Chapter Fifteen
Fifteen
She becomes aware of him, of his hands, his arms around her, pulling her—where? Up? She doesn’t want up, she wants to stay on the floor, grounded, as grounded as she can be so high in the air. Forty-two flights! They are dead. Dead people. She resists his pulling hands, jerks away. More hands, men’s hands, won’t they leave her alone?
She feels him relent, crouch beside her, holding her huddled, quaking self. He’s talking but the stream of words makes no sense, it might as well be Finnish because a blanket has descended, a choking blanket of dread, letting noise in, his voice and the yammering television, but no meaning, no thought.
She is meaningless, thoughtless, and alone, all alone.
She doesn’t want to come up on the bed, fine, they’ll stay down here. He holds her as close as he can, hunched awkwardly, smoothing her hair.
Jenny, he says. Jennyjennyjennyjenny. Hey. It’s over. Try to breathe, okay? Take a deep breath. Can you do that? Can you…it’s okay. I’ve got you. We’re okay. We’re alive.
This is how you calm a panicking person. He remembers it from Jill’s birth, that literal bloodbath, how the doctor instructed him to stay close, hold Caroline’s hand, talk to her. Low voice. Short sentences. Model calm, the ob-gyn had ordered him, as she and the nurses worked to pry the goddamned baby out of his wife’s body. It had been twenty hours. Caroline was weak and desperate, certain the baby was dead, it must be dead, why couldn’t they find the heartbeat? He couldn’t answer that but he could follow the doctor’s instructions and hold her, speak simply and quietly to her. It worked then, so he’s going to do it again now, hold this woman, soothe her, not hush her—Jesus, no hushing or whoa’ing, ever again—and bring her back to herself.
Jennyjennyjennyjenny. It’s okay. We’re here. We’re here.
But he also needs to find out what the fuck just happened, and whether it’s going to happen again. Because that was…that was…Jesus. Holding on to her is what’s keeping him from falling to pieces himself. That’s what the doctor explained to him later, when they were sewing up Caroline and he was holding his screaming daughter. I was trying to stop you from losing it as much as her .
Right. Well, he didn’t lose it then, and he won’t now.
He will make a plan.
First, he’ll call the number they gave him. Hi there, yeah, just checking in, wondering if you have an ETA on our evacuation, or maybe a best guess as to whether the building is fucking collapsing ?
Sure, I’ll hold.
But he can’t get to the phone and comfort Jenny at the same time. He’s going to have to coax her into a state of minimal composure before he can move.
Let me go, she says. I have to leave. We have to leave. Nick, let me go. Letmego. Letmegoletmegoletmego.
We can’t, honey. Not now. We haveto—
She wails, so piteously. Like a lonely animal. He wraps his arms around her and whispers close to her ear.
Jennyjennyjennyjenny. I know, honey. I know. Breathe.
What if she tries to make a break for it? He’ll have to hold her down. She can’t go, so he’ll have to force her to stay. He’s never forced a woman to do anything, never dreamed he’d have to. He’s held her down plenty of times, plenty of wonderful times, pretended to force himself on her as she pretended to struggle, and she loves it, when he holds her wrists over her head and…
But this is different. This is so horribly different.
Still. He can’t let her out that door.
So. Step one: calming Jenny.
Step two: calling those fire department fuckers.
Should he also call Jill? Caroline?
What? No. That’s hysterical thinking. Premature. The building stopped moving. Though what the fuck? He glances at the television. The studio anchors, the ones to whom intrepid Juliana has been reporting all night, look completely out of their depth.
We’re trying to get more information about what occurred at the scene…
Witnesses on the ground are posting videos that, that seem to show…
Juliana?
Juliana, can you hearus?
How is this happening? How has the fire, which was under control, escalated into some kind of epic cataclysm? And how are they in the middle ofit?
Pressing questions. But humped over on the floor like this, he’s not going to get answers.
Jenny honey, I should find out what’s going on. I’m going to get up. I’m—okay, I won’t. I won’t leave you. I’m here.
You know what? Let’s go together. Come on. We’ll scoot over to the phone. It’s not far. Come withme.
Like a weird pair of conjoined snails, they crawl across the floor to the nightstand. At least she’s not making those awful noises anymore. Clutch away, my dear. Whatever helps.
He manages to reach up and find the notepad. He picks up the receiver, starts to dial…
The line is dead.
Fucking hell, the fucking line…
He taps the little button. Yes, it’s dead.
Okay, but they still have lights. The television is working. They just don’t have a landline. So what? Landlines are obsolete. Fuck it, they don’t needit.
Jenny, I need to get my phone. I’ll pull the duvet over you, it’s nice and heavy, it’ll…let me go, honey. I can see my phone on the floor over there. I’ll just go and grab it. You can watch me the whole time, okay? Watch me go and come right back. Here I go. I’m standing up. I’m walking…
He thought Jill was dead when they pulled her out, putty-colored and still, the cord twisted around her neck. His face was right next to Caroline’s, he was narrating to her, until he saw what the blue sheet protected her from seeing, a dead gray baby, and he faltered, and his life fell to pieces for three or four sickening seconds, until the doctor plucked the cord away and gave the dead baby a tremendous whack on the ass, and it started screaming, because it was fine, the baby was alive, like he is, like Jenny is, too.
Everybody’s alive. Nobody’s dying tonight.
He comes right back with his phone. The room feels steady. Not swaying or…what does a building feel like when it’s about to fall down? Not this solid, surely. Buildings sway in bad weather all the time. He was in Chicago once for a deposition, high up in a skyscraper. He glanced away from the witness at one point and noticed the window blinds were moving from side to side. Happens all the time, opposing counsel told him.
Modern architecture is a miracle. High-rises are engineered to withstand astonishing amounts of stress. Built by brilliant humans, performing endless calculations to assure structural integrity under all sorts of conditions.
He dials the fire department number.
He gets a busy signal.
He tries 911. Same thing.
At least the storm seems to be passing, Jennywise. She’s sitting up, wedged against the nightstand. She’s not shaking anymore. Poor girl. He gathers her and eases her onto the bed—always trying to drag the poor woman into bed—where she flattens herself against the headboard.
Her charging cord is dangling across the nightstand. He connects his phone to it. Just in case.
Now then. They need information. NY1 has become useless. He finds the remote on the floor at the foot of the bed and starts flipping.
He stops at CNN.
WATCH LIVE: Catastrophic Fire Rages at Manhattan High-Rise .
So they’re national news.
She said it was becoming a big story, but she’d been checking the internet. Celebrity hangnails are a big story on the internet. He didn’t think…that is, he didn’t fully grasp…
CNN. Christ.
He glances at her. Maybe he can change the channel before she—
Leave it on. Her voice is low and ragged.
…on what we believe is the twenty-fifth floor, the twenty-fifth floor of the building, a significant escalation of a fire that was thought to be nearly contained. Glass from the windows rained down on the street—we’re getting reports of multiple casualties…
He dials the fire department number.
Still busy.
We’re receiving word—and I would caution viewers that this is speculation at this point, we do not have confirmation—we’re getting word that the twenty-fifth floor is an open space of some kind, possibly an event space.
CNN is showing a different view of the building than the one they’ve gotten used to, its crew having opted, wisely as it turns out, to position themselves farther down the block.
The camera pans toward the sky.
Midway up the building, an entire floor is spewing orange flames.
Oh God, she whispers. Oh God oh God.
He puts an arm around her and holds her close. The reporter, a young guy with red cheeks and too-short CNN hair, looks stressed out. In the background, sirens are blaring.
…trying to make sense of what’s happening, it’s a scene of chaos as first responders attempt to reach the wounded on the street. It’s still not clear what precipitated what appears to have been a, a massive detonation several stories above the known location of the fire. Here’s footage from a few minutes ago, capturing the event.
The screen cuts to a view of the building from the street. Unremarkable. Then a stripe of orange appears, running left to right across it, flaring behind the windows, blooming and bursting through, sending glass showering down. The crowd starts screaming. Jesus Christ.
CNN plays the explosion again. And again.
He redials again. And again.
Busy.
He was in New Haven in September 2001. Starting his second year of law school, holed up in the offices of the Law Journal one morning, editing an article, when another student burst in—it was Justine Dillon, he remembers that specifically—babbling about a plane crash in New York City. She turned on the TV in time for them to see the second plane hit the South Tower.
It’s going to fall, Jenny says. We’re going to fall.
Honey, no. It’s okay.
We are, she says. We’re falling. We’re dying.
She’s leaning forward, her duvet cocoon pushed away. Staring at the television.
Jenny, we’re here, okay? We’re right here. I’m trying to get some information about—
You’re so calm, she says. Aren’t you scared?
He smooths her hair back, looks into her eyes.
Of course I’m scared. This is…this is not good. It looks like it was worse for the people who were outside the building, but yeah. I’m scared shitless.
He laughs. See? I’m laughing. A classic hysterical reaction. But I’m also tryingto—
Edvin’s dead, she says. He must be dead. Is Juliana dead?
I don’t know.
She is, she says. Juliana’s dead. We’re dead.
Jenny, honey, that’s not true, we’re—
Jenny honey, she says. Jenny honey, Jenny baby, baby baby baby sweetheart what say we screw? Still wanna screw, Nick? Wanna screwme?
Okay, he says, so you’re not…are you with me here, or are you—
This is my fault, she says. All ofit.
The CNN reporter is chattering away. Nick mutes the television and puts his arms around her. Back to the holding, the nearness, the low voice. He leans toward the nightstand for his plugged-in phone.
It’s okay, Jenny. I’m going to keep trying this number. I’m going to dial until I get through and find out what’s going on. We’re going to sit here together, and we’re going to breathe. It’s still busy. The fucking…I’m trying again. You know what, though? That’s a good sign. It means lots of people are calling. Lots of people are alive in this building, likeus—
Dead, she says. Likeus.
No, that’s…hey. Would you maybe like to pray? You could take a minute, collect your thoughts—
She turns her huge, dark eyes on him.
Who am I going to pray to, Nick? Not my mafia God. Not my Catholic crime boss God.
Jenny, I am so sorry I ever insulted your—
That’s not who you mean, right? Because he won’t help me. He put me here. He made this happen. These flames, this fire? God didit.
Honey, no, that’s not—
Yes it is! she cries. It is true! Don’t tell me it’s not true! I’ve never lost. Never lost anything. It’s time for me to lose.
How the hell is he supposed to respond to that? What does she mean?
Is she going to bolt for the door?
He takes her hands. How can I help you?
Kill me, she says. No. Fuckme.
How about another drink? That might steady both ofus—
Is that why you wanted me to pray? she says. So I’d kneel, and you could take me from behind? Fuck me in the ass, like you’ve always wantedto?
Absolutely not, he says.
Why not? Why absolutely not, Nick? Let’s do it. Let’s screw. You wanted to before the building blew up. You always want to. I always want to, even tonight, even if I can’t admit it. I want you. It could have been anyone but you. But no. I had to pick you.
She pushes the duvet away, rising up onto her knees on the bed, unbuttoning her blouse.
Jenny, there’s no way we’re goingto—
Yes there is! she cries. We’re fucking, Nick! Right now. It’s why we’re here. It’s all we’re good for, right? So let’s doit.
He watches, helpless, as she tears her blouse off, shoves her skirt down and wiggles out of it, naked quickly because she didn’t bother with her underwear the last time they dressed, neither of them did, when they left and fled down the stairwell.
They should have kept going. Held their breath and rushed down the stairs as fast as they could, past the firefighter with his bullhorn, past the fire, down down down.
Take off your clothes, she says.
Jenny, I don’t think I can—
You will! she shouts. You will do this, or I will run out that goddamned door, and I will rip your dick off if you try to stopme!
Oh hell.
Fucking hell.
That’s what this is. Literally.
It’s fucking hell.
He stands. He unbuttons his pants.
Shirt too, she says. I want it all off.
He removes his pants. His shirt. The look in her eye as she watches him. Unhinged is such an overused word. Jill is always telling him to calm down, he’s acting unhinged. But the way Jenny is staring at him right now? It’s truly unhinged.
How do you want me? she says. Should I turn? On my knees, and you can stand and—
No, Jenny. Let’s…let’s lie down, okay?
She stretches out on her back, legs spread, clearly expecting him to leap on top of her and start pumping away. Instead, he lies down beside her. This is awful. There’s no way he can…the flesh is decidedly not willing. Maybe if he touches her gently, she’ll calm down. He places a hand on her stomach. Kisses her shoulder.
She grabs his cock and begins to yank onit.
Jenny, that’s—ow!
She kisses him hard, a hand on the back of his neck pulling him down on her. She bites his lip. He feels her tongue deep in his mouth.
And there it is, folks!
The tingling, the warmth.
Jesus, the thing really is indomitable.
She’s kissing him, digging her nails into his back. She’s never like this. Peremptory, almost cruel. But by God is it working! He feels the growing heaviness in his cock, the sense of something uncoiling, so pleasurable in itself. She pulls him onto her and reaches down to guide him inside her.
But surely he’s not…okay, he is, he is ready, and this is, this feels…
Oh, he’s missed this.
He has. He’s been missing it for hours, for the whole night, missing it for years, for his whole life. She wraps her legs around him, grabs his ass, forcing him deep inside her. So demanding! And he’s happy to oblige, he’s hers completely. This was such a good idea, it’s exactly what they should be doing. Fucking as the walls collapse around them. He’ll do anything she wants, she owns him utterly, so what if they’re burning, they’re done for, it’s all worth it, if she wants him she can have him, she can have this.
Though, does she really wantit?
Is she in her right mind?
Definitely not.
So, this isn’t…
No. This isn’t right.
And with that, he feels himself soften.
He keeps moving inside her, trying to hold on, but as abruptly as his erection sprang to life, it departs again. He slips out of her.
Please, she whispers. Please.
Jenny, I can’t, I’m sorry. And I’m not sure—
Go down on me, she says.
But—
Do it, Nick.
What if he refuses? Will she really try to leave? She can’t. She just can’t. So he moves down her body, between her long parted lovely legs. This is all they’re good for—she said that as if he’d said it first, but he hadn’t, had he? It’s not all they’re good for, but they are in fact good at it, so he will go down on her now and maybe she’ll snap out of it. He spreads her apart and puts his mouth on her. He’ll make her come this way. He always can, sometimes several times in a row, until she’s breathless and laugh-begging him to stop. She seems satisfied now, the way she’s moving, and sighing. He feels her hands in his hair. And he doesn’t mind this at all, lapping at her, she’s so delicious and warm, he could do this all night, he’s still soft but that’s okay. She’s responding, pushing up to meet his mouth and murmuring.
Is Tom all about the penis? Is that why her sex life with him is solid, rather than spectacular, as theirs is and always has been, spectacular if infrequent? Never enough. Tom can be a little… not him. He’s not a little anything when it comes to her. He’s all about the everything, including her bewitching, peerless cunt, a rude word some think, but he doesn’t, no, it’s a holy word for her sublime and matchless apparatus. Okay, golden boy, don’t get fruity, focus on the task at hand, calming this traumatized woman lingually, as per her request.
Not a problem. Happy to help.
And they’re fine. This is a strong building. Brand-new. They just need a shitload of water aimed at the fire. He reaches up to stroke her breasts as he bites her gently, a finger deep in her now, two fingers, fucking her slowly with them, which she seems to be enjoying. It probably takes a lot of time to get that much water where it needs tobe. Or do they use foam? Sand?
Whatever. Point is, the logistics must be daunting. But manageable. And being managed.
Maybe he can get hard again. Is he…yes, he’s definitely getting hard again. He presses his mouth onto her forcefully now, plunging his fingers deeper, he’ll wait until she’s at the very edge, then he’ll turn her over, pull her up onto her knees like she suggested and…
He stops.
Raises his head.
Is that…
Yes.
He smells smoke.