tom brokaw said birmingham

ashley northrup had very pale red hair, hair so fine it surrounded her head as if it were a streetlamp on a foggy day, and perfectly symetrical freckles all over her body. when stories were being read aloud, stories about little matchstick girls or motherless waifs who ended up with princes, i pictured ashley northrups translucent pink face, her delicate, almost sickly demeanor.
our kindergarden teacher, miss hurston, wore a dress on the first day of school that she had fashioned out of curtains. she was tall, blond and lithe, but still curvy, still substantial. and, she believes in abortions, ashley northrup whispered to me as we were making decorations for a parent party. do you know what an abortion is? she asked me, glueing sequins onto a foam ball.
uh huh. miss hurston was in a bad mood that day, and the thought of her catching us talking as she was explaining the next step, maybe even yelling at us, was awful enough to make me want to fake sick and call my mother to come and get me. i didnt know what an abortion was, but i had heard of it. the weekend before a building was bombed near my house, and it had something to do with abortions. i had walked into the kitchen one night, my father drinking a scotch on the deck with the portable tiny television, and seen my mother standing in front of the open refrigerator, not moving.
mom?
hmm. what? she closed the door and turned around, as if she had just been in a conversation with someone inside of the refrigerator, trying to understand what they were saying, and had suddenly given up. she began washing off green peppers in the sink without saying anything else. i walked outside, to the wooden deck that overlooked our overgrown backyard, and sat next to my father. i used to think he was tom brokaw, or maybe i just thought tom brokaw was everyones father, that unwavering voice, that steady, predictable, unblinking face. scotch and steaks and matching socks all rolled up and placed side by side in a drawer. that day, tom brokaw said birmingham. normally the news was so far away, happening in places that i still didnt truly believe existed.
our birmingham? i said.
yep, he replied, thats the one.
did something bad happen?
someone put a bomb in an abortion clinic and someone died, he said, his eyes not leaving the television screen.
oh.
the monday after ashley northrup told me that miss hurston liked abortions, on our way to school, the streets were covered in people with signs. some of the signs had huge black and white images of what looked like babies, but not. others had writing on them, people were shouting, there were policemen everywhere. our car slowly ambled through the crowd as i tried to make out what was on the signs.
dont look kimberly. close your eyes, my mom said.
i closed them almost shut, leaving them open just enough to make out the people, and the building, roped off with orange tape. the policemen were trying to keep traffic moving but there were people everywhere, and it was clear that there were two groups, two groups fighting with each other. after minutes of hardly moving, finally the police were able to clear people from the streets in order for five or six cars to pass through, and as they did my mother rolled down the window and said, to a man holding one of the baby picture signs, her voice brazen and distinct, fuck you. she rolled back up the window, put her hand on my leg and said, sorry about that kimberly. dont repeat that.
miss hurston wasnt in school that day and neither was ashley. we had a substitute who said miss hurston wasnt feeling good but she would be back tomorrow. the substitute looked like a teenager and let us do whatever we wanted, as long as we didnt get too loud. i asked my mom to take me to ashley's after school, even though i had only been there once for a spend the night party. she called ashleys mom and after a minute of silence hung up and said, i dont think its a good time for you to go over there. mrs northrup isnt feeling so well.
i had never met mr. northrup. ashley said he travelled a lot for his job, so it was mostly just her and her mom at home. the next day, when miss hurston was back at school but ashley wasnt, i asked my mom again if i could go visit her. she decided this time not to call but before she took me to the northrups we stopped by the grocery store and she got a styrofoam box and put in macaroni and cheese, buiscuts and gravy, mashed potatoes and collard greens from the buffet table. we rang the doorbell to their house, a two story house with a screened in porch, and ashely answered. she was in her pajamas, clearly unbathed. her hair was stuck to her head and there was the remnants of food around her mouth. as soon as she saw us she jumped, with her fists balled, and said "yay!!!" my mom called for mrs northrup, saying jane? jane are you here? and ashley and i ran to her giant dollhouse upstairs in her bedroom. we sat on the carpeted floor and gathered her barbies, sitting them in a row, but before we could decide who was going to be who my mom, with the styrofoam box in hand, came into the room and asked ashley if she had seen her mom.
oh, shes probably in the bathrooom, she said quickly. she stood up and we followed her down the hall, into her parents bedroom, which was covered in floral wallpaper, bedclothes and wall hangings, and very messy. the comforter was in a pile on the floor and there were tissues everywhere. the door to their bathroom was closed but we could hear her throwing up inside- violent, painful noises, like she was being punched over and over. i grabbed my moms hand and she looked and me and shook her head, meaning its ok, nothings wrong. she knocked lightly on the door, and said, jane? its sylvia.
no answer.
here, my mom said, thrusting the styrofoam box at me. put this in the refrigerator and go play. ashley and i looked at each other. she shrugged and said, come on.
and hour later my mom came into the room and told me it was time for us to go. dad would be expecting us. in the car on the way back i asked what was wrong with mrs northrup and my mom said,
morning sickness.
i didnt know exactly what that was, but i had heard of it. i said, oh, and looked out the window.

the foiled terror plot

shes in a cab on her way to the atlanta airport, and shes angry because he was late picking her up. the cabbie, a middle aged middle eastern man with a yellow toothy grin, keeps trying to talk to her and normally she would reply in gently if not friendly setences, but today she is fragmented and tart. this morning there was a terror plot in london which was "foiled" involving liquids and gels and an explosive rigged to an MP3 player. all this means to her is that she can carry none of those things on board with her, though she keeps getting mixed messages about the MP3 player (her friends friend had to give up his blackberry at security but her brother was able to go on with his i-pod), and it also means that the lines will be horrible and her flight probaly delayed, and she'll get to new york that much later.
crazy whats happening, eh?
there is a talk radio station on in the cab, as there always seems to be in cabs in atlanta. right now there is a woman's voice saying they have stopped a second 9-11 from happening, and then a man interupting, saying that was a ludicrous thing to say given how little we know about what they were planning to do.
yeah, she replies, looking out the window.
five more minutes pass of the 400 freeway and impossibly green stretches of trees of both sides.
this a very american thing, started in america, he says.
she doesnt know what hes referring to- terrorism, liquids and gels, hysteria, traffic. she says nothing back.
limousines. started in america and then, spread all over the world. he laughs, gravel and phlegm.
she looks out of the right side of the cab and sees a sparkling black stretch limo floating silently beside them. out of all of the things that could be associated with america, she thinks, why would he say that?
its like, im from pakistan, ok? and we think of limousines and white faces. and gerber baby food, you know the kind?
she says, yes.
with that little baby face. that white little american baby, where is he now? dead probably. an old, old man. but we have that there, i grew up with little brothers and sisters, seven of them, and i used to look at that face and think, america seems so clean.
she likes to tell men at bars that her name is limousine. they either walk away, or are intruiged. she has no tolerance for small talk. she doesnt know if she should say this to the cab driver, if it would translate, if he would care.
you know what? he asks.
she really wants to know. no, she says. what?
america is supposed to be this place where money falls from the sky. open your hands and get it. think if you thought that about a place, think what you would think of the people living there. you would hate them, no? you would either hate them, and want to bring them all down, crush the empire or whatever they say, or you would be like me. a little brown boy staring at a fat babys face on a jar of mush and limousines and not caring what its like, just wanting to be there.
they are pulling up to the airport. there are hundreds of people in line outside.
oooohhh, he says. not a good day to fly.
i think its all a conspiracy, she says. i think the things they tell us arent real, and i think they arent telling us all of the real things.
huh, he says. i guess it doesnt really matter. you'll be fine either way.
she doesnt know what he means, doesnt want to. she pays him and gets out of the cab, and as soon as shes about to fight her way through the crowd she realizes hes driven away with her suitcase in his trunk. she runs down the sidewalk but its too crowded for her to go very fast, and there are too many cabs that looks just like his, and she needs to save her energy for the rest of the day, which she is assuming will only get worse.