It had rained at dawn. The headboard of my bed was against the window of my room. Gentle rising sun, warm and sweet rain blew through the drapes. All I could do was smile, here I was in my new home by the sea, that my daughter and I had found, after my trip to Mexico earlier that year. Elbows propped and face in hands, I turned over, and looked up at the last high clouds. Everything was perfect.
I was the director of a blue chip gallery and had fallen madly in love with a Frenchman, let’s call him Andre Debonaire. It was September, my favorite time of year, it was warm outside as I made my way to my teapot. Through a large window next to my baby grand piano, I sat alone on my green chaise. Taking in the view, a few more moments before getting ready for the day.
I had met Andre in August 2001, tall, dark, and gorgeous, Andre was convinced that he wanted to marry me. I was convinced that he needed a green card. Both were true. I was afraid of getting married, being married to my job, it would be considered infidelity. But I didn’t care, six figures and at the top.
The phone rang, I guess I should stop here and say, I didn’t watch television,…ok….I admit, I was addicted to The Actor’s Studio…..I picked up the receiver, to hear Andre in hysterics, at first I thought he was laughing, in between what I could only interpret was saliva blocking his thick accent, ..”CNN!!! CNN!!!”
I hit the switch just in time to see an airliner bank suddenly and like a dagger, as it sliced through everyone’s life. I dropped the phone, fell to my knees, I didn’t know what I was looking at. Then the voices started. I could hear screaming, see people running, CNN flashing to President Bush reading a children’s’ book. My mind raced as I picked up the receiver to hear Andre, now in tears, talking deportation, INS, and $400.00 to his name. So I calmly told Andre to pack, he could have the room downstairs. “Andre, I have to go. Andre, I HAVE TO GO!!! ANDRE, I HAVE TO HANG UP!!!!”, “Dahling, Dahling”….Click.
I, dumbfounded, with the most profound pain and disappointment I had ever felt, pick up the phone to call the owner of the gallery in San Francisco. Now shaking, the news responded by replaying how the Twin Towers in Manhattan had been struck and incoming reports of other hateful acts all happening so fast and designed so well that even Norad didn’t know what to do. As Sharon picked up the phone, I had expected her to have me call my consultants and give them a day or two, to my surprise, she told me that she wanted me to call all staff and have them come to work. And under dismay I heard, ” You need to stay calm Liane, open the gallery, if we don’t, they win.” “THEY!!”, …..”They did.” And how would they know? It was like a nuclear disaster had hit Carmel and didn’t tell my staff and I.
In the days that followed, Carmel had hung American flags all down Ocean Avenue, then the fire trucks and bagpipes. Although I had expect nothing in the way of sales, oddly enough clients called to buy paintings. Somehow, 911 was a wake call in many unusual ways. We sold a lot.
The owners of our gallery had three locations. San Francisco, Carmel and New York and always planned our artists exhibitions a year in advance and one of those artists was Paul Balmer. A brilliant painter that lived in Tribecca was in the middle of painting for his show on West Broadway, still in the dust of debris and specters. Paul had spent most of his recent career painting the Manhattan skyline, “Twin Tower Blue” was in the middle of completion, when in his devastation and pain, refused to finish the painting.
October…Andre had moved in. He set up his computer down stairs, put a ring on my ambivalent finger. I guess I could have blamed all my insane decisions and 911, but there was only so much I could blame on Osama Bin Landen, who’s assassins were surely in Heaven by now surrounded by 72 virgins.
As it turned out, Andre had gone after several women and failed to get the golden ticket. He told me he was a writer and so I had him reading Henry Miller, Kerouac, etc. In a burst of plagiarism he had decided to write a book. And so it went, I would work 5 or 6 days a week, while he wrote a couple of hours a day and took walks. I really didn’t mind taking care of him as I had lost my mind.
After a long days work, begging me to listen to his stories….and edit them….while tolerating his hysterics over my disapproval of a misplaced comma.
The jig was up by ” Storming of the Bastille” kismet, I went downstairs to use my computer. Let me say that Andre had switched towers, so when I tried to find my desktop, it was André’s I found, along with a photo of him in a snappy dog collar and leash…not to mention the letters en-masse to other women. Yet another shock to my system, I called my girlfriend, who knew her way around the cyber-world. She confirmed that Andre Debonaire was not debonaire at all, but dubious, disastrous and….well…disgusting. Even though I was hooked on the accent, I promptly kicked him out.
November 2001
Had arrived with a conversation with Reggie, Sharon’s partner.He had me speak with Paul about finishing “Twin Tower Blue” with an idea I had to make posters from the painting and sell them, with proceeds going to the FDNY rescue efforts, and thereby turning his exhibition into a benefit.
The gallery was on West Broadway, the event would be a homage to the city and it’s recent tragedy. Only one catch. I was so excited by the prospects of how beautiful this would be and wasn’t really listening when Reggie said I would be there. In total panic, ” Aren’t you going?”, I said, waiting for reassurance. “No, it’s your idea, so you go. and besides Sharon will go with you.”
I was mystified as I walked into SFO. All around were military men holding our latest assault rifles. In line to board the plane, I knew we were all thinking the same thing. Sharon waved at Alan and I as she boarded first class, when out of nowhere, one of the soldiers pointed at me. I instinctively pointed a me as well, looking around. He gestured that I get out of line. “Oh my God, I almost made it.” Someone didn’t approve of my pedicure at the check point. I was clearly not going to New York but to Riker;s Island as my knees began to shake. The man in green, pointed to his squad and asked, “Pardon me ma’am, if you don’t mind, we have a bet.” I stood there blank. “Are you Julia Roberts?” I turned to check with Alan. as he stated to laugh and everyone in line was now listening. “No, I’m not.” “Oh, pardon me ma’am, sorry to have bothered you.” I slunk back in line with head held low, observing Alan in an uproar and ready for a drink. We boarded. It was announced that the film for the flight would be American Sweethearts.
As the plane started it’s final decent,we were low enough to see the skyline, but something was lost and replace by a eerie green flood of light coming out of the ground. It felt as though nothing would ever be the same, and of course, we were right.
The next morning I arrived at the gallery, while dust still on cars and ground and oddly warm. The show was astonishingly stunning. That evening we had people at the gallery doors with candles, and every painting old. We ended the evening by celebrating at Tavern On The Green, glowing in holiday lights. I wanted to embrace the New York that I knew and loved.
I said my goodbyes as a special driver was arranged to take me to Ground Zero and to the airport. As we got closer, I was aware of the smell of burning rubber and what looked like snow all around me. Particles of memories lifting from the sidewalks. A stream of water was going on and off. But the one thing I understood very clearly was the steel corner of the World Trade Center, on it’s last foundation of security resisting the inevitable. Standing as the last testament. Widowed. it looked like lace, intricate and fragile. Change had come, change had went and change was on the way.
in a New York Minute…..
