Bono

For the first time, Bono let me hug him. His warmth ran up my arms. I could feel the little heart pattering under his shaven ribs. On some level, Bono understood I needed comforting the way another miniature black cat, Cleo, had decades earlier in the harsh days after Sam’s death.

I’d since heard stories from readers of how, through life’s most challenging times, animals have tuned into their sorrow and done everything in their power to help. When my brother Jim was given a grim cancer diagnosis, his English sheepdog Tash sensed what was going on. Month after month, Tash lay at his side. They died within days of each other and are buried together in a country cemetery near our hometown. As graves go, it’s a good one, being right next door to a pub and having an excellent view of a mountain we grew up under.

Even if a villain slid the window open during the night and murdered me, it would be nothing compared to the untold suffering going on in other parts of the world, including Boston. There was peace and freedom in accepting my insignificance. In the larger canvas of life, I was a mere paint speck. Bono sprang off the bed and trotted off to the Bunker.

Next to a crossword, I find a game of Scrabble the best sedative. I reached for the iPad. The word “terrorist” has minimal value. Each of the nine letters is worth only one point, compared to (for example) hero, which if the h is set on a triple letter score, can be worth fifteen points.

The first time I heard the t word was probably back in the 1970s when the IRA was planting bombs in London railway stations. I’ve never liked the look of the word, or its melodramatic overuse. Mass murderers don’t deserve a noun that implies they have a higher mission. They’re thugs whose attention-seeking antics are rewarded by the ratings-hungry media who are eager to feed off a gullible public’s fears.

For terrorism to lose its edge, people need to toughen up and be realistic. According to the Global Terrorism Index, there were 18,000 deaths worldwide from so-called acts of terror in the year of the Boston bombings (most being in Iraq). In the same year, the World Health Organization reported 1.3 million deaths from road traffic. Almost every case involves the tragic loss of innocents and leaves a trail of broken-hearted families. I’m not suggesting road traffic should be banned, but in a logical world if we were going to be terrified by anything it would be cars.

If some wild-eyed kid who called himself a terrorist was about to climb the fire escape that night, I’d have a thing or two to say to him.

I arranged the bedside table half tidily, in case a homicide squad might need to inspect the place in a few hours. Once the light was out, Bono jumped back on the bed and nestled into the pillow next to mine. I drifted off to the regular squeak of his snoring. We slept soundly—apart from my regulation visit to the bathroom.

* * *

Next morning, I was lured onto the street to witness the mood of a nervous nation in mourning. In cafés and shops, the tension was palpable. Whenever a siren could be heard, there was a ripple of alarm, an exchange of looks.

Images of planes smashing into buildings were still sharp in many minds. Mostly people were keeping their heads down, but every few seconds a construction worker or a woman in a suit would glance up at the sky.

On the corner of Second Avenue, as I stood waiting for the lights to change, a nervous woman with a nose ring pointed at something above our heads.

“What’s that?” she asked.

I glanced up at what appeared to be an extra wire draped between the utility poles. It didn’t seem connected to any electrical services. I had no idea what it was, but sometimes a senior person’s role is simply to reassure.

“Could be one of those eruv wires,” I said.

“A what?” she asked.

“You know how orthodox Jews aren’t supposed to do anything on the Sabbath, not even cook or push a stroller.”

The woman stared blankly at me.

“I think if they stay inside the boundary of an eruv wire on the Sabbath they’re allowed to do all that stuff,” I said.

She didn’t seem comforted by my theory.

Panic has its uses. Our ancestors needed to be scared of wild animals in order to survive. In the twenty-first century anxiety is superfluous most of the time, except perhaps when we’re diving into a wall of traffic. That doesn’t deny the fact we’re programmed to experience it—though not always to our own benefit. Whenever I felt unnerved by the city’s edginess, I turned to Bono and did my best to follow his example. He wasn’t worried.

Fear consumes too much energy. It’s a manipulative tool used by politicians, advertisers, so-called terrorists, and anyone else wanting control over others. When people are frightened they become powerless cringers with no dignity. Once on a bus, I saw a man who had to change seats because he was terrified of a butterfly.