Lucky Night

Chapter Seven

Seven

Jesus fucking Christ.

There really is a fire.

A fire, in this building. An honest-to-God…

We’ll go slow, okay? he says. Hold the handrail.

Those boots of hers, those heels. Hot, but suboptimal. He starts down first. He hears the sound of feet, of voices echoing above and below them. A man is calling out somewhere, his words inaudible. So they weren’t the only fools who stayed put until now.

They reach a half landing, turn, head down another set of steps. He looks back at her. You okay?

I’m fine, she says. You can go faster.

They reach another landing, passing a door marked Forty-One. The smoke is mild, barely a haze. Not even as bad as the Canadian wildfires last summer. Now that was smoke.

From fires that were thousands of miles away, though. Not hundreds of feet. If that.

Another short flight, a turn, down down down. Fortieth floor. He’s a fool. Why this hotel? Why a whole night? Why did he insist, why…he glances back at her. She’s moving steadily, eyes on her feet. Is the smoke…no, it’s not thicker. Maybe it’s slightly thicker. Like bar smoke, back when you could smoke in bars.

They should have brought towels. He didn’t think this through. They have their clothes they can breathe through if it gets to that point.

But it won’t. It can’t. That woman at the front desk assured him, all but promised him. It was a false alarm. Nothing to worry about, sir. Absolutely nothing. Was she clueless, was she lying?

Doesn’t matter. He needs to think. Work through the possibilities. Because this could be a real problem.

Possibility one: they go downstairs and wait out whatever’s happening. Then they come back to the room, grab a few hours’ sleep, he heads to Houston in the morning, she heads home, they’re exhausted, more so even than usual, but their lives remain intact.

Thirty-ninth floor, turn, another flight.

Possibility two: they can’t get back in the room. Fire department regulations, safety checks, whatever. Does he still go to Houston? He could buy clothes when he gets there. Borrow Marty’s laptop for the deposition. But if he goes, and they find his bag in the room here—is their home number on his luggage tag? Fucking hell it might be. How does he explain that, if someone calls the house, saying they have his roller bag in a Manhattan hotel where he was never supposed to be? And what does he do with Jenny if they can’t get back in the room—shove her on a train, good luck showing up at home in the clothes you’re wearing and nothing more, not your bag, not even your fucking underwear?

Thirty-eighth floor.

Fine. If they can’t get back in the room he’ll postpone the depo. He won’t go to Houston, instead he’ll…what? Pretend to Caroline he’s in Texas when really he’s lurking in the city, waiting to collect his luggage, his possibly smoky suitcase?

This is a mess. A fucking mess.

Thirty-seventh floor. Their descent is twelve percent complete. Eleven point nine, specifically, good job, genius, too bad you didn’t use your big brain to predict that you might need something to breathe through, because it’s definitely smokier down here.

Jenny stumbles around the turn. He reaches back to steady her.

These stupid boots, she mutters. Keep going.

Half flight, turn, half flight. Thirty-six. In vain thou kindlest all thy smoky —no. No fucking poetry right now. Plus, that one is really not helpful. But then, none of what he’s doing is helpful. He’s catastrophizing. This is a nothing fire. No billows of smoke, no jets of flame spurting up the stairwell. They’ll have it cleared up in an hour. Fallout will be minor, and he can handle it. Offer some explanation to Caroline. Does she suspect already? At times he’s wondered. Thought maybe she suspects—and doesn’t particularly care.

As he rounds the landing on thirty-five he glimpses a man disappearing around the turn below them. A bent bald head, a hand on the banister. The stairwell is full of the sound of tramping feet. He has been careful. He is a good husband. Things were difficult for a while, true, he got dark, wrestling the black dog, but then he found Jenny. He’s a better man now. A better husband. Thirty-four.

Are you serious? Lauding your marital excellence while fleeing a burning hotel with your—whatever she is. They’ve avoided the words, always, the crass yet accurate designations. Girlfriend, lover, mistress. Shack job, fuck buddy. Criminal conversationalist.

The person whose very existence means you are not a good husband. At all.

Step step step. Down down down.

Thirty-three.

Jenny is coughing. They’re going to reek when they get out of here. Okay, so possibility one, amended: if they can get back in the room, they take a long, hot shower. Sorry, Natey, I need those cute soaps to clean your mom! Even better: they leave. Grab their shit and find another hotel. Start the night over with a bath. A fresh white bed.

Thirty-two. Nearly a third of the way now, just—

Stop!

He stops, and she crashes into him. He braces himself against the banister, keeping both of them upright.

I need you to stop!

There’s no one in sight. The voice is far away, echoing up to them. Leaning over the well, he sees only the backs of other heads, other people craning to see. Beyond, a gray haze.

Go back to your rooms. Now. Thisis—

There’s a distant sound of raised voices, argument.

No. No, ma’am. You should not—the other stairwells are restricted as well.

He feels Jenny’s hand on his shoulder.

You are interfering. We are working to contain this fire, and you are—

There’s a squawk. Then the voice booms, amplified.

Listen up, people! The stairwells are CLOSED. Return to your rooms. For your OWN SAFETY, do not, repeat, DO NOT attempt to evacuate the building at this time. Return to your rooms, continue to shelter in place with your doors CLOSED, and await further instructions.

Another squawk.

Then silence.

He turns to her. She’s on the step above him. For once they’re exactly the same height.

I’m going to keep going, he says. A little farther, to…no, Jenny. You stay here. I just want to check. I’ll come right back, I promise.

Down he goes, much faster without her to worry about. One flight, then another, and another, skipping the last few steps of each, grabbing the banister and swinging around the turns, the way he flew down the big staircase at his grandmother’s house when he was a boy.

He doesn’t make it far. After four or five flights the smoke is too thick, even when he breathes through his shirt.

They could die here. Isn’t that how most people die in fires? Panicking, bolting for safety, plunging instead into killing smoke?

They’re better off upstairs. Firefighters are here. They’re on top of the situation.

She’s hovering on the landing of thirty-two when he returns. I heard you coughing, she says.

It’s smokier down there, he admits. Not terrible, but we should get back to the room.

They trudge up the stairs. They pass other guests taking a breather on a landing, glimpse a few disappearing onto their floors. Still others pass them going down, intent on giving it a go, apparently. They exchange nods, quick grimaces, then carry on. Nobody’s pausing to commiserate here. Nobody’s banding together.

They exit on forty-two. The hallway is still clear. They reach their room. She sees the small black panel above the door handle and grabs his arm.

Oh no! Nick!We—

He pulls the keycard from his pocket. She sags against the wall. Thank God.

Inside, the door falls shut behind them, and they embrace. In the foyer of their low-lit, stupidly opulent hideaway, where they met, what, three hours ago, four? He’d opened the door and she was there. She said something surprising. Then she was in his arms.

Well that was a bust, he says, and she chuckles into his shoulder. Still responding to his easy ironies, that’s a good sign. His nose is in her hair. There’s that scent again. Lemon? Grapefruit? Smoky now. What her hair must have smelled like after a night out, back when you could smoke in bars.

He pulls back so he can get a look at her. How are you?

I’m, you know. She exhales shakily. Terrorized. But also weirdly calm?

Weird is right. She’s said some nutty things tonight. Has anything ever not gone your way? What the hell? But she seems okay now. Unless she’s just stunned.

Well, stunned will have todo.

He reaches for the door. I want you to notice something.

Nick, don’t!

It’s fine. We were just out there, remember? He cracks it about six inches. Take hold of it. He guides her hand to the edge of the door, above the handle. Feel that?

What am I feeling?

How heavy it is. Now let go. See how fast it closes? That’s a solid door, Jenny. Probably steel. Now come withme.

He leads her to the bed and sits her down. He is a man of action now, of purpose. He knows what to do, he’s in charge, he’s on…

No. Bad cliché. Don’t go there.

He’s in his element, let’s leave it at that.

You have your phone? he says. Good. Google New York City fire code. Or building code, city of New York. Try a few different combinations until you findit.

Why?

You said you did a lot of research into fire, right? I thought you could do a little more. Find out exactly how fire-resistant this building is. Doors, walls, building materials. Then you’ll understand how safe we are. That we’re perfectly safe waiting here while they put out the fire.

He reaches for the room phone. While you’re doing that, I’m going to call down and tear that desk clerk an extremely capacious new—why hello there! This is…no, no I will not fucking—

He stares at the receiver. She put me on hold again.

He’s outraged. And impressed. That took balls. Though it’s not like he can storm down there and do anything aboutit.

Jenny is hunched over her phone, scrolling.

How’s the research coming along?

She doesn’t answer. She grabs the remote from the table under the television. The screen blinks to life, and she starts flipping. CNN. Fox. Some old movie.

Jenny. What are you doing?

She reaches NY1. A pretty, dark-haired reporter, bundled in a heavy coat, is standing on the sidewalk outside their hotel.

Behind her, firefighters are swarming through the lobby doors.

As you can see, Ron, dozens of firefighters have descended on the building here at Fiftieth and Park, the location of a newly opened luxury hotel.

He ends the call. He’ll try again later.

The fire is believed to have started approximately three hours ago in a laundry room on the twenty-first floor.

Not the fifteenth? he says.

She turns from the television. Fifteenth?

Fucking hell. He blurted that out, he didn’t…now she’s staring at him.

Nick? Why did you say not the fifteenth?

The screen splits to show a pair of news anchors listening as the reporter speaks. Firefighters haul equipment into the building behind her.

Look at all those firemen, he says. They’ll have this under control in no time.

Not the fifteenth, you said. Like you expected it to be the fifteenth.

Her eyes are boring into him. Goddammit. This is going to complicate things.

When I called down the first time, the desk clerk mentioned there was a minor error in the original announcement, he says. The alarm hadn’t been triggered on the fifth floor, but the fifteenth.

And you didn’t tellme?

Does she really need to look so outraged? What does it matter? he says. Apparently it wasn’t on the fifteenth, either.

You knew it was ten floors closer to us. You let me think it was farther away.

I didn’t want you to worry, Jenny. I’m sorry, but…

He trails off, riveted by the television. She turns to see what’s distracted him.

The camera has panned upward. About twenty stories above the ground, smoke is pouring out of the building.

Thick black sheets of it, billowing up the side of the building and rippling into the sky.

What you’re seeing now is smoke escaping from the building’s exhaust vents, which are just above the location of the fire.

They watch in silence. Until:

Is there anything else you were told that you didn’t want me to worry about?

No, Jenny. I…

The camera has cut back to the lobby doors. People are emerging, some of them assisted by firefighters. Evacuated guests. They look tense and dazed. Some are wearing white bathrobes.

The camera zooms in. You can see their faces, very clearly.

Oh, this…this is not good, he says.

She snorts. You think?

He grabs his phone. I’m going to email Caroline. You need to write to Tom.

She turns to him again. What?

We’re not supposed to be here, Jenny. And when we get out, we might show up there, he points at the television, for the whole world to see. It’s only NY1, but if someone we know catches it, or it goes online…look at that asshole, he’s giving a thumbs-up to the camera! The point is, we could get caught, unless we lay a little groundwork to explain what we’re doing here.

That’s what you’re freaking out about? she says. Getting caught?

He really wishes she would get with the program. This is not an ideal situation, he says, but we’re safe. The fire department is on top of it, hell, they’re in the stairwell chatting with guests, which suggests they aren’t battling some Towering Inferno –type situation. It’s just—

Chatting with guests? she says. Chatting, Nick?

The hotel has not disclosed how many people remain on the upper floors.

I’m going to text Caroline and tell her … something, I’ll figure it out. You need to text Tom, or email him, however you guys tend to communicate. Tell him…he snaps his fingers. I know—tell him this. You had to come back to the city early. For a last-minute meeting. And your publisher put you up at this hotel, which is why—

That fireman was not chatting with guests, Nick. He was yelling at us to get out of the way. So they can fight the fucking fire.

Jenny, I’m trying to help you. I’m trying to protect both ofus.

Protect us! She laughs harshly. But not from the fire, right? From being exposed as cheating pieces of shit.

The newscast cuts to a commercial. He sets his phone down and walks to the window.

He gazes out, hands in his pockets. Watches the wind whip snow past the glass. It must be freezing out. The kind of bitter winter night they don’t get many of anymore. They could be out there right now, shivering but at liberty. If only he’d—

Jenny, he says.

She doesn’t answer.

If you’re just joining us, we’re reporting live from the site of a significant fire in Midtown Manhattan, which we’re told started shortly after six p.m. on the twenty-first floor. Reporter Juliana Gonzalez is on the scene.

She’s still hunched at the foot of the bed, dividing her attention between her phone and the television.

He walks to her and crouches down. He touches her knee.

Jenny. Hey.

She looks at him.

We’re not pieces of shit.

Yes, we are, she says. And soon we’re going to be charbroiled pieces of shit, and it’s your fault.

She’s glaring at him.

I wanted to leave, she says, practically spitting the words. Twice I wanted to leave, and you said we should stay. Marshaled all your, she waves her hands, rational arguments, your reasons why it was fine, even while you weren’t telling me everything you knew!

I didn’t refuse to leave, he says. I was ready to go if you insisted, but you agreedto—

Bullshit! she cries. That is such bullshit! You persuaded me to stay because you thought you were right. You knew best. But you were wrong. We should have left, we could have left, and it’s your fault we didn’t.

He’s been crouching at her level. Now he rises.

Let’s take a break, okay? This has been intense, and we could both use a little spaceto—

She gets up, pushing past him, grabbing a corner of the duvet and dragging it with her as she crosses the room and plops down on the sofa. She wraps the duvet around her.

Right, he says. I’ll stay here, you stay over there. We’ll take a minute and cool off.

She rolls her eyes and turns away.

Fine. If she wants to act like a petulant child, that’s her business. He’s trying to help her, but he can only do so much. She’s not well. That tranquility of hers when they got back to the room was a front. Like all her other fronts.

In addition to complications from the weather, firefighters initially encountered a problem with the building’s standpipe system, which caused delaysin—

He mutes the television. Enough with the yabbering news. Enough with tending to Jenny. He needs to focus on what he’s going to tell Caroline. What minor lie will be sufficient to cover up the much bigger one. He despises this part, the blatant falsehoods—or rather, he despises himself when telling them. They’re so mean. So low. She deserves so much better.

He finds his phone. Taking Jenny’s spot at the end of the bed, he starts typing.

Hey. You’re probably asleep, just wanted to let you know my flight got canceled and I decided to put up at a hotel rather than come home. I hope to leave first thing tomorrow but I’m on standby right now, so who knows when—

Is he joking with all those clicks and clacks? Has he not…oh, wow. He hasn’t turned off keyboard sounds on his phone! What kind of a monster…how is she supposed to cool off when he’s tap-dancing with his fingers over there?

Typical. Thinks of nobody but himself. Of nothing but his own convenience.

She should call out to him, guide him through the process. Hey, asshole! Go to Settings, Sounds and Haptics, Keyboard Sounds, and switch it the fuck off.

But she’s not going to be the one to break the silence. No sir. Jesus, he’s a fast typer. Cooking up a lengthy lie for his poor wife, no doubt. One of his persuasive spiels, his three-dollar-word-studded mountains of horseshit.

How in God’s name did she ever fall in love with this clown?

Not the first time she’s asked herself this question.

She is dimly aware that her fury at him is preventing worse feelings from gaining purchase. Horror, overwhelming fear, et cetera. Sorry, guys, try again later. Right now I’m focused on the numerous shortcomings of Mr. Lacks Basic Phone Etiquette over there.

Including the fact that the only thing he seems to fear about their predicament, the only thing that mildly troubles him, is the possibility that they’re going to get busted.

And she’s the irrational one?

Though she shouldn’t be surprised. He’s always been excessively cautious. Proposing they meet in quiet bars, out-of-the-way restaurants. But mostly in hotel rooms. They arrive separately and reunite inside the doors of rooms like this one, away from the nosy, noticing world. And she understands—she doesn’t want to get caught either. But couldn’t he be a little less obvious about it? Not always fidgeting and glancing at the door when they’re having a drink, not scanning the lobby on the rare occasion they enter a hotel at the same time. In private he loves that they’re sinning— part of me wants you to put them back on so I can watch you take them off again— but in public he’s eager to distance himself. Like she’s some sort of crime.

Which she is. They are.

She gets it, she does.

Still. It’s infuriating.

She separates out a lock of hair and twirls it until it coils up on itself close to her scalp, like a little horn. She lets it unspool, then coils it up again. Herve hates this habit of hers. You’re cruising for breakage, my dear. But it’s comforting. She lets the lock unspool again, then pulls it in front of her face, against her forehead, against her…

Her hair smells of smoke.

She plucks at the shoulder of her blouse—they’re still dressed from their attempted flight, it’s strange to be clothed in a room with him—and brings it to her nose. It smells of smoke, too.

Breathe now. Breathe. Think more about what a shithead Nick is. Deceiving her, ordering her around, assigning her research tasks like she’s one of his minions, dictating a lie to tell Tom. A ridiculous one. No publishing company in the world would put her up at a hotel this nice. She’s made hers millions of dollars, and still she’s lucky if they book her into a fucking Ramada!

Whatever. She doesn’t need his facts and reasonableness. She’s not a puddle, okay? She’s not pinballing around the room in a state of derangement. There is a fire. Professionals are handling it. She gets it. She doesn’t need to be managed.

Where is her phone? Lost somewhere in the duvet. Doesn’t matter. She’ll check the news in a minute. See? She can hold off on that, too.

Though her stomach is fluttering. Her mouth is dry. She closes her eyes and focuses on her breathing. If only she knew how to meditate. She doesn’t have the patience. For meditation, or yoga, or any sort of calming, mindful hobby. Tom and the boys love to tease her about it, how she takes up enthusiasms—knitting, the piano—only to discard them after a few half-hearted weeks. Hey, guess what? Mom gave up on pottery. Haha!

Did that mother in Brooklyn get teased by her children? Did they hang on her and make her sticky, fart into her decorative pillows? How did she survive when they weren’t around to aggravate her anymore? Has she survived? God isn’t enough, faith doesn’t fill the days. You still have to brush your teeth and parallel park, take shits and do the laundry. All the while your brain is working, drumming it into you: you left, you left them, you jumped out the window, you lived and you left them to die.

A mother, separated from her children. Who chose to leave them behind. She doesn’t want to judge the woman, but what she did is inconceivable. Unnatural.

Okay, but haven’t you left your children?

You’re here, after all. Here, and not home with the boys you claim to love above all things.

You jumped out your window six years ago.

You chose this fire over them.