Bono

Chapter Twenty-six

THE FEAR MACHINE

A cat knows when hugs are needed.

No wonder primitive people imagined they were living on the back of a giant, unpredictable monster. Most of the time, the dragon sleeps, allowing us to drift along in a state of semiconsciousness. Absorbed in multitudes of diversions, we forget about the monster. But every now and then, sometimes after years of sleep, the monster flicks its tail and tosses everyday reality into the air. It leaves a trail of panic and destruction. Those who survive are forever changed.

April 15, 2013, began like any other Monday. I flung the curtains open to examine a watery looking sky that promised sunshine later on. After filling Bono’s bowls, I sifted through his latest raft of online fan mail. Admirers from Germany, France, Italy, Australia, New Zealand, and various corners of the United States gushed superlatives, but none were interested in becoming prospective parents. My month in the apartment was halfway through. Finding another place that would take a cat would be next to impossible. I worried we were running out of time. Bono leapt onto the table beside me to clean his teeth on the edge of my laptop screen.

I once decided a home can be any size providing I could walk around naked in it. With that luxury out of my price range in New York, I huddled in the shadows near the kitchenette. The attempt at modesty was futile, anyway. Though the anonymous workers in the opposite building intrigued me, they’d shown no interest in the world outside their windows. Besides, I thought it unlikely anyone would want to watch a sturdy midlife woman struggle into her pants.

After breakfast at the deli, I wandered down to the post office near Grand Central to send off another crop of Frozen cards to Annie and Stella. Even if they didn’t read them, I wanted the next generation to understand there was such a thing as paper and stamps. The response so far had been mild. I wondered if their parents were fed up with my postcards clogging their mailbox.

Later in the afternoon, on my way back to the apartment, I noticed a change to the city’s mood. People on the street seemed on edge and unusually subdued. I bought a falafel from the shop near the corner, slid the key in the heart-shaped lock, and hurried upstairs to Bono.

As I sat on the sofa bed, a shaken Obama appeared on the TV screen. He exhorted people to stay calm and assured viewers the perpetrators would be found.

Bono sprang on my lap and nibbled at my falafel, so far untouched and tepid inside its foil wrapper. I watched in disbelief as images unfolded on a grueling loop. Crowds cheered as runners crossed a finish line. A violent explosion. Screams. In an instant, jubilation became shock as a plume of black smoke rose behind the athletes. A few seconds later, there was a second deadly explosion.

Ever since 1879, the Boston Marathon has been held on Patriot’s Day, the third Monday in April. As the world’s oldest annual marathon, it attracts around half a million spectators. The 30,000 participants create a memorable spectacle, but the 2013 marathon would be etched in history for all the wrong reasons.

My heart ached for the families of the three spectators who’d been killed. Their shock would be immeasurable. Combined with the devastating suffering sudden grief brings, they’d also have to confront their own justifiable outrage. More than 200 others were injured that day. Sixteen people lost their limbs, the youngest being a seven-year-old girl.

Tragedy can bring out extraordinary compassion in some. As the images played over again, I noticed after the explosions, some people were actually running toward the devastation rather than away from it. Without thinking twice, these heroes were risking their lives to help others.

Philip’s anxious face appeared on my laptop screen.

“Are you okay?”

“We’re fine. They made the bombs out of pressure cookers,” I said.

“Like the one we used to steam corned beef in?” he asked.

“Yes, they packed them with shrapnel and nails,” I said. “Then they stashed them into backpacks and left them on the scene.”

Philip shook his head.

“It’s the first time anyone has used that type of homemade device on US soil,” I said.

“Do they know who did it?”

“Not yet. They could be hiding anywhere. The cops seem to think they’re heading to New York.”

I noticed a flash of concern in his eyes.

“Guess it’s the best place to go if they want to hide in a crowd,” I said.

“Do you want to see if I can get you a flight home?” he asked.

“Don’t worry,” I said. “We’ll be fine.”

Afterward as I climbed into bed, my thoughts turned to the broken window lock I’d forgotten to complain about. The days had been too full and stimulating for me to bother contacting the rental agency.

Bono nuzzled my neck and purred.

“You’re not alone,” he seemed to be saying. “I’m with you. Neither of us is on this planet for much longer. Let’s not waste time being scared.”

For the first time, Bono let me hug him. His warmth ran up my arms. I could feel the little heart pattering under his shaven ribs. On some level, Bono understood I needed comforting the way another miniature black cat, Cleo, had decades earlier in the harsh days after Sam’s death.

I’d since heard stories from readers of how, through life’s most challenging times, animals have tuned into their sorrow and done everything in their power to help. When my brother Jim was given a grim cancer diagnosis, his English sheepdog Tash sensed what was going on. Month after month, Tash lay at his side. They died within days of each other and are buried together in a country cemetery near our hometown. As graves go, it’s a good one, being right next door to a pub and having an excellent view of a mountain we grew up under.

Even if a villain slid the window open during the night and murdered me, it would be nothing compared to the untold suffering going on in other parts of the world, including Boston. There was peace and freedom in accepting my insignificance. In the larger canvas of life, I was a mere paint speck. Bono sprang off the bed and trotted off to the Bunker.

Next to a crossword, I find a game of Scrabble the best sedative. I reached for the iPad. The word “terrorist” has minimal value. Each of the nine letters is worth only one point, compared to (for example) hero, which if the h is set on a triple letter score, can be worth fifteen points.

The first time I heard the t word was probably back in the 1970s when the IRA was planting bombs in London railway stations. I’ve never liked the look of the word, or its melodramatic overuse. Mass murderers don’t deserve a noun that implies they have a higher mission. They’re thugs whose attention-seeking antics are rewarded by the ratings-hungry media who are eager to feed off a gullible public’s fears.

For terrorism to lose its edge, people need to toughen up and be realistic. According to the Global Terrorism Index, there were 18,000 deaths worldwide from so-called acts of terror in the year of the Boston bombings (most being in Iraq). In the same year, the World Health Organization reported 1.3 million deaths from road traffic. Almost every case involves the tragic loss of innocents and leaves a trail of broken-hearted families. I’m not suggesting road traffic should be banned, but in a logical world if we were going to be terrified by anything it would be cars.

If some wild-eyed kid who called himself a terrorist was about to climb the fire escape that night, I’d have a thing or two to say to him.

I arranged the bedside table half tidily, in case a homicide squad might need to inspect the place in a few hours. Once the light was out, Bono jumped back on the bed and nestled into the pillow next to mine. I drifted off to the regular squeak of his snoring. We slept soundly—apart from my regulation visit to the bathroom.

* * *

Next morning, I was lured onto the street to witness the mood of a nervous nation in mourning. In cafés and shops, the tension was palpable. Whenever a siren could be heard, there was a ripple of alarm, an exchange of looks.

Images of planes smashing into buildings were still sharp in many minds. Mostly people were keeping their heads down, but every few seconds a construction worker or a woman in a suit would glance up at the sky.

On the corner of Second Avenue, as I stood waiting for the lights to change, a nervous woman with a nose ring pointed at something above our heads.

“What’s that?” she asked.

I glanced up at what appeared to be an extra wire draped between the utility poles. It didn’t seem connected to any electrical services. I had no idea what it was, but sometimes a senior person’s role is simply to reassure.

“Could be one of those eruv wires,” I said.

“A what?” she asked.

“You know how orthodox Jews aren’t supposed to do anything on the Sabbath, not even cook or push a stroller.”

The woman stared blankly at me.

“I think if they stay inside the boundary of an eruv wire on the Sabbath they’re allowed to do all that stuff,” I said.

She didn’t seem comforted by my theory.

Panic has its uses. Our ancestors needed to be scared of wild animals in order to survive. In the twenty-first century anxiety is superfluous most of the time, except perhaps when we’re diving into a wall of traffic. That doesn’t deny the fact we’re programmed to experience it—though not always to our own benefit. Whenever I felt unnerved by the city’s edginess, I turned to Bono and did my best to follow his example. He wasn’t worried.

Fear consumes too much energy. It’s a manipulative tool used by politicians, advertisers, so-called terrorists, and anyone else wanting control over others. When people are frightened they become powerless cringers with no dignity. Once on a bus, I saw a man who had to change seats because he was terrified of a butterfly.

It’s disheartening to overhear full-grown adults use “scary” to describe everything from phone bills to cigarette smoke. The emotion filters down to become fear of eating the wrong food, not working hard enough, or being too fat, not rich, or smart enough. Compulsive fear erodes into stress. While I sympathize to a point, it’s time people started living like cats. A homeless feline with a lion haircut and a lousy prognosis was to me a perfect example of how to make the most of being alive.

Days of paranoia crawled by. Black limos slid around the corner to the UN Building, which had been barricaded like a medieval castle. Did they know something? Down at Grand Central rows of helmeted men wore black bulletproof gear and carried assault rifles. It was like living in a Star Wars movie.

People were warned to report suspicious packages, but at night the streets were lined with the same old piles of garbage bags, each one large enough to harbor several bombs. They were so much part of the nocturnal landscape New Yorkers hardly noticed them.

There was collective relief after the first shoot-out when Tamerlan Tsarnaev, age 26, was run over and killed by his younger brother, Dzhokhar, in a stolen car. Anxiety returned to gnaw at the nation’s soul with the announcement that Dzhokhar, age 19, was still on the run. When he was discovered hiding inside a boat in a suburban backyard, the saga ground to a conclusion. It had been a long four days—and would have been longer if the murderous brothers had achieved their goal of traveling to New York to bomb Times Square.