Despite everything, the rest of the morning took on a festive air.
As soon as Chuck returned from locking up downstairs, I went over to knock on Pam’s door and asked her to have a look at Luke. Tony went down and double-checked the front door, leaving a note saying he could be found up at Chuck’s place.
Chuck instituted a strict rule that only our gang, which included Tony, would be allowed into their apartment. He made an exception for Pam, and after some protest, for her husband, Rory. After he fired up a kerosene heater, the apartment quickly warmed, and we woke up Lauren and Luke and moved them into Chuck and Susie’s spare room.
After performing a quick inspection, Pam declared that Luke definitely didn’t look symptomatic of bird flu, at least from what she understood, and that his fever was breaking. He still had a temperature of 102, dangerous but manageable, and she promised to stay close and check in on him.
Pam had been up all night at the Red Cross blood bank. It had transformed into an emergency clinic, with volunteer doctors appearing almost as quickly as the flood of people claiming symptoms. One of the doctors there had worked at the CDC doing research on avian flu. Pam had had a long chat with him about what was going on, and he’d explained that the news didn’t make any sense—incubation, transmission, symptoms, and so on. It looked like it really was a false, or fake, alarm.
Our run-in with the suspected intruder was quickly forgotten, and Chuck insisted on opening a bottle of champagne to pour mimosas for everyone. It was Christmas Eve, he proclaimed, and a white Christmas at that, he added, looking out the window at the driving blizzard beyond. We all managed to laugh.
As we huddled together in the room that morning, warm and safe and unpacking Chuck’s equipment as if we were on an indoor camping trip, the sense of danger disappeared. My baby boy was sick with a fever, but it was such a relief that it was just a regular flu or cold, I felt almost overjoyed.
In the background we kept a radio turned on. The broadcaster detailed the road closures—I-95, I-89, the New Jersey Turnpike—and the running tally of homes without power, estimated at ten million and counting across the Northeast. The subway system was shut down. They said the power failure was some kind of electrical cascade in the network, same as had happened a few years ago, and the snowstorm was making it worse.
The voice of the radio announcer, this small connection to the outside world, lent the morning a feeling of familiarity, the same as any other disaster day that New Yorkers would rally from to begin the process of rebuilding. Reports coming in on the bird flu scare were bearing out our feelings—the CDC couldn’t confirm any cases, and they hadn’t been able to identify the source of the warning.
Buoyed by the alcohol in the mimosa, I went next door to check on the Borodins. I remembered that Irena’s daughter and family, who lived in a building next door, had gone away for the holidays, so they were alone. The radio was reminding us to check on the elderly, but I had a feeling the Borodins were just fine.
I went anyway.
Knocking on their door, I heard Irena telling me to come in, and I entered to find them as usual. Irena was sitting in her rocking chair, knitting, and Aleksandr was sitting asleep in his lounger, in front of a blank TV, with Gorbachev at his side. The only difference was that they were bundled up under blankets. It was freezing in their place.
“Some tea?” offered Irena.
Watching her carefully finish another stitch, I wished for hands as nimble as hers when I was ninety. I’d be happy just to get to ninety. “Yes, please.”
They’d set up what looked like an antique camp stove in their kitchen, and a pot of hot tea sat steaming on it. The Borodins were Jewish, but they had a large holiday tree, beautifully decorated, occupying nearly half of their living room. I’d been surprised last year when they’d asked me to help them get a tree, but I’d learned that this wasn’t a Christmas tree, but a New Year tree. It was the nicest one on our floor, whatever it was called.
Irena went to her pantry door, opening it to get some sugar for the tea, and for the first time I noticed their pantry was stacked, floor to ceiling, with cans and bags of beans and rice. She noticed me looking.
“Old habits die hard,” she said, smiling as she returned to pour the tea. “How is the little prince?”
“He’s good. I mean, he’s sick, but he’ll be okay,” I answered, wrapping my hands around the cup of tea. “Isn’t it awfully cold in here? Do you want to come over to Chuck’s?”
“Ah,” she snorted, waving away my concern, “dis is not cold. I spent winters in shacks in Siberia after the war. Sorry for you, but I opened the windows for some fresh air.”
Aleksandr let out a particularly loud snore. We laughed.
“Do you need anything?” I cocked my thumb toward Chuck’s place. “Just come next door, anytime.”
She shook her head. “Ah, no. We’ll be fine. Stay quiet, not bother anyone.” Taking a sip from her tea, she considered something and looked at me. “If you need anything, Mih-kah-yal, you remember, you come here, da? We will be watching.”
I said I would, and we chatted for a bit. I was struck by how calm Irena was. The power failure struck a chord deep within me, making me feel as if I’d lost a sense, as if I was blind or deaf without the hum of the machines. Next door, surrounded by Chuck’s gadgets and gizmos and the steady noise of the radio broadcaster, I felt almost normal again. At Irena’s, though, it felt different; colder certainly, but also calmer and more secure. She was from a different generation. I guessed the machines weren’t a part of them like they were for us.
Thanking her for the tea, I went back to check on Luke. A collection of neighbors had congregated in the hallway. Bundled up in winter jackets and scarves, they looked much less happy than I felt.
“Goddamn building administration!” growled Richard as I came out of the Borodins’. “Someone’s going to lose their job for this. Do you have any heat?”
“No, but Chuck has some heating gadgets. You know how he is.”
“Could I buy one from him?” Richard started toward me. “My place is bloody freezing.”
Holding up my hand, I waved him back. “Sorry, but this bird flu thing, we should keep our distance. I’ll ask Chuck, but I don’t think so.”
Richard frowned but stopped.
I turned and opened the door to Chuck’s, feeling warmth wash over my face, ready to have a laugh with him over my encounter with Richard, yet I found everyone sitting still, staring at the radio. “What?” I asked, closing the door behind me.
“Shhhhhh,” said Lauren tensely.
“The extent of the crash is still unknown, as is whether it was a derailment or a collision,” said the radio.
“What happened?”
Chuck moved around the couch, pushing aside boxes and bags. He was favoring the hand the door had banged into, holding it up to his chest. The snow beat urgently against the windowpanes as the wind churned the air outside. I couldn’t even see the next building, twenty feet away.
It was a complete whiteout.
“There’s been a crash,” murmured Chuck. “A train crash. Amtrak. Halfway between New York and Boston early this morning, but they didn’t find it until now. At least, this is the first announcement.”
“—terrible loss of life, at least in the hundreds, if not from the crash itself then from freezing to death in the blizzard—”