PART I: THE GOOD
STORY 3
Anthony Fuzoli, Sr., attempts to distract himself by people watching in Terminal B of John F. Kennedy Airport. He realized he’d been tapping his watch impatiently as flight after flight was delayed that Tuesday morning. It was a bright, unseasonably warm September day in New York City and he was flying to Indianapolis to make final preparations for Junior’s wedding.
As he eyed a young couple struggling with their baby stroller, the young father shaking the contraption to try and fold it for stowing reminded Tony of his son. The young man, who looked like he might still be in high school, had a thick wave of dark hair shaking as he struggled to fold the stroller. His wife, holding their baby, touched his arm to calm him. Tony wondered if they might be travelling to introduce their young one to his or her parents. He imagined what his own grandson, Anthony III, might look like one day. Would he have the signature Fuzoli wave to his thick black mane?
He was shaken from his daydream when the departures board suddenly lit up red with every flight showing cancelled or delayed. He wondered what was going on until an announcement was made overhead. Looking at his watch and noting the time, 9:51 a.m. People were confused and bustling about the terminal now, many heading for food courts to see if they could catch the news. It wasn’t a few minutes later, a woman turned her laptop towards Tony to show images of the towers falling. He quickly dialed Junior’s 317-area-code number.
Exasperated and astonished, Anthony Jr, answered with, “Can you believe this? Three days before my wedding? My hometown is under attack?” They discussed how his father would even make it to Indy in time for Friday’s wedding, let alone the rehearsal dinner, for which he’d shelled out a lot of cash.
His son had met his person senior year at Indiana University. Rebecca Anthis grew up in rural Decker, in the Southwest corner of the state, known for it’s rich agriculture, especially its melons. The name Anthis was Dutch and her pioneer ancestors had cultivated the Cypress Swamps just above the White River at the turn of the 19th century. When Junior had learned of her heritage and that the Anthises had found Knox County, Indiana, with other Dutch families from the Genesee Valley of New York, like the Deckers, Kuykendalls and Jacobuses, he’d felt a deepening of their connection. She wasn’t just some “hayseed from the sticks,” the way New Yorkers tended to think of Hoosiers.
Her father had built a small empire on growing some of the best-tasting watermelons and cantaloupes from that part of the state. He’d taken to Anthony right away because the two of them were pranksters and had a sharp, sarcastic wit. Anthony was studying law and had big aspirations. Bud Anthis knew that this kid meant business and would take good care of his precious Becky Sue. She hated the nickname and only went by Rebecca these days.
Bud called immediately after Mr. Fuzoli to see if there was anything he could do. He even offered to cover the expense of the rehearsal dinner planned at St. Elmo’s Steakhouse, the best known restaurant in downtown Indianapolis. Rebecca told her father that it would all work out and not to worry about it. He’d already done so much to make sure her Friday evening wedding, September 14th, would be magical.
Junior was distracted the rest of the day, receiving one phone call after another from friends and family back home. His cousin worked in the South Tower and had run errands that morning instead of showing up for work. That decision, which seemed irresponsible to him at the time, had saved his life. Anthony knew a couple of others, including a high school classmate who served NYFD, Fire House Twelve, that narrowly escaped the second collapsed tower.
Rebecca had worked diligently even as she carried a full load of senior-level coursework to plan her fairy tale wedding. An Indianapolis cousin had recommended Tabernacle Church on the near northside. Now she feared everything might be placed on hold. It seemed the world was crashing around her. Tony noticed his future bride’s nerves frazzling and suggested they go out for drinks and a nice meal.
His father phoned while they were dining at The Slippery Noodle that night to say he’d made it to North Jersey where he was renting the next to last car on the lot. It had been such a surreal day with overloaded trains heading out of the city, some passengers were ghostly white covered in toxic dust blank, distance in their eyes. He assured his son and future daughter-in-law that he would be there early Thursday.
On the long drive, Senior wondered again what Indiana’s largest city held over their hometown. He’d always envisioned Junior becoming a junior partner at his Brooklyn firm. He loved Rebecca dearly but wondered what spell or potion she’d used to enchant his lovesick son. At that moment, his son texted for a progress update. He spoke into his phone, voice-to-text, that he was entering the outskirts of Columbus, Ohio. The news on the radio was grim. A reporter relaying details from a remote area of Pennsylvania which he’d traveled near hours ago. United Flight 93, had been hijacked, the reporter said evenly, passengers rallying cry of “Let’s roll.” minutes before rushing the cockpit.
The wedding was everything Rebecca had dreamed. The happy couple settled into a neighborhood with 100’s of young families in the suburb of Fishers. They were expecting, but not Anthony III, a baby girl they would name America. The senior Fuzoli was not disappointed. He loved the name choice and began calling her America, The Beautiful. He was thankful for his cross-country drive that showed him just how beautiful it was, even the flyover states like Ohio and Indiana.
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