This piece was published in the Bergen Record yesterday. Coincidentally, the same day that the plaque was stolen from the tree on Fourth Street.
By William Tucker
WE LIVE on a very close-knit block in Brooklyn, the kind of which they say "We’ve got one of everything." There are old people, young people, black people, white people, Christians, Jews, atheists, crazy people, sane people, prosecutors, defense attorneys, and people who’ve spent some of their time in jail.
We stick together, though, and every fall there’s a block party. In December we have a Christmas/Hanukkah gathering, usually at our house.
About eight years ago a young couple showed up at the party and caused quite a stir. They had just moved in as tenants two doors down. Both had big families in the suburbs and seemed to bring their own entourage. As word got around, the new couple seemed to embody all the wild improbabilities of Park Slope. He was a fireman and a sculptor! She was a writer and a stand-up comedian!
Young and talented, almost penniless, they were making a go of it in the city with little more than their enthusiasm, talent and ambitions. She had a droll personality with caustic candor that made people laugh.
Onstage this transformed into a one-woman act with a bassoon and a side-splitting routine with her sister as two girls discussing the ins and outs of beauty school.
He was unbearably handsome (as she liked to say), a rugby player, and a rising star in the fire department. At the Fourth Avenue station he had noticed a picture on the wall and found it was of two members of the company who had died in World War II. They had never been honored. He tracked down the families, some as far away as Texas, and brought them back for a memorial services, for which they were tearfully grateful.
He took every type of special training and was obviously headed for big things. One of his sculptures adorned the firehouse. They had one child and were thinking about another. He moved up to Squad 1, an elite rescue unit on Union Street, and was the only member who still lived in the neighborhood. Every October he brought the fire truck around to our block party. Their son was rapidly becoming the most envied kid on the block.
Then came Sept. 11. Dave was 10 minutes from the end of his shift when the first plane struck. He had just called to tell Marian to meet him at Connecticut Muffin, on Seventh Avenue. It was their eighth wedding anniversary. They were headed for the Whitney to see some sculpture and celebrate. About 6 that evening, when there was talk of 20,000 dead and everything was still in chaos, I met Dave’s landlord at the grocery store. It hadn’t even occurred to me that Dave was involved, but my neighbor said he was missing downtown.
Maybe he just hasn’t been able to call, I said.
"No, I’ve got a bad feeling about it," he said.
My wife was at Marian’s apartment around midnight when two firemen came to the door. Dave and 10 other members from Squad 1 had been shepherding people out of the second tower when it collapsed. Rescue workers were searching for survivors but they didn’t have much hope.
"He was a hero," my wife offered. "He was in there helping other people."
"I don’t give a s–t about those other people," Marian said. "I just want my husband back." They didn’t find Dave’s body until December.
Marian eventually attracted a lot of press attention. Transparent, strong and funny, even in her grief, she was always good for a quote. One New York Times reporter virtually fell in love with her and wrote story after story. She founded the Widows and Victims Family Association, met Rudy Giuliani and President Bush, and wrote for The New Yorker about attending the State of the Union address with Hillary Clinton.
This year she has published her memoir, "A Widow’s Walk," released Sunday by Simon & Schuster. She’s featured in Vanity Fair and was on the front page of Sunday’s New York Post. She’s moved back to Staten Island and seems much happier than she was four years ago – although you know she’d trade it all for five minutes with Dave.
Two years ago, at our holiday party, we placed a plaque beside a young tree that’s struggling to survive on the sidewalk between our houses.
It reads "In Memory of Firefighter Dave Fontana – Beloved Husband, Father, Neighbor, Artist, Hero."
On Sunday several people placed flowers on the little iron fence that guards the young sapling’s life. Fourth Street hasn’t forgotten.
William Tucker is an associate at the American Enterprise Institute. His column appears Tuesdays. Contact him at billtucker@nyc.rr.com. Send comments about this column to opedpage@gmail.com.
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