New York Times Portraits of Grief
Bradley Van Hoorn showed up for his sophomore year at Yale with a mounted caribou head, a loan from his father. The two, along with Mr. Hoorn's mother and sister, crammed the head into a van with Mr. Hoorn's luggage and drove from Richland, a small town near Kalamazoo, Mich., to New Haven.
Mr. Hoorn had warned his roommates.
"These city slicker kids that lived with him thanked us for the moose we brought," his mother, Kathy, recalled. "I don't think they knew the difference between a moose, an elk and a caribou, but they were wonderful kids."
After graduation, Mr. Hoorn, 22, worked as a research analyst-in-training for Fred Alger Management on the 93rd floor of the World Trade Center's north tower. He saw the city as an adventure, but lamented the lack of tennis courts.
He hoped to eventually head back west in his red Porsche (another loan from his father), and maybe even someday become a teacher, like his mother.
She remembers his sheepish grins when she caught her son reading novels while he was supposed to be studying. In one sitting, Mr. Hoorn could finish a Grisham or Clancy, and he devoured the Harry Potters.
"There was a lot of kid in him," she said.