was your fault that Hoss was in New York visiting him?  The blame belongs to the perpetrators of that horrible act. To them, and them, only.”

 

Ben softened his tone.  “Now, let’s have coffee and some of that pie Hop Sing made today.  I have something I want to discuss with you.”

 

Hop Sing served the pie and coffee in the great room where the three men gathered around the sturdy coffee table.

 

After a sip of coffee, Ben hesitated before speaking.  “Andy emailed me that there will be a memorial service at ground zero on September eleventh.  I would like all of us to attend.”

 

Ben looked compassionately at his youngest son’s stricken face.  “Joseph, we need to do this for Hoss.  It will be hard for all of us, but, together, we will get through it.  I believe it will help us come to terms with what’s happened to our family.

 

Joe glanced at his brother and was answered by a slight smile and a nod.  Not trusting his voice, Joe responded to his father in the same way.

 

“Another thing”, Ben continued.  “Joe, I think you should consider sitting out this coming semester. Now, don’t say anything till you think about it.”  Ben held up a hand as Joe started to protest. Because of your inability to concentrate and your trouble sleeping since last September your grades slipped quite a bit.  I would hate to see them slip any farther, and I don’t think you would like to see that happen, either.  Hopefully, by the following semester you will be pulled back together and able to handle a partial course load, if not a full one. “

 

Ben forestalled his older son before he could speak. “Adam, stay out of this.  This is between your brother and me! Remember who is the father here and who the older brother is.”

 

Then mentioning his dear friend, photojournalist Faye Franklin, Ben added, “Faye has a proposition for you, Joe.  You can talk to her about it tomorrow.  She is doing a series on how the survivors and the families of the victims are coping after a year.  She is offering you an unpaid position, a sort of internship, as her assistant.  It’s up to you if you want to take this on, of course.   It might be too close to home emotionally, but she thinks, and I tend to agree, that  meeting others who are going through what we are, and hearing their stories, might help you in some way.”

 

“It might help all of us. Faye included,” Adam added.

 

“Faye included,” Ben agreed.

 

As usual, close to tears at any mention of the tragedy of the past year, Joe could barely get out “Yes, sir.  I’ll think about both of these tonight and I’ll call Faye tomorrow.  Good night.” 

 

Ben and Adam didn’t take their eyes off the stairs until they heard the sound of Joe’s bedroom door closing.

 

 

 

 

Chapter 4

 

A few days later, as Adam Cartwright was negotiating a particularly tight series of turns on the road to Virginia City, his cell phone rang. He was expecting a call from his brother, who was meeting with his college counselor about working with Faye for school credit.

 

“How did it go, Joe?”

 

The phone hissed and crackled. 

 

“What?” Adam asked.   “Joe?  I can’t hear you, Buddy.  Can you hear me?”

All he could hear was someone saying, “Adam?", and more hisses and crackles as the reception broke up.

”Joe? “  Adam shouted into the phone as the road now wound down a steep incline with very little shoulder on the side of the two-lane road. “Joe, I’ll have to call you back when I get into town.”

 

It took longer than Adam expected to get past the dead spot. As he shoved his phone back into his pocket, he could see the few cars ahead of him slowing as they approached a construction crew resurfacing the road. A burly flag man in a fluorescent plastic vest held up both lanes of vehicles while a dump truck slowly tipped a load of steaming asphalt onto the road. It took at least fifteen minutes for the traffic to inch past the construction crew and be on its way. A few minutes later, anxious to call Joe back, Adam pulled into the first empty space on C Street and pulled out his phone. He would have no trouble getting reception now. Not sure if his brother was calling from his cell or from the house, Adam looked at the number of his last call.

His eyes couldn’t believe what he was seeing. The last call his phone had received was not from Joe’s number. It was a complete impossibility.  The call was from Hoss’ phone.

 

Adam‘s hands trembled as he looked at the screen of his phone.  He swallowed hard and looked up at the brick front of the Tourism office on the corner of C and Taylor.  He focused his eyes on the brightly colored banner stretching across C Street advertising the upcoming Memorial Day Parade and Picnic. Hoss was gone, dead, vaporized in an instant, along with over two-thousand other people.

 

Taking a deep breath to calm himself, Adam flipped open his phone and looked at the screen.  There it was: Hoss’ number.  He hesitantly pushed the redial button.

 

“Hello, Adam?” a man’s voice answered.  “Is this Adam?”

 

“Who is this?” Adam demanded.

 

“Is this Adam?”

 

“Who are you?” Adam shouted.

 

“Is this Adam?” the voice repeated.

 

Then, through the phone, Adam heard a female voice say, “Ralph, let me have the phone”.

 

“Who is this?” Adam demanded once again, loud enough for his voice to be heard beyond the closed windows of his car.  Loud enough that the two heavy-set women walking into the Tourism office turned around and stared at him.

 

“I’m sorry to bother you.  My name is Millie Marsala. I have this cell phone and I am not sure…. It was broken and we just got it working and….” Her voice trembled.  “I’m not sure what to do.  The phone was broken.  I was at the World Trade Center that day and he gave me his phone to hold and…. I don’t know what happened to him or how to get it back to him.  But I wanted to.”

 

Adam grasped the steering wheel and sucked in his breath.  “It’s my brother’s phone.  You have my brother’s phone.”

 

“Is your brother a big man?  A very big man?  Blonde? Is he?”

 

“Yes, a big man.  My brother, Hoss, was a big man.”

 

“Was? Did he…. Is he ok?”

 

“We…we….lost him that day”, Adam told her.  He felt as if he were drowning.

 

“I’m so sorry.  He saved me.  Your brother saved me and some others.  I…I wanted to thank him”

 

Millie started to cry and then Adam heard Ralph’s voice in the background and a baby crying.

 

“Adam?  This is Ralph, again.  Hold on a minute.” 

 

Adam heard him trying to calm Millie.  Then he came back on the phone. 

 

“This is Ralph Marsala. He saved my wife, Adam. And our baby.  My wife was pregnant and she had a broken ankle.  She had fallen over Labor Day weekend when we were putting the nursery together.  She was on crutches and…. I told her to be careful.  I wanted her to stay home from work, but she insisted she was fine.  She didn’t like to miss work, anyway, and wanted to work up until the last minute so she could have more time off.”

 

She couldn’t get down the stairs. Your brother helped her, Adam.  He carried her down all the way from the fifty-fifth floor. He stayed with her until they got out. The baby was born September fifteenth.  A month early.  A girl.  Your brother saved my wife and our daughter.”

 

Then, taking back the phone from her husband, Millie told Adam how when the power went out and the terrified people were trapped on the stairs in the pitch blackness, Hoss had led the frightened group to safety by using his cell phone for a flashlight.

 

“He kept us all calm and showed us the pictures of his family he had on the phone.  He said his mother was dead and it was just his father and his brothers.  He said he would have a good story to tell them when he got home.”

 

Adam smiled and remembered how he had put some old family shots on Hoss’ new cell phone before he left.  He told Hoss that was so he wouldn’t forget them while he was having his wild time in the big city. 

 

“Some guy punched your brother and tried to grab the phone. It fell and cracked but he got it back.  Then your brother gave me the phone to hold so he could carry me.  I couldn’t walk anymore.  He carried me piggy back. He said he used to carry his brother around like that all the time. And when he was practicing for the football team, he would run carrying his brother to build himself up. His brother would time him and he was able help his team win the state championship even though he had a concussion because of that. Was that you?”

 

Adam took a breath and answered “No, Ma’am. It wasn’t me. I’m older than Hoss. It was our other brother, Joe. He helped Hoss train and ….” Adam swallowed hard. “It was Joe. Not me.”

”He carried me all the way down and saved my life,” she repeated.

 

Sitting alone in his car on C Street, as ordinary people continued to live their ordinary, normal lives, Adam Cartwright listened as the Marsalas told him about the last day of his brother’s life.

 

When the call finally ended, Adam Cartwright’s heart had been through a meat grinder. He leaned his head on the steering wheel of his car and wept, not caring which ordinary person living their ordinary life saw him.

 

 

Chapter 5

December, 2001

 

She was barefoot, holding her Nikon in one hand and her jogging shoes in the other.  It wasn’t until she stepped outside the Marriot that she realized there was shattered glass everywhere and quickly put her shoes on.  She looked around and noticed people on the other side of the street staring above and behind her, pointing and screaming.  What was going on?

 

“Get out of the area and don’t look up!  Don’t look back!  Run!”  These words rang in her ears as she ran.

 

Faye Franklin wondered if she would turn into a pillar of salt, like Lot’s wife, if she looked back to snap some pictures.

 

As she crossed the street, she turned around and looked up at the World Trade Center - unspeakable horror loomed above her. Flames were bellowing out from the top floor windows of the first tower. Bodies were plummeting from the blazing towers. People screaming, the sound of enormous breakage, the smell of smoke. The smoky, dusty air was filled with sirens and screams and she realized the screams were hers.

 

As she crossed the street, Faye turned and looked up at the World Trade Center.  Unspeakable horror loomed above her.  Flames were billowing out from the top floor windows of the South Tower, and bodies were plummeting from the blazing towers.  The air was filled with the smell of smoke and burning kerosene and the sounds of sirens and screams.

 

Awakened by the sound of her own shrill screams, Faye sat bolt upright in bed, her heart pounding.  The room was pitch black and she wasn’t quite sure where she was, if it was day or night.  It took only a moment before she was sufficiently awake to remember that she was in her third floor room at the Shiba Park Hotel in Tokyo. 

 

The Newsweek editor hadn’t argued when Faye insisted that she would not stay in any room above the fourth floor. She had also insisted that she would need internet access as well as a brand new laptop and cell phone before she agreed to take on the assignment.

 

Faye was in Japan to photograph the newborn Princess Aiko, heir apparent to the Japanese throne.  After seeing so much death and destruction, it was a comfort to be in such a tranquil setting photographing a brand new baby; especially a long awaited royal princesses.

 

Alone and still trembling, she wished that Ben was beside her in bed.  Faye desperately wanted to hear his reassuring velvet voice telling her that she was safe, that everything was all right.  Then she could snuggle up next to him and fall peacefully asleep with her cheek on his chest, his arms wrapped around her.

 

For a moment she hugged her pillow and tried to calm her racing heart.  Then she focused her eyes on the glowing face of the digital alarm clock on the sleek nightstand.  Despite the darkness of the hotel’s black out shades, she could see that it was ten-thirty in the morning.  That made it the middle of the night in Nevada.  Faye wouldn’t phone the Ponderosa at his hour.  After all Ben had been through this fall it would be utterly selfish, and Faye Franklin was not a selfish woman.

 

Faye and Ben had compromised on the colossal issues that had been huge stumbling blocks in their relationship.  Ben would never leave his beloved Ponderosa and she would never give up her career wandering the world with a camera.  Somehow, through it all, they were bonded because their love for each other was stronger than any of the immovable obstacles.

 

She slipped her feet into the new slip on Puma sneakers that she kept instantly accessible beside her bed and walked to the desk where she had left her lap top set up the night before.  She would email Ben.  That would make her feel better.

 

All the experts had kept on saying that nothing would improve if she kept things bottled up inside her.  She wouldn’t move on with her life.  Ben had continually begged her to tell him about that day.  She couldn’t bear to tell him, to verbalize the terror of the day, or to see the anguish on his face if she did.  That was much too hard for Faye.  They had compromised on this issue too.  Ben finally said he would listen when she was ready.

 

She wouldn’t refuse Ben’s request any more.  He had given her so much of himself and had asked so little from her in return.  Faye would write it all down and email it to Ben.   That way, each of them could carry on through this healing.  She could write in her own time and he could read as much as he needed to of her story in privacy.  And she wouldn’t have to see his tears or let him see hers.

 

She took a breath and started to type:

 

My darling Ben,

It is morning here in Tokyo.

 

I want to tell you that you are the first one I think of when I awaken and the last one I think of at night… I love you so.

 

You asked me what my experience was that day and I refused to tell you. I just couldn’t tell you though I knew I should. It is mid-morning here and before I go out to the shoot, I am writing to you.

 

Last night I was reading the information the royal public relations folks sent me about the baby. Do you know what I learned? Aiko is the princess's personal name. It is written with the character for "love" and "child" and means "a person who loves others.”  The name was chosen by her parents, instead of by the emperor. They still did that you know? I think it was a very good choice, Ben. Aiko means, “A person who loves others and will be loved by others, and a person who respects others will always be respected by others." That was your Hoss. That is what he meant to me, Aiko.

 

The person who loved others and was respected and loved by all.

So, that said, you can read the rest of this now, or whenever you are ready or just delete it.

 

Just know I love you more than I can say, Ben. And I will never, ever forget Hoss.

 

Never.

 

As you know, I was staying at the WTC Marriot. I was half way dressed when the building shook. At the time, I figured they must have been doing some sort of remodeling in the building and didn’t really get concerned. It was NY after all. Something is always going on. A few minutes later, someone banged on my door and said we had to leave the building and something I didn’t quite catch about a fire nearby. I was pretty annoyed for the inconvenience. I grabbed my shoes and my camera, figuring I would have to hang around the lobby for a while or maybe I would go for a walk on that perfect blue sky fall morning. Then I would just go back up and finish dressing. I had that little leather clutch you had given me with my wallet and my cell phone. That’s all I took from my room. I figured I would get some breakfast nearby. Anyway, we got into the lobby and by that time, some of the staff said we had to leave the building which I did.

 

I turned to the right and saw the first building was on fire.

 

That perfect blue sky September morning wasn’t so perfect anymore.

 

The cops signaled for our group to run across the street. As we started running and my fear kicked in. I have been all sorts of dangerous places and never, never felt that sort of fear. I hope I never will again.

 

A man in uniform, I think an EMT screamed "don't look up, run" and then ran himself. A huge noise came--we ran across the street. That was when I heard and saw the second plane hit the building directly above where I was standing. There it was, the concrete evidence that my fear was justified.

 

I started shaking terribly. I just can't explain the explosion--other than comparing it to that atomic fireball that I read about in Hiroshima. Absolutely terrifying.

 

Everyone was stunned, petrified.

 

It seemed like minutes however I'm sure it was just seconds that the hundreds of people in the street were scared stiff, all staring up at two burning buildings.

 

Just frozen, strangers together frozen in the minute.

 

Frozen.

 

This is when we, a frightened group of strangers, all witnessed the people jumping out of buildings afire and falling to their death. A uniform sigh of terror came from the crowds as people jumped alone, in groups, people holding hands and jumping--such an unimaginable sight to see. Some speculate that these people were too hot to withstand the fire on the upper floors of the towers.

 

Whatever the case, it was awful to witness. I am sure the site of this broke many minds.

 

As afraid as I was, I ran towards the street and kept shooting. My instinct led me to do so. I don’t know if I did the right thing but I just did it. Could I have helped someone instead of taking pictures? I don’t know. I won’t ever know.

 

People were grabbing each other. I grabbed people and people grabbed me but somehow I kept shooting. I was screaming but somehow kept shooting as I ran. I suppose old habits kick in even when you think this will be the last roll of film you will ever shoot. Funny, I sent those pictures to the lab but never looked at the prints. I can’t, not yet. Not alone.

 

Someday I will.

 

I was just on automatic pilot at that point, running and shooting. Everyone was screaming. I ran. As I approached the corner of Broadway I heard a tremendous rumbling. Debris from the plane and building started hurling in all directions. It was an avalanche of choking yellow gray dust and debris coming at us like a tidal wave.

I looked to the right and the tower was falling. I looked to the left across the street and saw an open doorway on Broadway. It was a coffee shop.

 

I made it inside just in time with about a dozen other people. & I'm not quite sure why but I held hands with a few strangers in those awful moments. I guess no one wants to die alone, Ben, surrounded by chrome trimmed latte machines, and polished granite counters and total  strangers.

 

I tried to use my cell phone to call you, Ben but all connections were busy. It was impossible. That was that moment I realized how much I love you. You were the only one I wanted right that minute. The only one I needed to talk to, the only one in the entire universe that I knew would care if I was alive or dead or scared or hurt. The only one I wanted to say good bye to if this was my last moment of my life.

 

Ben, I want to call you right now, but I know it is the middle of the night in Nevada and I can’t wake you after all you have been through these last months. I wish I could hear your voice tell me the nightmares would go away. I wish you were here so you could lie down beside me, wrap me in your arms and hold me close. I miss you so.

 

So, now you know.

 

I love you,

Faye

 

Faye took a breath and hit send. She hadn’t even reread what she typed. She knew she couldn’t look at the words again.

 

Suddenly, she felt much better, calmer, just as if her Ben was next to her and some of her agony was eased She sincerely hoped his reading her email didn’t shift any of her pain to his broad shoulders.

 

 

Chapter 6

September 11, 2001

 

Andy Walker had told Hoss to meet him and his Uncle Thaddeus and some of their friends for breakfast at nine at a real special fancy place, Windows on the World. Andy explained that they had to take a different express elevator to the 78th floor sky lobby and transfer to a local elevator to reach the 107th floor When Hoss looked confused about the mammoth building having so many entrances and elevators and how they would find each other.

 

When Hoss seemed totally confused by the complications of taking a variety of elevators, Andy laughed and said “Don’t worry.  I’ll meet you on the 78^th floor and Thad will go up and join the others. Just follow the signs. I have a new cell phone and just call me if you have trouble.” He showed his friend his fancy new phone and then waited while Hoss entered the new number his own phone.

 

“I’m taking you to the most impressive restaurant you ever will see in all your born days, “Andy smiled. He was thrilled to share his success with his old friend.

”Andy, its only breakfast. Are you sure it’s worth all this trouble? They serve a mighty fine breakfast in the hotel.”

 

Andy laughed. “It’s not just the food, Hoss. It’s the way they serve things. And the view will take your breath away. The place is higher than a mountain. You will be sitting above the clouds. The weather is supposed to be clear tomorrow so you will have a fantastic view of everything for miles around.”

 

Andy’s Uncle Thaddeus, who was also his agent laughed and added “Windows on the World reported revenues of thirty-seven million dollars, making it the highest-grossing restaurant in the entire United States.”

”Thirty-seven million dollars? For a restaurant? Daisy’s café sure don’t come anywhere near to that and she makes terrific food. What kind of food do they serve there?” Hoss was amazed. Everything in New York was bigger and more expensive than anything back home. "It will certainly be something to write home about.”

 

“Cost is no object, Hoss,” Thaddeus bragged. He spent every last dollar Andy earned like it was a leaf and Thaddeus owned the forest. “If it’s the last breakfast you ever eat, you have to join us. “

 

Later, when Andy thought about this last conversation, he shuddered at the ironic choice of words his Uncle had used. He doubted if Uncle Thaddeus even had a cup of coffee before the first plane hit the tower.

 

When he woke up that blue sky morning, Hoss had examined the pull out map in the slick covered New York City guidebook that Adam had given him as a gift for the trip. It looked like only a couple of miles from his hotel to the World Trade Center. He was going to walk as the weather was really fine but the desk clerk at the hotel told him it would be much better to take the subway.

 

Hoss left the hotel at eight thirty. How long would it take to go a couple of miles? After all, Hoss if he looked all the way down Broadway from his hotel, he could see the twin towers of the World Trade Center tall above the rest of the buildings in lower Manhattan.

 

Everything took much longer than Hoss had anticipated. At first, as the burly young man exited the revolving door of the hotel, he set off in the wrong direction. Then he couldn’t find the entrance to the subway that the desk clerk had described to him.  He retraced his steps and asked a well-dressed business man for directions. He was toting a shiny leather brief case and was wearing a dark suit. The man chuckled and said “You must be a tourist! “

 

Hoss nodded and wondered how the fellow figured it out so fast. He was wearing his brand new leather jacket and freshly pressed gabardine slacks that Joe had helped him pick out for the trip. Then the man pointed at the stairs leading into the subway about ten feet in front of them. Before Hoss could thank him, the New Yorker had disappeared into the crowd. One thing Hoss noticed was how fast New Yorkers did everything. They walked fast; the talked fast and they ate fast, too fast for Hoss.

 
Finally, on the subway, Hoss nervously kept an eye out for the Chambers Street Station—the World Trade Center stop just like the desk clerk in the hotel had explained. 

 

He got off with a few dozen other people hitting the stairs in front of him. All those New York people sure looked like they knew where they were going, moving fast, not looking around. Not wanting to get lost again, he asked the clerk in a newsstand which way to go. Squeezing his way through the crowd, Hoss was so preoccupied with not getting lost again, he didn’t even notice that the skinny red haired boy who bumped into him, also lifted his wallet.

 

***

Chapter 7

 

Andy was positive that his uncle had already gone up to meet the others in the restaurant. It didn’t much matter. His uncle Thad could use the time before he and Hoss arrived to finish off the schedule for the publicity appearance and not bore Hoss with all that stuff. Andy never realized how much was involved with getting a Broadway show up and running. Suddenly, just as he stepped off of the subway all hell broke loose. People were dashing for the exits and shouting, “Get out of the station! Get off the trains! Two planes just crashed into the World Trade Centers!”

As he got closer to the stairwell, Andy could smell it. Smoke can smell all sorts of ways. This was the sort of smell that told you something was seriously wrong ... an acrid, oily sharp odor filled his lungs.

He stepped onto the sidewalk and turned west. Huge billowing plumes of smoke and orange fire were pouring out of the top of the North Tower of the Trade Center. The flames and the smoke spoke volumes.

He frantically pulled out his fancy new cell phone. He desperately needed to reach Uncle Thad and Hoss again, to know see if they were ok and find out where they were. Andy immediately found out that it was totally impossible it is to get a network connection when tens of thousands of frantic people in the same twelve square block area were all frenziedly trying to make a call at the exact same time.

Andy looked back up at the North Tower, and then remembered the shouting about both towers being hit. He had to move half a block to see the South Tower. Time seemed to stop as well. The crowd just stood there and watched as the wind pulled two enormous columns of smoke out flat and to the east.

 

He had to try to call his uncle. Where was Hoss?  Where was Thad? Were they trapped?

It was just a little after 9:30AM.  Andy still couldn't get a signal on his new fancy phone, so he started anxiously walking away from the area.

 

That new cell phone of his probably saved his life—without his hunt for a network connection, Andy probably would have been standing at the corner of Fulton and Broadway, when tower two collapsed. Footage of that corner after the buildings fell showed the area coated in white, with chunks of debris everywhere.

 

As the tower crumbled to the ground within a minute's time, the deadly remnants hit the ground and began rushing toward Andy like shrapnel in a debris-laden brown and yellow cloud. Andy and a policeman turned and ran up Broadway. When Andy gestured to the policeman that they should get behind some concrete barriers that they were passing, the cop shook his head not to. He didn't think that they would stop the debris. The two ran hard to escape the debris. Andy ran as fast as he could and probably beat the best time his friend Hoss ever made doing sprints at football practices.

They finally reached safety at City Hall and saw people emerging from the cloud crying and covered in yellow ash from the collapse. One soot-covered businessman emerged in a suit that looked like it had been blasted on him. Everyone who had made it past the debris turned back to help those who were emerging from it.

Andy looked up at the huge expanding cloud and wondered where his uncle and Hoss were. If they were.

 

***

Chapter 8

 

The New York City flower district stretches from 26^th to 29^th Street, north of the World Trade Center.  In vivid contrast to concrete and bricks, splashes of lively color spill from the storefronts. Gold and ruby chrysanthemums, bowers of golden sun flowers and bright red geraniums were stacked in profusion. Flats of familiar blooms, vibrant exotic flowers lined the curb in double rows as far as the eye could see. Rows of soaring tropical palms, shiny leafed rubber plants and fragrant Norfolk Island Pines crowd the sidewalk in oversized pots. Windows were filled with sparkling glass vases and orange clay flower pots stacked in towering pyramids.

 

The flower district is an urban neighborhood that ran on green thumbs, back breaking work and family pride.

For block after block, the streets are lined with older buildings housing concentration of wholesale and retail florists. Some businesses sold their goods wholesale, only to those in the trade, offering the finest quality at competitive prices to generations of fussy, demanding customers. Others sold retail to any customer who strolled in looking for a floral bouquet or single small house plant.

 

Anyone walking down the narrow, crowded sidewalks could hear music blaring from most of the open doors except one. At Vandervoort and Son Flowers, the owners preferred to work in relative quiet, especially since their son Heinrich had died. Heinrich was the one who liked to hear the blare of Reggae or heavy metal or even country music on his boom box as he worked. The boom box had been knocked off the shelf a couple of months after he died and the grieving Vandervoorts never bothered to replace it

 

As a school boy, Heinrich Vandervoort decided that he hated his name. He didn’t mind that it sounded foreign. Living in New York City, he was surrounded by people from every part of the world and his classes were filled with students with names like Cariba and Pedro and Ivankas, Chong Wa and Antonio . To the boy, Heinrich sounded so odd, so strange and old fashioned.  He just didn’t want people to think he was boring and Heinrich sounded old and boring.

 

From the time he turned twelve and started working in the family business, Heinrich Vandervoort introduced himself to people as Rick, like the popular cool boy in “Silver Spoons“ on TV or Humphrey Bogart‘s character in “Casablanca“. By the time he graduated from high school, no one but his parents ever referred to him as anything but Rick Vandervoort and few even knew his legal name was Heinrich.

 

Before dawn the floral district bustles with caffeine driven, crack-of-dawn kind of energy. By 9 a.m., and the flower district business was winding down. The work day was half over. There were even some parking spaces, as the last few shiny vans loaded up and headed uptown or towards the bridges to the outer boroughs and New Jersey. That morning, in Vandervoort and Son Florist, the sweet, wet smell of flowers permeated everything. The floor was littered with discarded leaves and greenery, and snips of packing material. Most of the battered shelves were already empty after their last wholesale customer, a florist from Bayside, Queens, had picked up an elaborate order of dozens of champagne roses, snow white orchids and pale waxy calla lilies that he would use for centerpieces for the children’s hospital’s black tie fundraiser.

 

While her husband Klaus swept up the mess, Kristina Vandervoort climbed the narrow staircase to their apartment above the store. She fixed a midmorning snack of coffee and toasted Thomas’ English muffins with orange marmalade. She always had Thomas’s, no other brand as they had been Heinrich’s favorite.

 

A few years earlier, the neighborhood was rezoned to allow for residential buildings. Building owners had sold off their aging properties to real estate developer who tore down the ancient commercial buildings and replaced them with luxury high rise apartment buildings. With most of their profits were being eroded by the competition of internet florists and rising rents in the booming New York City real estate market, many of the neighboring floral wholesalers had closed or moved elsewhere where the overhead was substantially lower. Enterprises that had been run by one family for generations went out of business.

 

For months, as he fought pancreatic cancer, Heinrich Vandervoort had urged his parents to sell their property and retire; to go to the farm in Holland, Michigan had been in Klaus’s family for generation. Now, with his only son gone, Klaus Vandervoort was urging his wife Kristina to sell their property and move to Michigan, just as Heinrich had advised. With their son gone there was no reason to struggle to keep up Vandervoort Florists. There was no one to take on the business they had built. The old building was worth more than the business it housed. Kristina stubbornly refused. She missed her son too much to leave the place where he grew up and where they had worked together every day.

***

That blue sky day in early September, the floral district was a strange oasis of beauty in the middle of Manhattan in sharp contrast to the horrific events unfolding in lower Manhattan. Looking north, the sky was still clear and sharply blue. To the south, the dust cloud was ten stories high.

 

The cloud came down the street for blocks faster than it could be outrun. Like many of their neighbors, the Vandervoorts stood frozen in the street, watching the incomprehensible tragedy unfold. While ambulances and fire trucks and more police cars with lights flashing and sirens blaring raced down town, the streets of the Flower District were soon filled with a surge of frightened crowds trying to escape.

 

The Vandervoorts stood in front of the story trying to help as best they could. Klaus hooked up a hose and helped dust encrusted victims rinse their faces. Kristina passed out paper cups of water and sandwiches until she ran out of food. It was close to noon when the dusty, big man with a bloodied head and ripped clothes stumbled and fell down, unconscious at her feet.

 

It was his last high school game and the team was battling for the state championship against a team he couldn’t quite remember. Was it South Tower High? All he knew was that he was running as fast as he could, just as he had trained for and practiced for years. He was running like his life depended on it.

When the ball was snapped, Hoss drifted backward away from the opposing full back, who was closing in like Jigger Thurmond’s raging bull. He squinted and quickly sized up the opening in front of him. He managed to make his break on the uneven field with a quick side step. Strangely, dusty snow was falling all around him and shrieking fans were throwing all sorts of confetti and garbage onto the field from the stands. Running for all he was worth, Hoss barely avoided someone diving at him and a flying player almost landed on him.

He pivoted and leaped over the sprawled body of someone who was down. Then Hoss made his break. The quarterback threw a perfect pass, off-balance, spinning and twirling, but perfect. With someone’s' hand right in his face, Hoss caught it and ran down the opening for all he was worth. Five yards, then ten, then twenty, his heart was going to explode in his chest as he tried to suck for more air. He heard the crowd roar and screams of the cheerleaders from the sidelines. The badly maintained field was wide open in front of him and he was almost to the goals when something hit him from behind and he went down hard. His helmet flew off and his head hit the pavement. Why did they have a sidewalk right in the middle of a football field? The air whooshed from his lungs as two burly players fell on top of him. Hoss was at the bottom of the pileup and everything went black.

The next thing he knew, Hoss was looking up at a glaring bright light shining in his eyes. He was blinded and struggled to get up.

”Whoa! Fella, lay still here,” a strong hand pushed him back onto the gurney.

“Let me up, coach. I can still play,” he argued futilely.

”Just close your eyes and lay back, Fella. You ain’t at any game. This is real. You are hurt. Hurt bad. ”

Hoss closed his eyes for a moment and a wave of pain washed over him. His family came to every game. “Get my Pa. He’s in the stands.”

“Your Pa? He’s in the stands? Do you mean the van?” the ER triage nurse at St Vincent’s Downtown Hospital had no idea what this man was mumbling about. Maybe he meant his father was in the florist’s van that he had arrived? That is what he must have said. His father was in the van. He didn’t look critically injured and with all that was going on; she couldn’t take too much time on him. The disaster plan had just kicked in throughout every hospital in the New York metropolitan area in response to the horror at the World Trade Center.  As each minute passed the place was filling up with an army of injured with more expected. Two more ambulances backed into the ER entrance and started disgorging more injured people. “I’ll be right back.”

“Pa?” he groaned. “Pa?” Hoss struggled to stay conscious but couldn’t figure out where he was. The pain in his head was intense and everything was swirling around him. He realized someone was holding fast to his right hand, and a voice was saying, softly, “Squeeze my hand if you can, Son.”

 

He did and the other hand, squeezed back.

 

“Good,” said a soft, gentle female voice.  The woman had some sort of European accent. “You are alive! That was quite a fall.”

 

“I’m alive?” he whispered hoarsely. His mouth was filled with dust and blood.

 

“Yes, you are alive, thank goodness.”

 

Hoss closed his eyes hoping that someone had gone to fetch his father. “Pa?”

He felt a gentle touch on his brow and a hand squeezed his. “It’s not Papa. It’s Mama, son. Everything will be all right.”

”Is this your son?” the frantic clerk with a clipboard asked. They had sent her down from her usual job in billing to help out in the disaster. She had been trying to sort out people in the crowded Emergency Room for the last three hours and it looked like more were coming. What were they going to do? Where were they going to put everyone?

”My son?” Kristina Vandervoort asked. She had no idea who this man was. He had collapsed in a bloody heap on the sidewalk outside side her store. She and Klaus had helped him stagger into their delivery van and took him to the overcrowded hospital.

“We can’t do anything for him if your son doesn’t have insurance. Does your son have insurance? What’s your son’s name?”

”Heinrich. My son’s name is Heinrich,” Kristina said automatically. Then reaching into her purse, she pulled out her dead son’s wallet. After Heinrich had died, Kristina had put his wallet in her purse and somehow couldn’t bear to put it away. She got some comfort from having it there. “Here is his insurance card.”

“Take it easy, Heinrich,” the overwhelmed clerk said as she quickly copied Heinrich Vandervoort’s insurance data onto an admission form.

“Heinrich?” Hoss said rubbing his head in confusion. He couldn’t quite remember where he was or even who he was. “Is that my name? Can we go home, Mama?”

It was just that simple. On September 11, 2001, along with over 2000 other people, Hoss Cartwright disappeared. Only he hadn’t died, he just became Heinrich Vandervoort.

 

 

 

 

 

Part Two

Chapter 1

November 2001

Cambridge University, England

Bessie Sue Hightower sat in the oversized, drafty lecture hall trying to focus on the presentation by Doctor Addison Hickman. He was a world renowned expert on amnesia but was a terribly boring speaker.

“Making and storing memories is a complex process involving many regions of the brain, including the frontal, temporal and parietal lobes. Damage or disease in these areas can result in varying degrees of memory loss. In order for short-term memory to become long-term memory, it must go through a process known as consolidation. During consolidation, short-term memory is repeatedly activated -- so much so that certain chemical and physical changes occur in the brain, permanently "embedding" the memory for long-term access. If, during this repeated activation, something interrupts the process -- let’s say a concussion or other brain trauma -- then short-term memory cannot be consolidated. Memories can’t be "stored" for long-term access. This may be what’s going on in anterograde amnesia,” Dr. Hickman droned on in a pompous monotone. He seemed to drag on for hours even though he was only about twenty minutes into the class. Focusing on her classes had been difficult since September.

 “Instead, people with amnesia — also called amnestic syndrome — are usually lucid and know who they are, but may have trouble learning new information and forming new memories,” Hickman pointed to a slide projected on the old-fashioned pull down screen behind him with a bit too much vigor. The screen rolled up with a loud snap. The dedicated graduate students in the lecture hall couldn’t help but break into gales of laughter, all but Bessie Sue Hightower, who found it hard to laugh at much these days.

She looked up and realized her friend Enoch McWilliams had slid into a seat behind her. He was a short, chubby, bearded, doctoral student from London.  He leaned over and whispered “You have a package slip in your mail box. I tried to get it for you but the desk manager refused, even though I tried to convince her I was Bessie Sue Hightower.”

Bessie smiled and whispered back, “Thanks. I’ll go run over right after Doctor Hickman finishes.”

“Don’t forget,” Enoch teased. “You might catch amnesia from the horrific trauma of listening to Hickman’s self-aggrandizing blather. I would certainly hate to miss out on one of your mother’s CARE packages. I bet it’s all those things she promised for your feast – or a birthday trinket from Prince William?”

“Bet it’s the things Mom promised,” Bessie whispered. “I already got all my birthday gifts, except yours.”

“My gift? Didn’t I promise to up the round of drinks in the pub when we take you out to celebrate?  I’ll buy you a pint!  Chips too.” 

“That’s true.”

“And don’t forget, I’m invited to your jolly Thanksgiving party!”  He leaned over and whispered, “I got the room at the graduate student union for you, so you have to include me in with all the displaced Americans. And I’ll bring the ale and some wine. No haggis!”

“I hope so,” Bessie whispered. Bessie Sue had neatly printed a long list of tasks that had to be completed for the Thanksgiving dinner. Almost everything had been done. Bessie Sue Hightower, her roommate Cassie and eleven other homesick American graduate students were trying to throw together a real American Thanksgiving dinner in the graduate dormitory. She hadn’t realized how hard it would be to find the fixings in England at such short notice. The closest thing to cranberries they could find was lingonberries, and they were forced to substitute chickens for the turkey or try to figure out how to deal with preparing a goose. When Bessie Sue spoke to her parents via Skype, Mrs. Hightower insisted that she was going to immediately mail her melancholy daughter a package containing more than enough cans of cranberry sauce, the fixings for Campbell Soup string bean casserole, homemade chocolate chip cookies and a copy of Grandma Hightower’s famous stuffing recipe.

Doctor Hickman shot a warning glance in their direction. “Da Costa's syndrome. The condition was named after Jacob Mendes Da Costa who investigated and described the disorder during the American Civil War. It is also variously known as cardiac neurosis, chronic, which was colloquially known as soldier's heart. It is a syndrome with a set of symptoms. Who can list them? How about you, Mr. McWilliams? Or are you too distracted by Miss Hightower?”

Enoch scrambled to his feet. “Yes sir, no sir. I mean, yes; I can list them, but no, I’m not too distracted. Just a little distracted. Miss Hightower just promised to share some of her goodies with me.”

The entire lecture hall broke into hysterical laughter. Both Enoch and Bessie Sue turned bright scarlet. “I’m sure this is far more information than any of us need to hear, Mr. McWilliams. Now, what are the symptoms Dr. Da Costa described?”

“Da Costa’s syndrome has a set of symptoms that are similar to those of heart disease, hence the misnomer of Soldier’s Heart. The soldier, after a fierce battle, found that he could not keep up with his comrades in the exertions of a soldier's life as he could previously. He would get out of breath, and he would get dizzy and have palpitations and pains in his chest; yet upon examination some time later, he appeared generally healthy,” Enoch quickly gave the spot-on answer.

“Correct. In modern times, Da Costa's syndrome is considered the manifestation of an anxiety disorder. Treatment is primarily behavioral, involving modifications to lifestyle and daily exertion and return to familiar routines and surroundings.”

Relieved, Enoch collapsed dramatically into his seat, making the class break into laughter once again. 

“And the recommended course of treatment? Miss Hightower?”

Bessie Sue stood tall beside her chair. “Keeping the patient away from familiar, comfortable places and routines is detrimental to recovery and contraindicated in treatment for Da Costa’s syndrome as well as PTSD and other similar disorders. It is vitally important for the patient to have the support of family and friends in his customary, recognizable environment and to reintegrate into his previous life.”

“Correct, please be seated, Miss Hightower. Well done. If the patient is not given this opportunity, the memory loss and confusion will increase.”

Bessie Sue turned around and playfully reprimanded her friend. She shook her head and waggled her finger in a comic imitation of Miss Jones, her strictest teacher back home in Virginia City. “You are the class clown, Enoch McWilliams! What are we to do with you, young man? Should I send a note home to your parents?”

 He leaned forward to whisper in Bessie Sue’s ear “I might be the class clown, my friend, but I’m smart enough to give old Doc Kay the right answers and get away with it. And my boyish charm and wit will melt everyone’s anger too! Besides, my parents are worse clowns than I. They have run off to join the circus leaving me in your care until they return.”

 “You remind me of a boy back home.  He was the younger brother of my … my … my late boyfriend.”  Despite her grief, Bessie Sue couldn’t help but smile at the thought of Little Joe Cartwright.  He, too, was the class clown whose quick mind and engaging charm usually kept him out of trouble.

“And don’t forget that package!” Enoch reminded her. “You promised me your goodies!”

Chapter 2

December 2001

Back in New York

 

At the sound of the door buzzer, Heinrich Vandervoort looked up from the display of poinsettias he was arranging. He quickly glanced toward the back workroom for one of his parents to emerge. His mother thought it best that he not wait on customers for now. Heinrich could not remember which exotic flowers were which or how to write up large orders and would get rattled putting any arrangements together. His mother said it was due to the shock to his mind and body from the injuries he sustained on 9/11, and it would eventually fade. 

 

When neither parent appeared, he hesitantly approached the young woman.

 

"Shoot, why not?” he thought to himself. "It's been over two months, and I feel a lot better; my headaches are almost gone. Dad might be mad if we lose a sale, especially with business being so slow." The fact that she was a very pretty girl, strawberry blonde hair waving over her coat collar, helped him decide to disobey his mother's strict order.

 

Just as Heinrich asked what he could do to help her, she gasped and burst into sobs, a stricken look on her face.

 

"Ma’am? What is it? Are you in some kind of trouble? Did I do anything wrong?"

Heinrich looked around. He desperately hoped desperately hoping his mother would come in to take charge of the situation. "Can I get you a glass of water?"

 

The woman's sobs subsided to snuffles, and getting herself, together she retrieved a handful of tissues from her purse.

 

"I'm so sorry,” she managed to stammer through sniffles. “You look so much like my late husband. It's so uncanny. Again, I'm sorry. I thought the grief counseling was helping me keep control of my feelings, but I guess the therapist is right. I'm trying to rush it."

 

Heinrich pulled a stool from behind the counter. "Ma’am, why don't you sit down a minute, and I'll get you that glass of water.

 

"Oh, no thank you. I'll be all right. I work a few doors down at City Medical Billing Services. I stopped in to buy a Christmas arrangement for my apartment. I can't stand the thought of putting up a tree alone on what should have been our first Christmas as a married couple, but my group therapist wants us each to do something Christmassy for ourselves. I thought, if I got a candle arrangement, I could burn a candle for Roy during the holidays."

 

"We have real pretty arrangements. Those over there are artificial, but we sell some scented candles to go with them that smells kind of like pine. And we have real pine too.” Heinrich picked up a circle of pine with pinecones and took in a deep breath.  “I like those better. It smells real homey. You have to water it so it doesn’t get dried out if’n you’re going to have it near the candles, but it’s worth it in my opinion."

 

Kristina Vandervoort strode into the store and interrupted, "Heinrich, you are waiting on a customer? You are being too chatty!" She smiled at the young woman. "My son was injured in the 9/11 attack. He had a head injury, and he is still suffering from a bit of amnesia. We think waiting on customers would be too much for him for a while."

 

"Oh, no! I hope my meltdown didn't cause you any distress."

 

The guilty look in the girl's green eyes caused Heinrich to involuntarily twitch. "Uh, no, don't worry, Ma’am." He started to reassure her, but his mother stepped between them, efficiently taking payment for the real pine arrangement and hastily stuffing it into a bag. Kristina Vandervoort practically shoved the girl out of the shop.

 

Heinrich went about his chores the rest of the day thinking about the encounter with the pretty young woman and his strange reaction to her green eyes. She worked close by, so he would make it a point to look her up. He wondered to himself if this would be the first time he kept something from his parents.

 

Chapter 3

 

It wasn't until the week after New Year that Heinrich got a chance to look for the young woman. The flower shop's books were a complete mess. It was close to tax time, so both his parents were tied up at their accountant's office. Heinrich, feeling a little uncomfortable, closed the shop early for lunch and went down the street to the billing service office in search of the strawberry blonde customer.

Standing in front of her office building, he wondered what he would do if she didn't leave for lunch. He would cross that bridge if he came to it. That bridge didn't appear; she trailed the first rush of employees out of the building, pulling on her gloves as she walked.

 

Heinrich approached the woman hesitantly. Uh, ma'am, do you remember me? You bought some Christmas things in our family's flower shop, Vandervoort and Son. Could I talk to you for a minute, ma'am?"

 

The woman nervously dropped her glove. Quickly, Heinrich retrieved it before it got trampled by the lunch time crowd surging out of the building.

 

"Thank you." She smiled as she reached for the glove. "Sure, I remember you. Of course, we can talk. I was just going across the street to the deli for lunch. Do you want to join me? But on one condition,” she laughed. “Please, please stop calling me ma'am. You're making me feel like an old west school marm.”

 

“Yes, ma’am,” Heinrich smiled. “I mean, yes. What should I call you? I don’t even know your name.

 

“My name is Abbey, Abbey Jones.”

 

"That’s a nice name. I'm Heinrich Vandervoort. Nice to meet you, Miss Jones." Heinrich awkwardly shook her proffered hand.

 

In the crowded deli, they settled into the only empty booth and quickly ordered. Abbey folded her arms on the table. "Now, what did you need to talk to me about, Mr. Vandervoort?"

 

Heinrich shifted in his seat. "Call me Heinrich. I'm sort of uncomfortable being called Mr. Vandervoort. In fact, for some reason, I'm even uncomfortable with Heinrich. I, uh, just wanted to apologize for the way my mother acted when you were in the flower shop. I don't know what was wrong with her. She always insists on politeness and good service to all our customers, and then she goes and treats you so rude." He looked down, at his coffee cup embarrassed.

 

"Oh, no, Heinrich. No need to apologize. It's totally unnecessary. Everyone is so on edge these days," Abbey reached across the table and patted his arm. "I can understand your mother being protective of you under the circumstances. My family and friends have been just like that with me. At first, I really appreciated them keeping the world at bay, but now, to tell the truth, it's getting kind of annoying. I have to keep telling them that my therapist says I have to get on with living my life. I go to one of the 9/11 survivor support groups. It is nice having people who care so much about you, isn't it?"

 

Heinrich shook his head. "My parents don't really show any affection. My mother hugged me at the hospital, but hasn't since then. My dad doesn't even say much to me, doesn’t even look me straight in the eye. I do catch him looking at me funny sometimes. I think they used to be more affectionate, maybe when I was a kid. At night, when I'm almost asleep, sometimes I remember I used to get hugged a lot by my pa….my dad.”

 

"I'm sure both your parents love you very much. It sounds like you might be reliving childhood feelings. Sometimes it's harder for parents of grown children to know how to show their love than it was when they were children. Like you said, you are still sorting things out from getting hurt. Give yourself time. Everyone keeps telling me that time is a great healer," Abbey looked at her watch. "Speaking of time, I've got to get back to work. And if I'm to call you Heinrich, you call me Abbey. "

 

“I'm so enjoying talking to you. It's been such a long time since I made any new friends. I need to make some that didn't know Roy.”

 

“Coffee?” the waitress interrupted.

 

Heinrich looked confused “Roy Coffee?”

“No, bud. I asked if you wanted more coffee. Regular or decaf? Not Roy. We don’t have those fancy mocha java things. Just regular or decaf.”

 

He shook his head. “No, just the check. It’s on me, Abbey.”

 

“Oh that’s not necessary!” she protested, reaching for her purse.

 

“Please, it’s my way of saying sorry for the mix up in the store… and in Roy’s memory.”

 

“Thank you, Heinrich. I think you and Roy would have liked each other, though. He would have talked your ear off about skiing and Lake Tahoe. We did a lot of research on it for our trip. We were going to go there on a delayed honeymoon to a part of Lake Tahoe called Heavenly. We had a ton of brochures. We even bought a dvd called ‘Travel Tahoe’. Have you ever heard of the place?"

 

Before Heinrich could answer, Abbey looked at her watch again. "I really have to get back to work. I had to quit St. Vincent’s and change jobs after… It was too much to be in the same place. City Billing is a new job, so I better not be late." She looked at Heinrich as she bundled into her coat. "Do you know that this is the first time I've talked about Roy without crying?"

 

"I'm glad of that Mrs. Jones, uh, Abbey. Could we have lunch again sometime? I'd really be interested in hearing about this Heavenly place if you want to talk about it. It sounds like somewhere I'd like to go."

 

They walked together as far as the entrance to Abbey’s office building. Then Heinrich whistled all the way up the street to the flower shop, the paper napkin with Abbey's phone number tucked into his pocket.

 

That night, as Heinrich was falling asleep, the feeling of warmth returned. In his dreams he sat in a classroom behind another strawberry blonde girl. She wouldn't turn around so he could see her face.

　

Chapter 4

December 2001

The Ponderosa

Ben Cartwright was the first to admit that each of his sons at some occasion had insisted he loved another brother more. Each was unique, and he loved them for the boys they were and the fine men they had become. There was no favorite: just three different sons who were loved for themselves.

His eldest son was logical and dependable, the next predictably generous and earnest, the third dynamic and frustrating. Ben’s three sons loved and hated each other with fierce devotion. When they disagreed, they fought like rabid animals among themselves. But let an outsider intrude or attack one of the boys, the other two would defend their brothers to the death. They were stronger together than apart: unbreakable, invincible, his legacy. Together, the three brothers formed balance, like the three legs of a milking stool.  Now, one son was gone forever, and the other two struggled to find a new equilibrium between them before they tipped over and the Cartwright family shattered into pieces.

Ben knew that Christmas 2001 was going to be unbelievably difficult for all of them. The family had developed certain traditions and rituals for the holiday over the years, and without Hoss, Ben wasn’t sure what they would do, how they would get through the season.

He and his two sons had eaten a quiet, subdued Thanksgiving dinner with Doc Martin and his wife, and everyone had managed to get through the day, but as Christmas approached, Ben wasn’t sure what he should do.

One evening over supper, Ben asked Adam and Joe what they would like to do for Christmas. Both of his sons were suddenly tongue tied.

“Maybe we all should go on a cruise or a ski trip instead of staying home this year? What do you boys think? Or maybe San Francisco?” Ben questioned as Hop Sing carried in a steaming platter of fried chicken. “Roy Coffee said we might enjoy Disney World. He and Clem have a time share we can borrow.”

“Leave the Ponderosa?” Joe shook his head.  He looked first at his father, then at Adam. “I’m not spending Christmas anywhere but right in this house. And you can’t make me.”

“Don’t worry little brother. Do you think Santa won’t find you? You’ll have plenty of toys under the tree and lots of mistletoe and holly,” Adam quipped, but the awkward joke fell flat. Then he muttered something about being responsible for the children’s choir and how he might have considered skiing in Switzerland, but it was probably too late to make reservations with all the plane schedules in flux. “Besides, I’m really backed up in the paperwork, and…the ledgers aren’t really up to date with the new computer software.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Joe interrupted Adam’s lament. He looked down at his plate, suddenly fascinated by separating the peas from his carrots. Ben waited for his boys to say more, but the rest of the meal was eaten in total silence.

Hop Sing stood silently in the door way watching, thinking. He had a perfect solution.  If his employer was annoyed with his interference, he would deal with it, just as he had dealt with many other things over the years. Finally, the decision was made for the Cartwrights.

Later that night, just as Ben was about to head upstairs, Faye Franklin phoned from her hotel in Tokyo. She said that she was hoping to come in for a visit for the week between Christmas and New Year’s. She had just made her plane reservations.  “It was lovely of you to have Hop Sing make the call, Ben. I can’t wait to see you.”

 

Chapter 4

July 2002

New York City

The dining room in the NYC apartment was crowded with cameras, a computer and video monitors.   The long glass and chrome table was covered with stacks of papers, newspapers, baskets of labeled video recordings and file folders.  A window air conditioner rattled noisily as it cooled the humid August afternoon.

Faye had sublet the huge, high ceilinged, pre-World War Two apartment at One Fifth Avenue from her friend, Leo McCullough, who worked for The NY Times. He had been assigned to be the assistant bureau chief in the Peking office and was glad Faye was going to “apartment sit” and keep track of his wife’s elderly poodle, Zsa Zsa. She moved into the master bedroom. Ignoring Emily McCullough’ pink and lavender flowered room, Joe bunked in bigger room normally shared by the teenaged McCullough twins. The guest room was more spacious, but somehow, being in the boy’s room with the view of Washington Square Park  made the Nevada boy feel more comfortable and at home in the big, unfamiliar city.

Joe had helped Faye rearrange the McCullough dining room to serve as their office. Leaning against the largest wall, Faye placed an oversized cork board. She had quickly filled it with a neon rainbow of post it notes creating a shooting schedule in bright pinks and sherbet oranges and a time line of the 9/11 disaster in purple, aqua, and Kelly green.  Each person they interviewed for Faye’s book had lost a family member on 9/11.  At this point, the majority of Joe’s work involved operating the video camera as Faye interviewed the subject. Then Faye would play back the interview and transcribe the parts she wanted to include in the book’s narrative. Later, Faye would take portrait photos of the person in some appropriate setting, their home or a place that was meaningful to them and their lost love one.

 “I remember it like yesterday,” the sweet voice said on the recording. “I was on my way to work when I heard of the attack. Actually, I was waiting for the bus. It felt like the longest bus ride in the world. When I got to my desk at St. Vincent’s Hospital, I called my husband’s station.  We had been married for only three months and were supposed to leave on a delayed honeymoon Sunday before Christmas. Skiing out west. Roy really loves to ski,” the young widow corrected herself. “I mean, Roy loved to ski. We got married in June, on my grandparent’s anniversary. His name was Roy Jones. I couldn’t wait to become Mrs. Roy Jones. Abby Jones.” She touched her own cheek with her forefinger as if she was tracing the spot he had last kissed her.

“Go on,” said Faye’s off camera voice.

Joe started to chuckle.

Faye paused the video and glared at him. “What’s so funny, Joseph Cartwright? “

“Sorry, Faye. It’s just… It’s just her name,” Joe blushed.

“Abby Jones?” Faye was getting a bit annoyed. Perhaps having Joe assist her wasn’t going to work as well as she and Ben had hoped. “What’s funny about that?”

“Well, “Joe began. He took a long swallow from the mug of coffee beside him. “Just, Abby Jones was this really strict teacher I had in school. Eighth grade English. Miss Abigail Jones. I guess it’s not that funny. She was like those old maid teachers in a cartoon. Come to think of it, she probably wasn’t even that old. She acted real old. Real old fashioned and strict. Hoss had her too.  It was probably her first year teaching. She would make her class memorize long passages of Shakespeare and sappy romantic poems and recite them in class. Poor Hoss was so shy then he almost failed English for the year because of all that. Poor guy couldn’t stand up in class and recite foolish love poems without having a panic attack.”

“What happened?” Faye asked. She reached behind her and quickly flipped on one of the cameras, hoping it recorded Joe’s story about his late brother.

Joe smiled. “Well, Hoss worked real hard to get it right. He had his head set on playing football and wouldn’t be able to if he flunked or even got a poor grade.  Pa studied with him every night. Adam did too when he came home for spring break from college. Even I did, even though I was only in second grade. I sat and listened to him practice. Boy, did he work hard. I think he got so he was reciting Romeo in his sleep. Joe made a loud snorting noise through his nose imitating Hoss’ snoring “Oh Juliet!” See, how she leans her cheek upon her hand! O that I were a glove upon that hand, that I might touch that cheek!" I listened to Hoss so much that, by the time I had old Abigail Jones, I knew all the recitations perfectly even though she figured I was day dreaming in class. Miss Jones was so sure I was cheating somehow that she wanted Pa to come in for a conference. She didn’t believe me when I said he was out of town on business and insisted that Adam had to come see her in Pa’s place.”

“She did?” Faye laughed.

“Oh, she sure did. But that’s a whole other story, Faye. Let me tell you, she was more interested in my poor brother Adam than she let on and probably set the whole thing up. Let’s finish this piece of tape.” He hit the button and the interview continued.

 “I worked in billing, and the supervisor had this little TV in his office He said that he brought it in to watch baseball, the play offs and the World Series… but we all knew he was crazy about ‘Days of Our Lives’. No one let him know that we knew.  As we all crowded around, we watched the second plane, United Airlines Flight 175, hit the South Tower at 9:03am,” Abbey became increasingly distraught as she told the story. ..” She nervously brushed back a tendril of her wavy hair and twisted the rings on her left hand.

“Then the telephone rang. It was him, my husband, Roy calling me, and I was like, ‘Thank God!’” she said.  “It was 9:24 a.m.  I remember looking at the clock on the wall.  He said, ‘I love you very much.’  I said, ‘You just need to get out of there!’ and he goes, ‘I have to do something!’”

“Tell me more about Roy,” said the off camera voice. “What kind of person was he?

“Oh, he was the best. What should I say? Ummm. He was my brother’s buddy from high school. They were on the football team together. He was a big guy. Blonde hair and blue eyes, real sweet. Crazy about football. He went to the Navy for two years and came back and took the test for the police force and became a cop, and we started going together. He was going to go for twenty and retire. He joked and said he would become a ski bum then. And we would teach our kids to sing like the ones in Sound of Music, and they would ski and sing. That was pretty funny because neither of us can sing.”

 Faye’s voice played over the montage of pictures of the couple that Joe had assembled. “Roy told Abbey that he was going to try to save people trapped in the North Tower. It would be the last conversation between the couple.”

“He sounded very, very confident,” Abbey recalled. “I said: ‘Just be quick. I love you. I’ll see you at your mom’s for dinner tonight.’ And I thought I was going to see him. I really did. The hospital was getting really busy, so they had me go help out in the Emergency Room checking people’s insurance and filling out forms and such. It was so chaotic. It was part of our disaster plan for me to do that. So many people looking for their family members and friends. Real chaos.”

She started to cry, and Joe, off camera, handed her a pink box of Kleenex. She took one and wiped her eyes. She tearfully told how, half an hour later, Abbey she watched the towers collapse, live on television. Then, after being at the hospital for two shifts, she made her way to her mother’s house in Staten Island and waited for Roy to call again. He never did. Her husband died inside the North Tower when it fell.  His body was discovered in the rubble in January.

“We never got to go skiing out west,” said Abbey.

Chapter 4

July 2002

The Ponderosa

“I just had to come see you when I came back home, Mr. Cartwright. I had to come over to the Ponderosa and speak to you in person. I couldn’t possibly have this conversation over the phone,” Adam noticed that the young woman was no longer the tomboy who used to hot dog down the ski slope racing his brothers or ride along the range on her Appaloosa. Bessie Sue was now a stylishly dressed, polished, professional woman. Her blonde hair was stylishly coiffed, and she was even wearing makeup. Bessie Sue Hightower slipped off her chic new leather jacket. She automatically hung it on the hook near the door, just as she had hung her scruffy denim jacket for years when she came to visit Hoss.  It was as if she lived in this familiar house. “You look wonderful, Bessie Sue!” Adam said, giving her a brotherly peck on the check. (I’d cut that second ‘just’.  You don’t need two in the same paragraph.)

“I’m just delighted that you found time to join us for dinner. When do you have to get back to England?” Ben asked as he led her towards the living room.

“I’m not at Cambridge any more. I’m finished with my class work.” She took a lady like sip of the sherry had Adam poured for her.

“What’s the next step?” Adam asked handing his father his drink. “Your thesis?”

“I’m doing a clinical internship and then finishing my thesis based on the data I collect there. Then, after that is approved, and only then, I graduate.” She purposely omitted mentioning who she was working with and where the internship was. “It has been a very long haul.”

“I’m sure it was. But anything worth doing is worth doing well,” Ben advised. “And you have always been an excellent student and set high goals for yourself. A PhD in psychology is a very lofty goal. We are all so very proud of you. ”

“What is your area of concentration? What’s your clinical area?” Adam asked.

“I’m specializing in PTSD and TBI.”

Ben raised his eyebrow. “Tee bee eye? Tuberculosis of the eye?”

Bessie blushed realizing she was so accustomed being with others in her profession she automatically spoke in medical jargon. “Oh no, Mr. Cartwright! “she smiled. “PTSD is post-traumatic stress disorder. TBI is traumatic brain injury. Head injured patients. Patients who were in car wrecks or the battle injuries soldiers get in wars. Maybe you heard it called battle fatigue or shell shock back in the old days?”

“Yeah, Pa. You remember back in the old days,” Adam teased. “Pa remembers the Civil War, like it was yesterday.” They all laughed.

“You aren’t far off, Adam. There are descriptions of PTSD and TBI way back then, too. It was called ‘Soldiers Heart’.”

Hop Sing brought in a tray of hors d'oeuvres. “Good to see you again, Miss Bessie. Dinner ready soon.” The cook quickly scurried back into the kitchen to baste the roast chicken. He hoped Mr. Cartwright didn’t notice he had substituted tofu in place of the cheese in cheddar puffs. Doc Martin had put a reluctant Ben on a low fat diet, and the man was complaining every inch of the way.

 “Where is Little Joe? Will he be back soon?” she assumed Hoss’ younger brother was somewhere on the Ponderosa doing chores or in class.

“Joe is working in New York.” Adam explained. He shoved the crudités toward his father who pointedly ignored the artfully arranged platter of fresh cherry tomatoes, carrots and celery sticks and eyed the steaming platter of hot tidbits.

“In New York? Little Joe is in New York?” Bessie Sue hadn’t realized that Hoss’ younger brother wouldn’t be joining them for dinner. “What is he doing there?”

“He’s working with my friend Faye Franklin as an assistant on interviews for her book of photographs,” Ben explained. He took a bite of his cheddar puff, wrinkled his nose and tossed the remainder into the fire place. It quickly ignited and turned to ashes.

“Interviews of families who lost someone on 9/11.” Adam added softly.

“Oh,” Bessie Sue looked down at the oversized Gucci tote bag she had rested on the floor near her feet. Her friend Enoch had given it to her when she left Cambridge.

 “We all thought Joe needed to take some time out from college. He really took Hoss’ death extremely hard,” Ben added.

 “I’m so sorry, Mr. Cartwright, Adam. I’m so sorry about everything. You know how much Hoss meant to me and always will.”

“I know, Bessie Sue. The letter you sent us after Hoss died was beautiful,” Ben said.

“It meant so much to us all,” Adam added. He glanced toward the kitchen, not sure why he was so anxious for Hop Sing to serve dinner. It wasn’t that he wanted to sit at the desk unraveling the mess he had made of the Ponderosa accounts. Somehow he couldn’t focus on familiar paper work but wasn’t going to admit the problem to his father. Pa had enough to worry about with Joe.

She nodded. “Words couldn’t say what I was feeling. I’m so sorry.”

Ben hugged her. “Your father said he refused to let you give up your studies and come back home when you wanted to. You should be very proud of your tenacity.”

“When I heard, I wanted to rush back home, but you know what things were like then. It was totally impossible to get on a flight to anywhere in the US, especially to make connections to Reno. I was sort of marooned. I was fortunate that my friends were there for me to lean on, even though we had barely met. “

“Sadly, tragedies have a way of bringing people together,” Ben sighed.

“Or ripping them apart,” Adam muttered. Having Bessie Sue in the house was a reminder of how excruciatingly raw his grief for Hoss still was. He also terribly missed having his kid brother Joe around. Adam knew his father’s decision for Joe to leave college and go to New York with Faye really was in Joe’s best interest. There was no way the kid could focus on college in any productive way until he got over his irrational idea that Hoss wasn’t dead. “Tragedy does make people examine their priorities.” 

“Very true, Adam, very true.”  Bessie Sue leaned back on the settee. “I did a lot of thinking about my life that fall. Had I started to forget the value of important things, like everyone else? Had we all become so busy getting ahead, rushing and pushing and making plans for tomorrow and next year, rather than enjoying today? Had I forgotten what was really important, what I had right in my hand and let fly away? Life for me had changed and would never go back to what it was.”

Then, Bessie Sue Hightower told the two Cartwrights her story. It was the end of November, the first semester of her graduate study at Cambridge. Her friend Enoch found her in Doctor Kaye’s class. He told her that a message came to her box in her residence: a package had arrived. It was also Thanksgiving week. There she was, away from home in a country that didn’t celebrate Thanksgiving.  Bessie Sue Hightower explained to Ben and Adam how she and a few other lonely American students had decided to put together a Thanksgiving dinner and had gather all the fixings. It was also her birthday the next day; the first one since 9/11.

“It was the first birthday I ever had away from my family. Here I was, far from home at Cambridge. I was so dreadfully homesick. Did you know it’s more than five thousand miles from Virginia City?”  Bessie Sue suddenly stopped. She took a deep breath.
Ben nodded. Adam wasn’t quite sure his father was nodding because he knew the mileage to Cambridge or just because he was gently encouraging the girl to continue.

“It was the first birthday since I was eleven years old that I wasn’t going to see Hoss at my party.” She paused for a minute to collect herself, took another sip of her sherry. Then she slowly continued with her story. “Did you realize Hoss came to my birthday party every single year starting in sixth grade, Mr. Cartwright? That year, my birthday came after Thanksgiving, the way the calendar fell. My mother made me invite him because he was in my class and knew you and Joe’s mom. None of the other boys came, but Hoss did. He was so brave.”

Ben smiled at Bessie Sue Hightower. It had been almost two years since Ben had seen Hoss’ sweetheart. In that time she had bloomed from a lovely, full-figured, blonde college girl to a statuesque, polished young professional. “I knew you two were friends for years but didn’t realize how far back it went.”

Adam leaned against the fireplace without saying a word. He hadn’t thought of that particular incident in years. He remembered how nervous his younger brother was about going to a little girl’s birthday party, this little girl in particular. He begged Adam to show him how to dance. Adam recalled Marie rushing to Virginia City with Hoss to get new trousers and shoes after discovering the boy had outgrown everything that had fit him only a couple of weeks earlier when the Cartwrights had visited New York City. Adam had an interview at the admissions office at Columbia University, and his father decided that the entire family should go along and enjoy Thanksgiving in New York.

“Hoss brought me a Breyer Pony,” Becky Sue recalled.

“What kind of pony?” Ben had no idea what she was talking about. He couldn’t imagine that Hoss could have given livestock to another child without him knowing it.

 “A toy horse that all the girls collected.”

“Oh! A toy!” Ben smiled. 

“Hoss told me he saw it in a great big, fancy toy store in New York City and thought of me. He knew I would like it. He was so sweet.”

“FAO Schwartz,” Ben smiled remembering where he and Marie had taken the boys. “It’s a big, luxury toy store filled with more things than any child could imagine. Little Joe couldn’t believe I wouldn’t buy him the half-size Ferrari car that could go 30 miles an hour. I think it cost about twelve thousand dollars. It was the kind of thing Donald Trump or an Arab sheik bought for their sons, not a Nevada Rancher.”

“I think I convinced him to settle for a few Hot Wheels and a fine case of Legos that would build a model of the Empire State Building,” Adam recalled.

“It was the first Breyer Horse I ever had. I still have it on the shelf in my parent’s house. I think that’s when I decided I would marry Hoss Cartwright. He was so brave and so sweet. Only he would have been thoughtful enough to bring me something so special all the way from New York. I truly loved him, Mr. Cartwright. I miss him so.”

“We all do, sweetheart, we all do,” Ben squeezed her hand. “What were you saying about your birthday? About a package when you were in Cambridge?”

“Enoch said a message came to my mail box that there was a package for me in the mail room. When I went to the mail room; it was closed. I was sure it was from my mother… that she had sent me some Thanksgiving fixings that we couldn’t get in England. Do you realize how difficult it is to get a decent turkey and a can of cranberry sauce in England? I lost my patience and went out into the lobby and banged my fist against the reception desk. When the mail room manager finally gave the package to me, I saw the writing on the package and clutched it to my chest. I couldn’t believe it. I sobbed and wailed. I howled like a wounded animal.  Everyone in the lobby stared at me and asked what was wrong. They couldn’t believe the scene I was making, but I couldn’t speak.  It wasn’t even the contents of the package I wanted; it was the label. The writing, the salt from his hand….. ”

Ben didn’t quite understand what Bessie was describing. “The writing? What are you saying.”

“Something from Hoss, his handwriting,” she said.

Adam knew immediately what Bessie Sue Hightower was talking about “The package was from Hoss.” Adam whispered hoarsely.

Ben downed his drink in one gulp.

“More than a month later?” Ben’s jaw dropped. “A month after he was killed?”

“Six weeks. Exactly six weeks and two days. I looked at the postmark, and Hoss mailed it from New York City exactly six weeks and two days after 9/11.

“After he died? How? That’s impossible!” Ben paled. Could Joe have been right? Hoss was still alive!

“There has to be some rational explanation? Do you have the label?” Adam quickly asked.

Bessie reached into the Gucci bag and pulled out a neatly folded piece of brown paper wrapping that she had stowed in a clear plastic bag like a piece of evidence from a crime scene. She handed it to Ben who immediately recognized his dead son’s familiar handwriting.

“What was in the package?” Adam asked.

Bessie Sue took a sip of her sherry.

***

Chapter 5

July 2002,

New York City

 

Unaware that Faye Franklin had entered the high ceilinged living room of the borrowed apartment from walking Zsa Zsa the poodle, Joe Cartwright quickly ripped something out of the newspaper and shoved it into the pocket of his jeans. He folded the newspaper and laid it aside.

 

“Joseph! Get your feet off the coffee table, and put that awful newspaper down! How can you read that rag! Goodness! The Daily News ? The doorman is hailing a cab. I don’t want to be late to our appointment with Millie Marsala!” Faye Franklin flew around the two-bedroom apartment gathering up her purse, laptop and LL Bean tote. “If you want a newspaper, read The NYTimes when we get back. It’s over there on the couch. And keep your feet off the table!”

 

“Yes, ma’am”, Joe suddenly smiled artificially at his father’s friend. “But don’t worry, Faye. I don’t have my shoes on!” He quickly forced a laugh and wiggled his toes at her before swinging his legs off the glass-topped table. Then Joe shoved his feet into his Nike’s and quickly tied the laces. “You’ve been around Pa so long that you’re starting to sound just like him. See, I‘ve got the camera equipment all ready to go and sitting in the foyer by the door. All I have to do is grab it on the way out.” The forced smile left his face as fast as it had appeared.

 

Faye had known Joe long enough to notice that the young man’s bantering was only half-hearted. She wrongly assumed Joe’s strange demeanor was because they were off to interview the woman Hoss had saved just before he was killed.

***

 

NY Daily News

July 15, 2002

Sometimes a happy ending and a crappy ending are the same thing.

Watching lots of John Wayne movies or TV westerns as a kid must have paid off for husky Heinrich Vandervoort in saving a handsome cab horse in Midtown Manhattan.

Vandervoort, a wholesale florist, had just made a delivery to Tavern on the Green on Saturday with a new employee, Manolito Montoya, when they noticed a problem. A horse pulling a handsome cab had slipped on a pile of manure, and its back legs had gone into a storm drain hole in Central Park West Drive. A crowd had gathered, and the trapped horse became even more agitated.

Native New Yorker, shy Heinrich Vandervoort, quickly took charge. In a New York minute, the creative florist, who looked like he could play fullback (one word) for the Giants, snapped into action.  He pulled his delivery truck to the side of the traverse road and jumped out. With Montoya by his side, he pointed at the distressed driver of the handsome cab, and the two cops.

 “The big guy in the truck just took over,” said tourist Norman Fugleman of upstate Syracuse. He and his wife Terry were passengers in the handsome cab when the mishap occurred. “He said ‘You and you take hold here. Then he calmed down that terrified horse.”

 Vandervoort quickly came on the idea of using manure as a lubricant to free the frightened animal. Following the florist’s direction, the men managed to slide the terrified horse back out of the sewer grate.  Wouldn’t we say: …quickly thought of using manure…)

“Heinrich seemed like such a quiet guy when he’s been making deliveries. Hardly says more than ‘yes sir’ or ‘no sir’ and hauls in his delivery. I know him about six months, and he hardly said a word, but when he saw that horse in trouble, he turned into a totally different guy," said William Zambrotto, general manager of the Tavern on the Green. “You never know who someone is in an emergency.”

"All that manure was underneath the horse, so that kind of made like some grease that helped slide him back out of there," described Police Office Francis Muldoon of the 22^nd precinct which patrols Central Park. “That guy sure knew what he was doing and got that horse calmed down before anyone got hurt.”

The horse walked away without a scratch.

Montoya said, "The crowd gave us the biggest applause and stuff when we got the horse out of there. It was really cool. It was only my second day at work for Vandervoorts and I never thought it was going to be at all like a cowboy movie.”

Unfortunately, Heinrich Vandervoort was completely covered in horse manure. That didn't stop William Zambrotto, Tavern's general manager of the Tavern on the Green restaurant, from welcoming him and the others inside for free drinks and dinner. The modest hero shyly turned down the invitation. Zambrotto quickly offered a rain check to Heinrich, which he accepted.

“Can’t come into a fine place like this stinking like I spent the best part of a day raking out the barn for my Pa,” said Vandervoort as he quickly drove off with Montoya.

 

*******

Chapter 6

The Ponderosa

July 2002

Bessie Sue explained “When the mail room manager gave it to me, I saw the writing on the package and clutched it to my chest. I couldn’t believe it. I sobbed like an animal.  Everyone in the lobby stared at me and asked what was wrong, but I spoke to no one.  It wasn’t even the contents of the package I wanted; it was the label. The writing, the salt from his hand….. ”

Ben didn’t quite understand what Bessie was describing. “The writing? What are you saying.”

“Something from Hoss, his handwriting.”

Adam knew immediately what Bessie Sue Hightower was talking about “The package was from Hoss.” Adam whispered hoarsely.

Ben downed his drink in one gulp.

“More than a month later?” Ben’s jaw dropped. “A month after he was killed?”

“Six weeks. Exactly six weeks and two days. I looked at the postmark and Hoss mailed it from New York City exactly six weeks and two days after 9/11.

“After he died? How? That’s impossible!” Ben paled. Could Joe have been right? Hoss was still alive!

“There has to be some rational explanation? Do you have the label?” Adam quickly asked.

Bessie reached into the Gucci bag and pulled out a neatly folded piece of brown paper wrapping that she had stowed in a clear plastic bag like a piece of evidence from a crime scene. She handed it to Ben who immediately recognized his dead son’s familiar handwriting.

“What was in the package?” Adam asked.

 “A few things.” Bessie wasn’t quite sure how to proceed. She looked down at her bag.

“Bessie Sue? What was in the package?” Adam repeated, this time more firmly. He stared at the girl who broke his brother’s heart.

“Hoss sent me a gift for my birthday. Another Breyer horse from that big toy store in NYC. An Appaloosa. A beautiful Appaloosa.  You know, that is my favorite breed.

“I know. And the Hightower’s Appaloosas were always the finest in the state. What else was in the package from Hoss?” Ben asked gently.

“What was in the package?” Adam demanded.

Bessie Sue reached into her tote bag and pulled out two tee shirts and handed them to Adam. He held them up so his father could see them.  A pink shirt proclaimed “I Love New York” with a big red heart in place of the love. The second one was vivid yellow and featured the sunshine logo of Andy Walker’s Broadway Show, “Early One Morning”. “The two tee shirts and a mug and key chain and a poster from Andy’s show. And sox.”

“And sox?”  Ben asked.

“From Andy’s show. Like we got,” Adam said softly. “The same show souvenirs Andy’s publicity people mailed us. Bessie Sue, the package wasn’t mailed by Hoss. It was sent by Andy’s publicity people.”

“How do you know?” Bessie Sue asked. Her hands were trembling as she reached for her glass of sherry.

“Andy called me to verify your address at the end of September. Maybe it was the middle of October by then. I don’t really remember. His people packed up Hoss’ things from his hotel and sent them off to us. Andy knew my brother had bought you a gift for your birthday.”

“I think Andy and Thad took him shopping. They wanted to be sure you got Hoss’ gift,” Ben added.

“Andy called me to check your address and said he would make sure it was sent off. They sent us a big package of tee shirts and things from the show. I guess they meant well.”

“Sox. Sox and Tee shirts and autographed pictures of Andy Walker. The same things that were in your package, Bessie Sue. Andy’s secretary sent off the package that Hoss had addressed to you and left in his hotel room before he died,” Ben sighed. He put his arms around Bessie Sue and held her close as she wept for her lost love.

Chapter 7

July 2002

New York City

In the taxi on their way back to the apartment after the Marsala interview, Faye reviewed her notes and left Joe to his thoughts.  Millie and Ralph Marsala had repeated the same story they had told Adam weeks earlier over Hoss’ cell phone.  Having heard the information from Adam, Joe was able to retain his composure during the interview. He even admired their sleeping baby and took some pictures of her before he packed up the equipment.

 

As the taxi rode down the FDR drive, Joe held Hoss’ battered cell phone and quietly went through the pictures. The first pictures were the shots Hoss had taken in New York: the airport, Andy, Times Square, Macys, FAO Schwartz, the Statue of Liberty, a few shots of his hotel and the view from his window at night.

 

Then there were the images that he and Adam had downloaded to the phone before Hoss left. There were a few shots of Hoss with his brothers and father around the Ponderosa, the three brothers skiing past a cluster of pine trees, Hoss riding Chubb, the high school football team at the state championships, Hoss and his brother cheering at the camel races, Hoss at his college graduation standing beside his very proud father. There was a very old photo of the three brothers building something with Legos beside a gigantic Christmas tree.  Others showed Adam playing his guitar, Joe doing a handstand near Lake Tahoe, Hop Sing carrying a huge, elaborately decorated birthday cake and another one of a sweet-faced, blonde woman.

 

“This is Inger. Hoss’ mom,” Joe turned the cell phone so Faye could see the picture.

 

“She was lovely,” Faye said softly. She recognized the picture as the one Ben had on his desk along with the pictures of Elizabeth and Marie.  “Hoss had her eyes”.

“Has her eyes,” Joe corrected. “Hoss has the same blue eyes as Inger.”

 

Joe tried to look through the pictures a second time, but this time the battered cell phone malfunctioned. The pictures wouldn’t cycle through properly, and no matter what Joe tried, the only picture that would appear was the picture of Inger. Irritated, Joe just turned off the phone and shoved it into his pocket.

 

Later, back in the apartment, Faye and Joe laid out a takeout (one word) order of Chinese food on the breakfast bar in the kitchen. Perched on her stool, Faye ate her Kung Poa Chicken and watched Joe use his chopsticks to move the sweet and sour pork and fried rice round on his plate but not eat anything.  “You did very well today, Joe. You handled everything quite professionally. Your father will be proud of you. I know I am.”

 

Joe didn’t respond to Faye’s complement. He silently pulled the folded newspaper clipping from his jeans. He unfolded, smoothed it, and laid it out in front of her between the white cardboard carton of lo mein and the waxed paper bags of fortune cookies. “Read this article. It was in the Daily News.”

 

Faye sipped her glass of Tsingtao beer while she read. After finishing the article she looked questioningly at Joe.  “What’s this? A guy saved a horse? The News loves this sort of story. Dog bites man. Man bites dog. Everything happens in New York City! Tomorrow a horse will save a guy. Or the city will give this hero a fine for leaving manure in the street when he saved the horse and there will be a protest march in Central Park. Why are you showing me this? ”

 

“I saw Hoss do exactly the same thing!” Joe poked at the newspaper article in agitation. “Exactly! A couple of years ago, at the Camel Race Parade in Virginia City. My brother had volunteered for shovel duty. A horse in the parade got his hoof stuck just like that in a storm drain!  Hoss used manure from the cart to free the trapped horse! Just like in that story! “

 

Faye starred at him, not knowing what to say.

 

“Think about it, Faye. How would a guy from New York City know to do that? And did you read the description they gave? A big guy, like a football player!“ Joe was so wound-up that he started to stammer, “And . . . And. . . . What he said about raking out the barn for his Pa! Would a New York City guy say that? No!”

 

Joe grabbed Faye’s arms. “We need to find these people, Faye! It’s Hoss! I know it is! I don’t know why he’s still in New York and hasn’t gotten hold of us, or using that name, Heinrich Vander what was it Vandervoort? But it’s him! It’s Hoss. He’s still alive!”

 

Faye stared, flabbergasted at Joe’s face as he started to cry and laugh at the same time. She feared that the son of the man she loved was close to a nervous breakdown.

　

Faye hurried to the liquor cabinet in the dining room where she had seen a half-full bottle of Glenfiddich Scotch whisky. She poured two fingers of the Scotch into a glass and set it in front of Joe. “Drink this”, Faye ordered. “You have to calm down and get ahold of yourself so we can discuss this rationally.”

 

“But Faye! We have to do something!  I’m going to call Pa!”! He started to reach for the phone on the kitchen wall.

 

“Joseph Cartwright!  Stop right now. Calm down right now! Calling your father is the last thing we should do!”  She gently pushed him away from the phone and against a kitchen bar stool. “Now you just sit and shut up and listen to me.”  Faye’s authoritive tone of voice shocked Joe into silence. Wide-eyed, he half-sat, half-leaned against the stool, clutching the heavy-based glass of Glenfiddich in both hands as if he didn’t trust himself not to spill it.

 

Faye needed to pacify Joe without encouraging his irrational hope. “Ok, now, the biggest question is why Hoss would stay in New York?  Uh, don’t say it; your amnesia theory. Ok, I guess that could be possible. But neither one of us knows a thing about amnesia nor about how the brain works.”

 

“Bessie Sue does!” Joe interrupted.  “She’s at Cambridge! Damn! But I don’t know how to get ahold of her in England!”

 

Thank goodness!  Faye thought to herself. Or Joe would be calling her now, in the middle of the night in England, saying insane things.

 

“Ok, I grant you that mysterious occurrences happen, and I’ll even grant you that miracles happen. I’ve seen too much in my career to not to keep an open mind. Here’s what we’ll do….” Faye’s manicured nails clicked off her points on the marble countertop. “We’ll talk to the manager of Tavern on the Green, Officer Muldoon, the “New York News” reporter, and track down the handsome cab driver. But, keep in mind that we are here in New York to do a job. We have photos to take and interviews to do. And do not, I repeat, do no, call your father or Adam or anyone about this. If, after we investigate, if I agree that there could be something to this, then, and only then, will we consult Adam first. Not your father, Adam. I know you agree that you don’t want your father upset more than he already is.”

 

“Now, why don’t you finish your drink and try to eat some more dinner and then turn in? I’m going to review these notes from Millie’s interview then go to bed myself. We’ll start in the morning. Is that clear, Joe?”

 

Joe raised his head from his hands and nodded. “Yeah. You are right. I…. I just want it to be possible. I sure don’t want to get Pa upset until we get more information.”

 

“Like I said, I’ve seen so much that I have learned that nothing is impossible”. Faye squeezed Joe’s shoulder. “See you in the morning.” She watched as Joe made his way down the hallway to his bedroom then took a deep breath.

 

Later that night Faye tossed and turned in her bed. Her weary mind was in turmoil. Could Joe be right?

No, it’s impossible, no matter what she had said to Joe to calm him down.

Hoss Cartwright couldn’t be the man who rescued the horse outside the Tavern on the Green.

It was totally impossible.

 Or was it?

　The next day, Faye woke up, as always at seven.  Zsa Zsa had to get her walk. As she took the poodle’s leash off the hook in the kitchen, she spied a note leaning against the Cuisinart grind and brew coffee maker. Her heart skipped a beat as she read it.

 

“Sorry Faye. I couldn’t wait. Went to Vandervoorts florist to find Hoss.

Be back soon with my brother.

Joe”

　

　

TO BE CONTINUED