Peter Christian Fry — an anniversary story
When a stranger from beyond the grave lays a hand on your shoulder, it can be an unsettling feeling. Especially when that hand slips into yours and leads you irresistibly forward. It happened to me four months ago on Cape Cod.
My husband, Bill, and I were visiting family on the Cape when our explorations took us to Monomoy National Wildlife Refuge. As we headed toward a path that would take us down a steep cliff to the sea, I lingered to read the signs in the interpretive area. Before I turned to catch up with Bill, I spotted a flat stone marker tucked among ornamental plants along the trail. I stooped to examine it.
This garden is planted in memory of Peter Christian Fry A place for him to watch over his Cape Cod girls Summer 2002
Shells and heart-shaped rocks lined the perimeter of the stone. Beyond the marker, a haze of yellow wildflowers floated over a small meadow. Who was Peter Fry, why he was so beloved, and who were his “Cape Cod girls”? What connection to this spot had moved the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service to allow a personal memorial to him? As I stood to leave, something caught my eye. Half hidden under the bordering greenery lay a cone of dead flowers, wrapped in cellophane. The card enclosed read: “Peter, we finally got him. God bless.” It was dated 5/2/2011. Printed across the top of the card were the names Lori and George Meaney.
I felt Peter’s hand slip into mine. I had to find the Meaneys.
My brother Pete in Atlanta found their Cape Cod address and phone number on the Internet. I called for three days. No answer, no answering machine. Pete discovered them at a Florida address. A winter home, perhaps?
I called. “Number has been disconnected.” I tried to locate another man named Meaney in Harwichport, hoping for a connection, only to learn he had recently died.
The day before we were to leave the Cape, I tried the local number one last time. On the fourth ring, a male voice answered. It was George Meaney.
Peter Fry and Meredith Loomis and the Meaneys’ children had grown up together, spending their summers on the Cape, George told me. Peter had loved the refuge, particularly the spot where his memorial lies.
Peter and Meredith eventually married, had two daughters, and settled in Connecticut. Peter, in his early 30s, commuted daily to the World Trade Center. That’s where he was working on Tuesday, September 11, 2001.
For days, Meredith held out hope that he has escaped before the towers collapsed. But he had not.
After 9/11, Meredith moved back to the Cape with her daughters to be near her parents. She wanted to place Peter’s memorial marker at Monomoy Refuge.
“We finally got him” referred to Osama bin Laden, George said. Yes, 5/2/2011 was the day the news broke of bin Laden’s death.
A few days later, I talked with Meredith’s best friend, Tracy. She was not surprised at the intense curiosity that led me to the Meaneys, then to her.
It was Peter getting in touch with them, Tracy said. Family and close friends say that Peter is still an active presence in their lives. They point to incidents that can only be signs of his spirit moving among them.
Those of us who have never had a precious person torn brutally from our arms might consider this fanciful thinking. But we are presumptuous to discount their experiences. After all, what was it about a memorial marker on Cape Cod that pulled me, a stranger from Savannah, into a search I could not resist? What made me ignore the lure of the computer to find the answers?
September 11 stripped the foundation of human existence bare, exposing something that we sense, but rarely have occasion to put into words. The Song of Solomon, Chapter 8, verses 6-7, expresses this truth with eloquence:
“Set me as a seal upon your heart, as a seal upon your arm: For love is strong as death Many waters cannot quench love, nor can the floods drown it.”
We learned many things after 9/11, but perhaps Peter’s faithful presence embodies the most comforting truth to emerge from the rubble. Humans have always suffered — and always will — the afflictions of war, disease, disaster, and death. But one thing endures. Peter’s family says it simply, and they know it from experience.
“Love is everlasting.”
Carol Megathlin, formerly of Americus, is a writer who now lives in Savannah.
This story was originally published September 11, 2011 at 7:54 AM with the headline "Peter Christian Fry — an anniversary story."