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War Leaves Him Alone at the Altar

Jimmy Breslin

September 17, 2001

Herewith a true story from one of the low-density neighborhoods of the city. These are the two-story neighborhoods that have found it so costly to have jobs working in great buildings in Manhattan that suddenly turned vulnerable.

Daniel Collins, who enters this religious war as a lapsed Catholic, was at his job at 170 Broadway last Tuesday when the sky turned to smoke. The elevators in his building were closed and he walked down the seven flights.

On the corner he met his friend, Mike Curley, who was coming from the World Trade Center, where he was an insurance consultant. Curley was sopping wet from running down 19 flights at the Trade Center Tower One. The loudspeaker said that all was well, he could return to work. Mike continued to flee.

An explosion now shook the street. Danny Collins and Curley wanted to see or hear no more. They walked to the Brooklyn Bridge and made it home to Glendale.

When they got there, Danny found his son-in-law, Mike Toal, shaken but safe. Last week, he had finished a carpenter's job at Morgan Stanley, whose offices were in the center of the storm. He was on his new job when he heard the news reports and ran to the Queensboro Bridge. A steamfitter drove him home.

There was so much talk about death that the kids picked it up.

Danny Collins' 4-year-old grandson, Brendan, said, "What happens to me if Mommy and Daddy die?"

"They won't," Danny said.

"What happens to me if they do?

"Grandma and Grandpa will take care of you."

"What happens if they go away. Who takes care of me then?"

It took much subject changing to get the boy away from that. It disturbed Danny Collins. Then on Saturday, he was up and walking down to Myrtle Avenue, in the sun and trees still with bright green leaves, when he decided that he had to show his gratitude to his God for having the grandson's father alive, and his friend Mike Curley safe.

He walked over to St. Pancras Church on 67th Place. It is a red stone building up the block from Myrtle Avenue. A white limousine was parked in front.

"Somebody's getting married," he thought to himself. "At least somebody is going to be happy."

Old people with canes and walkers were streaming into the church. Now running past Danny were kids who were yards ahead of their parents. Inside, the church was packed. He got a seat in the back row, surrounded by babies who cried and small children who sat thumping their feet against the kneelers.

After the noises of the week, the explosions and shouts and wails of sirens, the noise of the children was exceptionally pleasant.

When the priest came on the altar to start the mass, there was no bride and groom.

"They're not here yet?" Danny Collins asked a woman next to him.

"He's here," she said, pointing to a pew in front.

"She won't be here," the woman said.