That Fall

Author’s note: “That Fall” is, in part, autobiographical. I was living in SoHo on 9/11, and experienced firsthand what it was like to be in lower Manhattan on that day and in the weeks afterward. For me and those like me, the national tragedy was also a local one. We all knew someone who died that day. I wrote about 9/11 because it is, and remains, one of the greatest tragedies of my lifetime. I will never forget what it was like to be in the city then.

The story takes place on the first Halloween after 9/11. Focusing on this holiday allowed me to illustrate the dissonance of that time — how do we celebrate what is usually a joyful occasion so close to where 3,000 people had died?

 

Max sprints down the hall to apartment 16F. Julia follows, carrying his plastic pumpkin and floppy, rainbow-­colored wig. He disappears into the apartment, and she hears the muffled sounds of the party inside. It’s a long hallway with faded carpet — the doors on either side look alike. When she gets to 16F, she exhales before stepping inside. She’s not in the mood for Halloween this year. If it weren’t for Max, she’d be as far away from Manhattan tonight as she could possibly get.

“We’ve been waiting.” Sarah greets her at the door, hurrying her in. She’s wearing a billowing red cape and a gold tiara. She seems to suddenly remember she’s the host and gives Julia a quick hug. “What took you so long? The kids are going crazy.”

“It’s crowded out there. Houston Street, the parade. The streets are closed.”

“Of course. I forgot …”  — hugging her again.

Of course you did, Julia thinks. On the 16th floor, above it all. Sarah is untouched by the world below, the crowd on the street.

“Where’s your costume?” Sarah asks.

Julia hopes her expression looks sorrowful enough. “I know. Pitiful. I couldn’t get it together.”

Usually she is able to pull something quirky or fun from her closet, even at the last minute. But not this year. A few weeks ago, it hadn’t seemed as though anyone downtown would be in the mood to celebrate Halloween. The gaping hole in the ground was close, less than five miles away. She isn’t lying when she tells Sarah, “It just didn’t seem right this year.”

Sarah edges closer, starts whispering. “I know what you mean. The view. I can’t bear it. I avoid our living room window. I suggest you do too.”

So Sarah is not as oblivious as she first seemed, Julia realizes. Her apartment faces south. Through the wide windows, you can see the lower Manhattan skyline — what’s left of it. She can just imagine what it looks like now. The empty space where the buildings used to be. She’s grateful for the advice; she will avoid the windows.

“Tag, you’re it.” The children run past, skidding on the wood floor in their socks. Raven, then Jesse and Abigail, followed by Max. She catches a glimpse of feathers and spears. A cowboy hat. Max, dressed in black, waves a plastic sword and wears his wig. A ten-year-old’s version of a warrior. He fits right in with the other kids, as he always has. They have, after all, been coming to this party for years. He knows Raven’s apartment as well as he knows his own. They both do. The family photos in the entryway. The plants on the wide windowsill in the kitchen. If only we could move in for a little while, she thinks. So we don’t have to go home to an empty apartment tonight. We could be a little extended family. At least for a little while. It’s a comforting thought for an instant before she snaps out of it.

In the dining room, two of the dads stand around, wine glasses in hand. It’s always the same ones, Joe and Roger. They wave at her as she walks past and she waves back. Her husband Jeremy was never a regular at these events, so no one will notice his absence tonight, she reasons. That’s a relief. She’s not even the only one here on her own. Lucy’s partner never comes either.

The other kids have had their faces painted — and Max pulls her arm. He wants warrior lines. In the dining room, she finds face paint kits and tissues.

“Close your eyes. Stand still.”

Kneeling in front of him, she traces a blue line across each cheek. Max has kept her sane these last few weeks. She can’t fall apart when he’s around.

“All done,” she says and picks up a hand mirror from the dining room table. “What do you think?”

“Good,” he says and turns to run off.

“You’re welcome?”

Max spins around, and with a big smile plants a kiss on her cheek. “Thank you.”

“Time to trick or treat,” Sarah shouts and the kids swarm around her, jostling for position at the door, unable to keep still. The mothers adjust costumes and search for shoes. Sarah tries to bring order — it’s the first year they’re going trick-or-treating without the grown-ups and that has added to the excitement.

“Use the stairs, not the elevator,” she tells them. “Stay together. Raven has the list of apartments giving out candy. Come back right away if there’s a problem.”

“We will, we will,” Raven yells.

“Remember! Only what’s on the list!”

Did they even hear what Sarah said as they race out?

 

The door closes behind the children with a click. It’s suddenly very quiet. For a second, Julia wishes she’d gone with them so she’d have something to do.

In the kitchen, the mothers have gathered around bowls of guacamole and chips. “Where’s Jeremy?” Margot asks when Julia walks in. “Doesn’t he like Halloween?” There’s a snarky tone to her voice that Julia can’t stand.

Julia mumbles something about Jeremy having to work. But Sarah jumps in and says, “The British don’t celebrate Halloween. Everyone knows that.”

“Steve isn’t here either,” Lucy pipes up. “And he doesn’t have the British excuse.”

Julia is so close to speaking the truth. It comes up and she swallows it down. Inside, she’s screaming. Jeremy is moving out! Tonight! Right now! He’s leaving me. He doesn’t want to be married anymore. Can’t they see this on her face? Can’t they see through her?

No, they can’t. The women are eating guacamole. Hands move from bowl to mouth. They aren’t thinking about her. They don’t notice her. Calm down, she tells herself.  You’ll get through this. The evening will be over soon enough.

She keeps her eyes on the women. She tries not to imagine what she can’t help seeing. Jeremy going to the loft, opening the door with his key. Turning on the lights. Walking into each room and taking his books, his clothes. For the briefest second, she wishes she’d told her friends what’s happening so she could get a little sympathy.

 

In the dining room, the light over the table is too bright. Julia shields her eyes when she sits down. The parents pass around bowls of pasta, chicken marsala, salad. It’s an adult dinner. The kids will have pizza later.

“Did you hear?” Lucy asks. “The Wrays are moving out of the city.”

“The Wrays too? So many people are leaving,” Sarah says. “And if you think about it, the ones going are the ones whose kids went to school downtown.”

They’ve all heard the stories of parents who had to race downtown to pick up their children from the elementary school near the towers that morning — and then run up the West Side Highway when the buildings started to ­collapse.

She and Jeremy had been lucky that Max’s school was about as far uptown as you could get and still be in the ­district. Jeremy had hiked over 90 blocks to pick him up that day, one of the last kids to be collected.

“It’s got to have been a nightmare. Something you never forget,” says Sarah. “No wonder they’re leaving.”

At least they’re leaving together, Julia thinks. She’d spent many hours at the playground with the Wrays’ babysitter, while the parents did whatever they did together. Dinner, breakfast in bed. She’d been envious of their time together, sometimes telling herself that she and Jeremy could have a relationship like that if only he had more time. How blind she’d been.

“I don’t know about the rest of you … what you did those days. But we made love, didn’t we?” Margot chuckles, nudging her husband Roger. “Didn’t everyone? It was the only way to get through it.”

The others nod and giggle. Julia gets up and goes to the kitchen. She opens the refrigerator and wants to hide in there.

It hadn’t been like that for her. The day after, the air smelled burnt. The roads were closed to traffic, except for the Army tanks rumbling down Broadway. The few people who were out wore face masks. In the afternoon, the air cleared, and the families gathered on Crosby Street. The kids played in the street, a once-in-a-lifetime chance, their bikes and scooters bumping over the cobblestones.

When she went back to the loft to ask Jeremy to join them, he said he was going to the office.

“But everything’s closed.”

“I’m going to try.”

She hadn’t argued. It was a day when everyone was searching for something to hold on to. She’d found it with the neighbors outside, the children running around, the potluck dinner planned for later. It turned out that he was also searching for something — and it wasn’t her or Max. But, for the next few hours, clinging to that warm circle of friends, she told herself he’d made it to the office in midtown, even though the subway was shut and no trains were running. It turned out that he’d been wanting to leave for a long time. He’d known for a while. By the end of that day, she knew too.

 

Back at the table, Sarah and Joe are talking over one another. “No, tell them what you did, Joe. Go on.”

“If you want me to.” His cheeky smile says how much he wants to. On that Tuesday, he explains, his car had been parked a few blocks from the towers. When he went to get it the next day, there was white dust everywhere. “It was all over the ground,” he explains. “It covered everything. It covered my car.”

He hesitates, making sure he has their attention. “Well, I took some of it.”

He gets up from the table and, walking over to the bookshelf across the room, picks up a small glass jar with a lid. It’s filled up halfway with white powder. The table goes silent. Julia tries to make eye contact with Sarah but she’s looking the other way.

Then Lucy groans, “Oh, Joe, no. How could you? You know what’s in there.” She shakes her head. “I can’t believe you did this.”

“People keep ashes in urns all the time. How is this any different?”

“Really? If you don’t know the difference, I can’t explain it to you.” Her chair scratches against the floor and she leaves the room. Sarah, glaring at Joe, runs after her.

“What about the rest of you?” Joe asks, holding up the jar. “Any other defectors?”

Roger, who is sitting closest to him, raises his hand and Joe gives him the jar. After examining it, he passes it to ­Margot.

Julia has been watching as if from a distance. She’s glad the attention isn’t focused on her. Selfish, maybe, but tonight she doesn’t care. If this was a different day, she might have been the one to run from the room. She can barely look at the jar as it makes its way around the table.

But it’s surprisingly warm when she takes it. Probably from all the hands that have just touched it. Or does the powder have a heat of its own? She forces herself to look at it. There are lumps mixed with fine grains. It looks like baking powder. After what feels like an appropriate amount of time, she gives the jar back to Joe.

“Why did you do it?” Roger asks him.

“I don’t really know. I was there and it was there.”

“Are you going to keep it?”

“I think so. It will remind me.”

“Do you really need that kind of reminder?”

Standing at the head of the table, Joe holds the jar up. “One day, I’ll be glad I have this. And you’ll wish you had something too.”

Someone refills the wine glasses, and the mood lifts. For the rest of the dinner, Julia keeps glancing over at the jar. The white color glows in the darkest part of the room. Now that she knows it’s there, it’s hard not to notice.

 

She has dreaded going home, but when the party is over, she can’t wait to leave.  Outside, they cross Houston and head down Mercer. The parade has ended, but people linger on the sidewalks. The deeper into Soho they go, the quieter it gets.

She’s planned what she’ll say to Max on the walk home. At Spring Street, she says, “Remember Dad isn’t going to be home. We talked about this.” She’ll never forget the afternoon a few weeks ago when they sat Max down in the living room to tell him Jeremy was moving out. She wonders if he’ll always remember it.

But he doesn’t respond now, so she doesn’t push it.

Back at home, Max has candy on his mind. At the dining room table, he empties his loot bag and begins to make rows, sorting by category. Soon, the table is covered with bright bars and bags, like an unfinished jigsaw puzzle. She gets him a glass of milk.

“You can finish in the morning.”

When Max has gone to bed, she tiptoes around the loft. Some of the books on the shelves lean in ways they hadn’t before. She hadn’t realized how many books were Jeremy’s. In the bedroom closet, his side is empty. His underwear drawer has been cleaned out. The ceramic bowl next to his side of the bed is gone. She shifts a lamp so the bare space isn’t as noticeable.

She treads carefully, as though just moving could break something. The loft feels too big. The silence echoes. The wood floors are cold under her feet, the ceilings ominously tall, the neighbors far away — things she hadn’t noticed when Jeremy was around.

Lying awake in the middle of the double bed, she’s alert to every sound, her skin prickly with the knowledge of how alone they are. We’ll get a dog, she decides. It will be easier to sleep. The dog will distract Max, be a member of the family. For a minute, she catches a glimpse of the future. They’ll have a different life, far from this loft.

One day, there will be no one around who has lived through this time. Who will remember this night, years from now? Will her friends? Will Max? Probably not. And that seems to be both a blessing and a curse. Everything passes. We pass. Things feel precious just then. If only she could stay in this moment until she understood it.

Then, Joe’s jar comes into her mind. She sees it sitting on the shelf, white powder shining as alive as anything. It feels so close to her, she can practically reach out and touch it. And she surprises herself. Because, lying alone in bed now, she understands why you might want to hold on to something to remind you.

 

Judith Zimmer is a journalist who is now focused on fiction. Her short stories have been published in Five on the Fifth and Lilith magazine. Her story in Lilith was selected for the 2022 anthology Frankly Feminist: Short Stories by Jewish Women from Lilith Magazine. She is currently working on a novel.  For more information, visit judithzimmer.com.

This article is featured in the September/October 2026 issue of The Saturday Evening Post.