The Jodi Picoult Collection Read online

  The fire didn’t spread. The Cosgroves’ house was gutted. They tore it down, and started to build the exact same one, something my mother didn’t understand, with all the money they got from the insurance company.

  That week, another catastrophe happened in Boston. The new windows of the John Hancock building spontaneously started to pop out. They’d fall fifty stories to the ground, shattering so dangerously that the police roped off entire blocks surrounding the building. It seemed the windows were not treated for the lower pressure experienced so high up, and the air in the building was pushing out the windows into the sky. Eventually at great expense the windows were removed. The next thing we knew, the Cosgroves had a huge pane from the Hancock building in their new home. It was fine for a home, they said. Just not right for a skyscraper.

  Just before Route 2 takes you into Minnesota, get off on Rte. 29 South. Take it to Fargo and get on 94 East. This highway should take you directly to Minneapolis. Make sure you are there by seven A.M. Saturday morning. I won’t tell you what’s going on, but let’s just say you’ve never seen anything like it.

  I hope Rebecca enjoyed her birthday—how many kids her age get to turn fifteen at the geographical center of North America? Speaking of which, you will be heading towards Iowa next. I think you know where you have to go.

  Give my love to the kid.

  Joley

  36 JANE

  Although Joley hasn’t mentioned where I should go in Minneapolis, I have no trouble finding what it is I am supposed to see. Rebecca and I have been up since four A.M. to ensure that we will reach the city by seven, but for the last hour and a half we have been sitting in traffic. Policemen in white gloves are directing people and blowing whistles. There are lots of teenagers here in souped-up cars. They put their Camaros into park, and sit on the roof, smoking. “I’ve had it,” Rebecca says. “I’m going to ask what this is all about.”

  She jumps over the passenger door before I can tell her not to and runs up to a young policeman with a crew cut. He takes the whistle from between his lips and says something to her, and then she smiles at him and runs back to the car. “They’re blowing up the old Pillsbury building.”

  I am not sure if this really explains the commotion, so early on a Saturday. Do people really come out of the woodwork to watch catastrophes?

  It takes us another twenty minutes, but we inch towards the policeman who spoke to Rebecca. “Excuse me,” I say, leaning over the windshield. “We don’t really know where we’re going.”

  “Not too many places you can go, lady. The whole city’s roped off for the demolition.”

  We drive along a barricaded path, following other cars blindly. We pass the central post office and drive through its parking lot. We cross a river. Finally we get to a point where other people have stopped and are parking haphazardly. I find myself wondering how we are ever going to get out of here, now that six other cars have flanked our own, like petals. A fat man walks by selling T-shirts: I Knew Minneapolis Before They Changed the Skyline.

  “Well, let’s go.” I climb out of the car and start to follow the people who are skipping eastward, like a pilgrimage. Whole families are going, the fathers carrying the youngest on their shoulders. We reach an area where people have stopped moving. Bodies start to settle on steps and railings and billboards, anywhere you can find a spot is okay. The woman next to us stops abruptly and hands the man she is with a Styrofoam cup. She pours coffee from a thermos. “I can’t wait,” she says.

  Rebecca and I find ourselves standing next to a large ruddy man in a flannel shirt with cut-off sleeves. He is holding a six-pack of Schlitz. “Beautiful day for wrecking,” he says to us, smiling.

  Rebecca asks if he knows exactly which building is the Pillsbury building. “It’s this one now.” He points to a large skyscraper fashioned of chrome and glass. “But it used to be this one here.” He moves his finger across the skyline to a stubby grey building, a sort of eyesore next to all the modern ones. No wonder they want to knock it down.

  “Did they try to sell the building?” Rebecca asks.

  “Would you buy it?” The man offers her a Schlitz, and she tells him she is underage.

  “Well,” he snorts. “Could’ve fooled me.” He is missing a tooth in the front. “You’re sure here at a historic moment. This building has been here forever. I remember when it was one of the only skyscrapers in Minneapolis.”

  “Things change,” I say, because he seems to be waiting for a response.

  “How are they going to do it?” Rebecca asks.

  At this, a woman on the other side of Rebecca turns her head towards our conversation. “Dynamite. They’ve layered it on every other floor, so the whole thing’s gonna crumble systematically.”

  Over an unseen loudspeaker, a voice booms. “We cannot demolish the building until everyone is standing behind the orange line.” The voice repeats itself. I wonder where this orange line is. If it is as crowded up front as it is back here, the bystanders should not be blamed. They probably can’t see their own feet.

  “You must move back behind the orange line before the demolition begins!” At this second warning, the crowd begins to press itself tightly together, like a thick knit sweater. I find myself pushed into the soft belly of the larger man. He uses my shoulder as a coaster for his beer.

  “Ten . . . nine . . . eight . . .” the loudspeaker booms.

  “Fuckin’ A,” the man says.

  “Seven . . . six . . .” Somewhere, a fire engine screams.

  I do not hear the final five numbers. The building caves in, in sequence, top down. It is only after the second layer falls that I hear the dynamite howl. The cinderblock crumbles floor by floor.

  Boom!’ We hear the next explosion after the fact, after an entire section has been leveled. They are erasing history in one swoop. It takes no more than five minutes, the blasting, and then nothing’s left but a hole in the skyline.

  The crowd begins to jostle and shove, and Rebecca and I get thrown into this flow. People, pulsing like blood, rush beside us.

  About halfway to the car I realize why everything looks so different. Dust has settled over everything that has been immobile. Grey-white, like the artificial snow you see on television. Rebecca tries to pick some up but I brush it out of her hand. You don’t know what’s in that stuff.

  I don’t even recognize the MG when we reach it: because we haven’t put up the top, it too is chalky. This dust gets on our clothes and between our fingers and we have to blink to keep it from getting into our eyes. The dust keeps coming, drifting over from the demolition site like nuclear fallout. Rebecca and I pull up the convertible top, something we haven’t done since we bought the car.

  I know I still have to get Joley’s letter but I am reticent to walk the streets of Minneapolis. What if the other buildings fall? I suggest to Rebecca that we go out for breakfast.

  Over bacon and hash I tell Rebecca that we are going to go to Iowa. To the place where her plane crashed. I tell her that I’ve been thinking about it. Since we’re out here anyway, I say. I tell her we can go right up to the ruins. From what I hear, they are still in the cornfield. I wait for her to raise an objection.

  Rebecca doesn’t say what I am expecting. There is no resistance, really. Maybe Joley is right; she is ready for this after all. She asks, “Why are they still there?”

  37 REBECCA

  Uncle Joley talked my mother into joining the self-help group for abused wives when she returned to California after my plane crash. He said when you’re with other people living the same life as you, you feel better—and as always, she believed him.

  In this case, it was a good idea. She never told my father, and since I was still practically a baby she took me along. She’d pick me up from preschool and we’d go to a therapy session. There were seven women. I’d crawl around the floor playing between their shoes with my toys. Sometimes a red-headed woman with bright jewelry would pick me up and tell me I was pretty; I think she was the