Family discovers treasures in the ashes of memories
By SUE CARLTON
Published June 16, 2006
Amazing, what survives.
Cynthia Tate picks up a tiny beaded evening bag from the cardboard box in her driveway. The little purse is black with soot but intact, not much different from when her grandmother gave it to her for her prom 27 years ago.
She snaps it open with blackened fingertips. Inside is the dime her grandfather put inside in case she wasn't having fun. "Call me and I'll come get you,'' he told her. She smiles a little when she talks about this.
She and her husband, Tom Tate, are sifting through the aftermath of what hit them Monday with no more logic or purpose than a deadly lightning strike or a hurricane slamming into land.
Now a sign on the door says CONDEMNED. In the driveway are charred Superman comic books, a framed photo of a Siamese cat, Kelly Clarkson CDs, a jumble of Boy Scout badges and baseball trophies. Here's a soggy Mother's Day card drawn by their youngest. You brang three babies into the world and one of them is me, it says.
Legos are everywhere, some flattened in the explosion. They had been boxed in the attic. Her kids might have grown too old for Legos, but she figured on grandchildren.
She's a hairdresser. Tom works at the family's restaurant, Tate Brothers Pizza, up the street. She remembers moving in to the tidy yellow house on the corner 13 years ago. The real estate agent joked they got the last best deal on Davis Islands, a neighborhood better known for water views than affordable housing. She felt lucky. "It was like a castle to me,'' she says.
From one side, they could see ships sailing from the port; from the other, small planes buzzing runways at Peter O. Knight Airport. They never minded the airport being right across the street.
Monday, as she checked the TV for news of Tropical Storm Alberto, a twin-engine plane careened off a runway, hit the house and exploded. The pilot was killed, his co-pilot badly hurt.
Cynthia got out, though her two dogs and her cat didn't make it. "Are the kids out of the house?'' someone yelled. She had to think through her shock: Loren, almost 11, with friends down the street; Tommy, 14, away at lacrosse camp; Ryan, 21, stationed at Camp Lejeune. Tom at work. Safe.
Now here they are, Cynthia and Tom, wearing borrowed clothes and looking for memories. He has a rake in his hand.
The kimono their son got in Japan for his little sister made it. So did one of his Marine uniforms, hanging in a closet inside the blackened hull of the house.
Neighbors who call this "the Island'' as in, "Do you live on the Island?" stand at the yellow crime scene tape that surrounds the house. They offer food, pillows, sympathy. A lady says she has storage space. "We don't have anything to store, honey,'' Cynthia calls back.
Here's Loren's best teddy bear, smelly, but whole. Not so lucky was Tommy's skateboard, a charred wreck. Same for his drum set - the one everyone who came to the house insisted they knew how to play.
But they find the bolo tie Tom's grandfather left him. Cynthia picks up a plastic bag with a plus-sign pregnancy test in it -- was this Tommy or Loren, she asks her husband. He shows her a charred toothbrush. He's happy he found her jewelry box, a few bangles and treasures inside.
He's been the strong one, she says, the dad. He's the guy always in there with the kids, bouncing them off the trampoline. Today he jokes they should put up a big sign that says "Fire Sale.'' Or maybe "Eat More Pizza.'' On Father's Day, he sleeps late, opens a homemade card, generally gets pampered until he has to go to work. This year, maybe they'll all go to his parents' farm. Maybe they'll swim in the pond and look at the cows together.
Cynthia starts talking about the pilot, the man she couldn't help that day. He left four children. She apologizes for crying. When someone comes with a vase of flowers, she pulls out two roses and lays them near where the plane hit.
She sees a charm from a necklace, swipes the blackness off with her thumb. Pictured on it are her three kids, younger, posed and smiling.
Amazing, to look at all this and know how lucky you are.
--Sue Carlton can be reached at carlton@sptimes.com.