CHAPTER 33
Sunday morning I looked out the window toward Joe’s bedroom. I’d gotten in the habit of checking it ever since that day weeks ago when I saw him waiting for Uncle Cal. After that, the lamp was never on before dawn.
Until now.
I watched for a moment, and when I didn’t see any moving shadows, I looked down at the street, but Joe wasn’t there. Then I rushed to my north window and waited for Uncle Cal, expecting him to make his appearance. Maybe I should have told him that Joe might have changed his mind.
After a while, I gave up and listened to my iPod. I was great at playing the air-mandolin, my fingers mastering G-sharp minor. If only my actual daily afternoon sessions did it justice. But I was getting better even if the improvement was slow going. At least I was prepared to play “You Are My Sunshine” for Mayzee in a couple of weeks.
One song later, I glanced out my window again. There they were, Uncle Cal and Joe, side by side, coming in from the west, returning from a neighborhood ride. When they got to Uncle Cal’s driveway, they lifted their palms and slapped each other five. Then Joe rode on, turned at the corner, and cycled the rest of the way home.
Joe was wearing his FDNY T-shirt. He looked nervous. Remembering the books he’d checked out of the library, I wondered if his report was on a sideshow operator or a circus owner. I just hoped he didn’t mention anything about Zachary Beaver.
After taking attendance in history, Dad said, “We have one last report to hear. Mr. Toscani?”
Joe opened his folder and pulled out the pages.
Then with hands shaking, he began to read.
“If it hadn’t been for the firefighters of the twentieth century, many United States cities would have lost more lives, homes, and businesses.”
His voice cracked a little, and a few sentences in, he stopped reading. I glanced around the class, but everyone was sitting politely waiting. By now the word had spread through town about Joe’s dad.
Joe started reading again, covering the heroic acts of both the volunteer departments and full-time firefighters. We listened to him talk about the ongoing training the firefighters had so they could handle all kinds of fires from high-rise buildings to confined areas. He shared how they had to have an extensive education and skill in fighting wildland fires and working around hazardous materials.
Ending his report, he said, “When a person becomes a firefighter, they’ve made a decision that could come at a high cost. When they leave the front doors of their homes each day, they never know if that will be the last time they will see their families. It was true in the last century, true in this century, too.”
Dad cleared his throat. “Thank you, Joe. That was excellent. Any questions for Joe?”
Even though Dad always invited the class to ask questions after everyone’s report, I wished he could have made an exception with Joe. He knew how the Jerks behaved in this class. When Vernon’s hand went up, I was wishing Dad had used some deductive reasoning.
“Mr. Clifton?” Dad’s tone had a load of reluctance pinned to it.
“Joe, how long was your dad a fireman?” Vernon asked.
Joe raised his chin. “Twenty-one years.”
I hoped Vernon wasn’t going to start bragging about how his dad was a volunteer fireman and had served for years, too.
Instead Vernon asked, “What was his name?”
“Frank Toscani,” Joe said, sliding into his seat, his back now to the class.
“You must really be proud of what he did. I mean your dad, Frank Toscani, was a hero.” Vernon scooted his chair away from his desk, stood up, and began to clap.
Boone followed his lead. So did Twig, Juan Leon, and Frederica. Now everyone was on their feet, clapping, including Dad and me.
Then Vernon hollered, “FDNY!” And the rest of us joined in. “FDNY! FDNY!”
There was no stopping us. We clapped and clapped, and when Mr. Arlo stuck his head in the classroom to see what was going on, we continued to clap.
None of us had lost a parent in that tragedy, nor seen firsthand the horror of the towers collapsing. We had only witnessed it through our television screens and believed that it was real. It wasn’t enough to fly our flags, gather in prayer circles, paint a café in patriotic colors, or send our dollars to help rebuild.
But we had to do something.
Joe just sat there in his front row seat, staring down at his desk, his shoulders raised to his ears. His face was hidden, but if I could have seen his eyes, I knew what I would have found there. I leaned over, touched his arm, and motioned for him to turn around.
He quickly wiped his eyes with his sleeve. Then he looked back at us, taking in all of the best that our seventh-grade history class could give.