Bono

No wonder primitive people imagined they were living on the back of a giant, unpredictable monster. Most of the time, the dragon sleeps, allowing us to drift along in a state of semiconsciousness. Absorbed in multitudes of diversions, we forget about the monster. But every now and then, sometimes after years of sleep, the monster flicks its tail and tosses everyday reality into the air. It leaves a trail of panic and destruction. Those who survive are forever changed.

April 15, 2013, began like any other Monday. I flung the curtains open to examine a watery looking sky that promised sunshine later on. After filling Bono’s bowls, I sifted through his latest raft of online fan mail. Admirers from Germany, France, Italy, Australia, New Zealand, and various corners of the United States gushed superlatives, but none were interested in becoming prospective parents. My month in the apartment was halfway through. Finding another place that would take a cat would be next to impossible. I worried we were running out of time. Bono leapt onto the table beside me to clean his teeth on the edge of my laptop screen.

I once decided a home can be any size providing I could walk around naked in it. With that luxury out of my price range in New York, I huddled in the shadows near the kitchenette. The attempt at modesty was futile, anyway. Though the anonymous workers in the opposite building intrigued me, they’d shown no interest in the world outside their windows. Besides, I thought it unlikely anyone would want to watch a sturdy midlife woman struggle into her pants.

After breakfast at the deli, I wandered down to the post office near Grand Central to send off another crop of Frozen cards to Annie and Stella. Even if they didn’t read them, I wanted the next generation to understand there was such a thing as paper and stamps. The response so far had been mild. I wondered if their parents were fed up with my postcards clogging their mailbox.

Later in the afternoon, on my way back to the apartment, I noticed a change to the city’s mood. People on the street seemed on edge and unusually subdued. I bought a falafel from the shop near the corner, slid the key in the heart-shaped lock, and hurried upstairs to Bono.

As I sat on the sofa bed, a shaken Obama appeared on the TV screen. He exhorted people to stay calm and assured viewers the perpetrators would be found.

Bono sprang on my lap and nibbled at my falafel, so far untouched and tepid inside its foil wrapper. I watched in disbelief as images unfolded on a grueling loop. Crowds cheered as runners crossed a finish line. A violent explosion. Screams. In an instant, jubilation became shock as a plume of black smoke rose behind the athletes. A few seconds later, there was a second deadly explosion.

Ever since 1879, the Boston Marathon has been held on Patriot’s Day, the third Monday in April. As the world’s oldest annual marathon, it attracts around half a million spectators. The 30,000 participants create a memorable spectacle, but the 2013 marathon would be etched in history for all the wrong reasons.

My heart ached for the families of the three spectators who’d been killed. Their shock would be immeasurable. Combined with the devastating suffering sudden grief brings, they’d also have to confront their own justifiable outrage. More than 200 others were injured that day. Sixteen people lost their limbs, the youngest being a seven-year-old girl.

Tragedy can bring out extraordinary compassion in some. As the images played over again, I noticed after the explosions, some people were actually running toward the devastation rather than away from it. Without thinking twice, these heroes were risking their lives to help others.

Philip’s anxious face appeared on my laptop screen.

“Are you okay?”

“We’re fine. They made the bombs out of pressure cookers,” I said.

“Like the one we used to steam corned beef in?” he asked.

“Yes, they packed them with shrapnel and nails,” I said. “Then they stashed them into backpacks and left them on the scene.”

Philip shook his head.

“It’s the first time anyone has used that type of homemade device on US soil,” I said.

“Do they know who did it?”

“Not yet. They could be hiding anywhere. The cops seem to think they’re heading to New York.”

I noticed a flash of concern in his eyes.

“Guess it’s the best place to go if they want to hide in a crowd,” I said.

“Do you want to see if I can get you a flight home?” he asked.

“Don’t worry,” I said. “We’ll be fine.”

Afterward as I climbed into bed, my thoughts turned to the broken window lock I’d forgotten to complain about. The days had been too full and stimulating for me to bother contacting the rental agency.

Bono nuzzled my neck and purred.

“You’re not alone,” he seemed to be saying. “I’m with you. Neither of us is on this planet for much longer. Let’s not waste time being scared.”