Part of Thousands
by Ben Welch

On the Thursday after terrorists attacked the World Trade Center and the Pentagon, I telephoned the Cahill household in Wellesley, Mass.

A man answered the phone, and in the background I could hear the murmur of several voices and the clack of plates being cleaned. I knew I had the right house.

I was calling to speak with the relatives of John Cahill, a Xerox executive who died when United Flight 175 crashed into the World Trade Center Tuesday morning.

After being passed from one person to another, John Cahill's sister Pat got on the phone. She seemed glad that I had called, which surprised me. I hate to make these calls and ask questions of family members who have lost a loved one. I don't think I would want to talk to a reporter if my brother died on a hijacked plane crashed into a skyscraper. I don't think I would want to answer questions like: "What is it like to know your brother was one of the first victims of this attack?" "How are you dealing with this?" "What is it like to watch television knowing your brother was on that plane that hit the World Trade Center?"

But I was working for the Irish Voice when I called the Cahills; John Cahill's sister seemed pleased to talk about her brother's Irish roots. She told me about her parents, where they came from in Ireland and how proud they were that their son had become so successful. I didn't ask her what it is like to watch those planes careening into the Twin Towers.

Surely, Pat Cahill is directly connected to the terrorist attack. But even those with the least connection to the attack make some attempt to link themselves to it. We ask questions, we tell stories.

Where were you when the attack happened? Do you know anyone who works in the World Trade Center? How did it happen? Have you ever been to the World Trade Center?

These are all questions whose answers form a narrative, a story. Stories are easy to understand. They make sense. They connect us. You tell me what you know, I'll tell you what I know, and from that information we will construct a story. This is what we do when a family member dies. This is what we do when hijackers crash passenger jets into the World Trade Center and the Pentagon.

After the attack, lines of blood donors formed in hospitals. Burly ironworkers trudged down to the World Trade Center offering to search through the debris. Individuals cooked meals and brought them to fire stations. People all over the world contacted friends and relatives in New York and Washington to make sure they were OK and to hear stories from those closest to the event. All of those actions were attempts to connect with others, to better understand what happened. When those ironworkers went home after cutting twisted hulks of steel for eight hours, they told their families what it was like at "ground zero" and everyone felt more connected to it. It made more sense. It seemed real, and humans understand real.

Which brings me back to the Cahills. Before I called, I sat at my desk, staring at the phone number, wondering if I should dial. I finally called because I wanted a connection to the story. Hearing Pat Cahill talk about her brother added a new layer to my own narrative. She cried as she explained how her brother rose from salesman to international vice president. But she told me the story anyway.

"I think we're just numb," she said. "But we're part of thousands."

E-mail Ben Welch at ben.welch at rcn dot com.