Chapter Eleven
Eleven
It rings again. He moves swiftly towardit.
Hello?
Please. Please please please let this be good news.
Okay, sir? he says. Let me stop you right there. Should we be evacuating?
He listens. Their eyes meet.
He shakes his head.
Understood, he says. No, we won’t…we did, but we won’t try again.
She watches him listening. Is someone coming to get them? Is there a plan?
Please let there be a plan.
How about you tell me something first? he says. Why has there been zero communication since the deranged announcement we heard a few hours ago?
Oh no. He shouldn’t get angry. Lawyerman needs to shut up and listen.
Why hasn’t anyone been answering the phone downstairs? You call me when you want information, but when I call—no no, let me finish. This is outrageous. What little we know about what’s happening we’re getting from New York fucking One!
He pauses, listening.
Okay, he says. Okay. And how long…uh-huh. That’s good news.
Good news? She likes good news! She unclenches a little at good news.
Hang on, he says, opening a drawer, pulling out a notepad and pen. Go ahead. He scribbles something. Smoke? No, not in the room or the hallway. The stairwells, yes, quite a bit, though it varies from…what’s that? There are two of us. No, no injuries, or…yes, that’sme.
He listens. Then he glances at her.
What is it, Nick?
I’m not comfortable giving you that information, he says.
What are they asking?
He motions to her with his free hand, like Relax. I’ve got this.
I understand that gathering these details is part of your standard protocol, he says. Part of my standard protocol is checking into a hotel and not being trapped for hours by monumental incompetence.
Jesus, Nick. Tell them my name!
Fine, he says. Fine. Her name is…
He glances at her again.
Grace Gryzb, he says.
She drops down onto the sofa.
Sure, he says. G as in George…
She lets her head fall back. She gazes up at the ceiling.
I know, he says. It’s Polish.
No more lies! Wow. And he’s not just lying. He’s erasing her. He gets to be named, and counted. But Jenny Parrish? Sorry, there’s nobody by that name here. There never was.
The lies are inescapable. Even though lying is categorically wrong, he said. The true problem of infidelity. Once you’ve started, you can’t stop. You lie to spouses, to each other. To people trying to rescue you from disasters.
You just can’t lie to yourself. That, to him, is key.
Lie if you must, but know yourself.
Though, why must you lie? Because of who you are, and what you’ve done? Genetics, environment? Because you literally have no choice?
Yes, he says. Understood. Thank you.
She’s still staring up at the ceiling. He comes to the sofa and sits beside her.
That was a fire chief of some kind, downstairs at their command center. He said we should absolutely not leave the room right now.
Then it’s bad out there, she says. It’s really bad.
Only the smoke, Jenny. He said the operation is going well, despite initial holdups caused by some mechanical problems and what sounds like criminally inexperienced hotel staff. But the FDNY is in control of the situation, and they foresee no additional problems in extinguishing the fire. Though the process is going to take a while. What the news said they were doing—going room by room—is taking a long time because all the doors are locked, and the software that allows them to open them all at once in an emergency is—surprise, surprise—not working. Bottom line, the fire department is being meticulous, and they think it will take most of the night. They said 911 is overloaded right now, and gave me a separate number to call if we want updates. When it’s time, someone will come up to get us. Probably closer to morning.
She says nothing. She’s thinking about meticulous processes. Firefighters following a plan. That’s all she wanted—to know there was a plan.
This is good news. Really good news.
I’m sorry about the name thing, he says. But this is an exorbitant hotel. People are probably hoping that celebrities and evil billionaires are stuck in here, to raise the drama quotient. If the guest list leaks, and surely it will…it’s bad enough they’ve got my name, but you’re a big deal. You’d be noticed.
Excuses, excuses. She should give him a hard time—first she’s Norman, now she’s Grace?—but her irritation is already dissipating. She’s so relieved about the plan, the meticulousness. She wants to enjoy that feeling, not keep sniping away.
I’m not that big of a deal, she says. But whatever. They know there are two of us in here. That’s what matters.
He nods and squeezes her hand. Then he goes to the foyer and looks through the peephole. He opens the door and pokes his headout.
Still no smoke, he announces.
He shuts the door and walks to the window. He looks down at the city, rubbing the back of his neck. Then he takes a seat on the side of the bed, facing her.
We’re going to get caught, he says. I don’t know how public it’s going to be, I hope not very, but I don’t see how we get out of here without Caroline and Tom finding out.
This is still your concern, she says, marveling at him. Your sole concern.
The FDNY just called, Jenny. They know we’re here, they’re in charge, and as the whole world knows, they’re good at this sort of thing. So while this is messy as hell, we’re not in physical danger. What happens after tonight, though, in our real lives? I know you hate when I bring it up, but I feel compelled to point out that we are well and truly fucked.
He looks defeated. For the first time! Not in the stairwell, not when they opened the door expecting a firefighter and finding a babbling maniac. He was tense then, but composed. Man in Charge. Well, not in charge, because he has no free will, duh. Still. He’s extraordinary. Master of the universe, undone by the fear of losing the wife he’s been deceiving for years.
Fearing Caroline more than the fire.
That’s interesting. Very interesting.
He’s bent over, elbows on his knees, studying the floor. She moves from the sofa to the desk chair, turning it to face him.
Interrogation time!
Why are you so scared of getting caught?
He gives her a weary look. Because I don’t want my wife to leave me, Jenny.
I didn’t leave Tom when he cheated onme.
Tom’s a lucky man. But if I recall, he didn’t cheat on you for over half a decade with a woman you both know.
Caroline never remembers my name, she says. I’ve introduced myself to her about twenty times.
I don’t think that’s going to make her feel any better about this. Also, don’t take it personally. She’s awful with names.
She glances at his phone. The battery is low. She goes to the bathroom, gets her adapter out of her bag, plugs it in and sets it on the nightstand.
Tom slept with someone from work, she says. Twice. I was pregnant. I didn’t leave.
She’s told him this before. They do talk. It’s not as if they meet up, undress silently, hump frantically and part without a word. They chat about work, neighborhood gossip, their kids. And they trade some limited confidences. More so in the early days. He spoke of midlife depression, what he called his malaise. She spoke of restlessness. But that was back when they had to explain how they’d ended up sneaking into rooms like this together, had to tell themselves a story about why they were breaking promises that made the breaking, not okay, but explicable. They had to identify their prior causes.
So yes, they know a few things. But not much.
I couldn’t leave, she says. Then I got over it, and I didn’t wantto.
He reaches for his wine. His pointed silence means drop it, Mrs. Gryzb. Moveon.
What’s Caroline like? she asks.
Are you serious right now, Jenny?
So, you want us to be united, she says. A team. But it’s your team. You’re the captain, and you decide how the game is played. That’s the idea?
He’s about to respond, but instead, he gives in. Throws his hands up with a look like, Fine, have atit.
She persuaded him. She won! With an argument about fairness. That’s what’s effective.
She needs to remember that.
We’ll take turns, she says. We’ll each say one thing we love about our spouse and one thing we can’t stand.
This taking turns thing, he says. It’s big with you.
I have two boys. If taking turns didn’t exist, we’d all be dead. You go first. What’s something you love about Caroline?
He thinks it over. Well, obviously…
And she can tell by the look on his face exactly what he’s going to say.
Jesus, Nick!
I’m sorry, but she’s beautiful! It’s not a knock against you, you know I think you’re—
Stop! She covers her ears. I’m not fishing for compliments!
I’m just saying you shouldn’t be jealous. You’re—
Stop! And of course I’m jealous. Who wouldn’t want to look like her? But the fact that it’s the first nice thing you have to say? That’s a little messedup.
Kind of you to be defending my wife right now, he remarks. She’d be so grateful.
If she remembered my name, she says.
He raises his glass to her. Touché.
She glances at the television. The two anchors appear to be discussing corruption in Albany. She sighs. Caroline really is beautiful.
I know, he says. Not that it does me much good anymore. We don’t, he clears his throat, I mean, we do, have sex, occasionally, but—
Uh-huh, she says. So she can check that question off the old list. They still sleep together. That’s good. It would be awful if he only got some once or twice a month, with her. Though the way he has at her sometimes you’d think he just escaped from a monastery.
So yes. Good for him. For them. Why should she care? She doesn’t. But she always assumed…that is, she didn’t expect…
Oh, hell. What does it matter?
Tell me something real about her, she says. Why is she so great that you hate the thought of losing her?
While he mulls that over, she goes to the nightstand and checks his phone. The fire is on the CNN homepage now. @firechieftim is in the middle of a thread about how smoke spreads through zoned mechanical exhaust systems. The fire nerds are on high alert tonight, man. This is pyro Christmas.
But it’s fine, because of the meticulous processes. Because the FDNY has a plan.
She refreshes the Times website. No updates. She googles: arguments in favor of free will. The first result is a page titled: Why You Probably Don’t Have Free Will.
Awesome. Thanks.
She sets his phone down. She’s not going to look at it for a while. The television is on, the fire department knows Nick and his vowelless Slavic princess are here. If something important happens, they’ll hear aboutit.
She returns to the chair. He empties the last of the wine into their glasses.
Caroline is a great partner, he says. She’s conscientious and smart and thoughtful. We’re in sync about the big things—how we raise Jill, how we spend money, dealing with in-law bullshit. She’s fully committed to the life we have, which is smooth-running and comfortable, thanks almost entirely to her. We communicate well and look at the world the same way. We have similar tastes, similar opinions. The same things interest us and bug the shit out ofus.
So what you love about her is that she’s a lot like you, she says.
He laughs, shaking his head. You’re really breaking my balls tonight.
I pitied them earlier, she says. I’m trying something new.
Lucky me. Can I say what I don’t like about her now?
Go crazy.
She’s overly preoccupied with the opinions of other people. Family, friends, the neighbors—she’s deeply concerned with what they think about her, about us, about the state of our landscaping. Way too many of her decisions are dictated by how other people will react to them. I’m not only talking people we know—I’m talking total strangers. Given the chance, she’ll always take sides against me with a waitress, or a salesperson. Even when I’m not being a dick. Go ahead, look shocked, but I am, occasionally, not a dick. I’ll be asking a question, or maybe mildly objecting to something, and Caroline starts making these little consoling faces. Like she has to soften me, in order to protect them.
You want her to be on your side.
Or to stay neutral. Whatever, he says, it’s not a big deal, and it’s far from the only thing she cares about. But it’s frustrating.
Has she always been like that, or has she changed? Wait, I forgot, she says. People don’t change.
No, they don’t. And she hasn’t. It just took a while for me to see it. But you know how it is, he says. Insufficient information never stopped anyone from falling in love. In fact, it’s pretty much a prerequisite.
True, she says. Very true.
Can I say something else I don’t like about her?
No, she says. Or, you can, but you have to say another nice thing first.
Fine. She’s a generous and patient caretaker to her aging parents. Also, she’s totally lost interest in sex.
But you just said—
I know. We do have sex. She even initiates sometimes, which totally stumps me. Because she doesn’t want it. She doesn’t delight in it anymore.
Has she said that?
She doesn’t have to. Her mind is clearly elsewhere, every time. I’ll have just finished—making sure she came first, of course—
Such a gentleman.
I do try. Anyway, I’ve just finished, I’m lying there trying to catch my breath, gather my wits. I’m feeling replete, it’s very quiet. Then out of nowhere, she’ll say something like, Did you remember to call the guy about the tuckpointing?
Jenny laughs, choking on her wine.
How long she’s been thinking about the tuckpointing guy I don’t know. But she’s moved on from our mutual pleasure. I haven’t. I need a minute.
Because of the loneliness, she says.
Because of the loneliness, exactly. I want to rest inside her, me and my poor, detumescing cock. I don’t want to discuss home renovations. But if I dawdle, pretty soon I feel this two-pat, quick, on my ass. Pat-pat. Like, that’s it, bud. Pack itin.
She laughs again. She can’t helpit.
And so I do, of course. I pack it in. I get the message: she’s not into it. Orme.
Is that what you meant when you said her beauty doesn’t do you much good?
Did I say that?
Yes, just now. You don’t get to enjoy it, linger withit?
There’s definitely no lingering, he says. What did I mean? I appreciate her beauty. I see it. But I suppose…it doesn’t move me anymore. Not the way it usedto.
Maybe that’s why she’s thinking about the tuckpointing. She knows you’re not really thinking about her.
But Iam.
Not in the same way, she says. Not if she doesn’t move you.
He stares at her, irritated by her presumption. Until something changes.
His shoulders slump. He looks dejected.
You nailed it, Jenny. We’ve lost something, Caroline and I. Obviously, or I wouldn’t be here. I can’t seem to articulate it—I don’t know why I’m even trying. It’s not that her beauty, her body doesn’t do me any good. It’s that I don’t do her any good. She doesn’t touch me anymore. She hasn’t for ages, since long before you and I…
He’s on his feet now, heading for the minibar. But he changes his mind and swerves back to the bed.
It’s very difficult to be moved, to be attracted to someone who has no interest in you, someone who…you know, sometimes I touch her, and she flinches? Actually flinches. We don’t embrace, or hold hands. But the worst thing about it—the very worst? It’s only when we’re alone. When we’re around other people, she touches me plenty. Flirts with me, even. Not because she wants to, or even to please me. She’s putting on a show. The Nick and Caroline Show—look at the happy couple! Which we are, that’s the killer of it all, we’re generally content. But in this one way, this one very vital, necessary way…
He sighs. Scratches his cheek. Frowns at the television without really seeingit.
It sucks, he says. To live with someone every day, she’s right there, and she doesn’t want to touch me. It really sucks.
She nods, taking that in for a moment.
Then she stands and comes over to him.
She takes his hand. She brings it to her lips and kissesit.
Well, I think she’s missing out, she says.