Chapter Seventeen
Seventeen
She stops flipping. What?
I’ve read your books. Don’t—please don’t smile like that. I’m serious.
She watches him closely, still not comprehending.
I bought the first one the day it came out, he says. I pretended it was for Jill, but it was really for me. I read it a week later. The second book I preordered and read as soon as it arrived.
Does he have to tell her he’s read them both twice?
Hell no. Let’s not go overboard here.
I don’t believe you, she says.
Okay, well, how can I prove—
What’s Sophie’s father’s name?
Sophie’s father? he says. His name is James.
What does her mother do for a living?
Sophie’s mother, he says, getting the hang of this little game, restores historic buildings.
How did Julian die?
How did he…? Shit. He has no idea. What could it be? Smallpox? Consumption?
Wait. She’s trying to trick him!
We don’t know how he died, he says. He doesn’t remember.
Holy shit, she whispers. You read my books.
Do we find out how Julian died? Is that in the third book?
Yes, she says. So you didn’t buy them just to jerk off to my photo?
No. I mean, I do that, too. But I have read what’s inside.
Is she furious? He can’t tell. She should be. He’s been such a dick about this.
You must hate them, she says.
What?
You never told me you read them. You must not have liked them.
Oh God. This is torture.
I do like them, he says. Very much.
You like my books, but you never toldme?
Well…
No, it’s not that you never told me you had, she says, it’s that you told me you hadn’t.
Technically I implied it, he says. I never explicitly said—
Shut up, she says. Why didn’t you tellme?
He sits beside her. I don’t know. I meant to tell you after I read the first one, but by the time I saw you next, I felt like…you were already getting all this praise. What did you need to hear it from me for? And I was embarrassed about how much I liked them. They’re for teenagers! I’m a snob, an elitist. I have my dead Austrians and so forth. It was uncomfortable to find myself so taken by something I wasn’t supposed to like.
You were having feelings, she says. We know how much you hate that.
I would have gushed, he says. You know me. I don’t gush. About anything. I joke. I play. So that’s what I did. It was a way of talking about them without sharing what I thought. To praise them would have required a level of sincerity that’s difficult forme.
You praise my tits sincerely all the time.
True, he says, but that’s…actually, that’s a good point.
Gush.
What?
Gush about my books, she says. Now.
But you hate compliments.
I’ll cope.
Okay. Well, you created great characters, and a totally believable world—even the supernatural stuff. You have a natural ear for dialogue. Julian in particular is so witty, so alive on the page. The story is propulsive—I was never waiting for you to get a move on. And that’s only the first book. The second is even better.
Most people prefer the first book, she says.
Fuck most people. They’re useless. The second book is richer, and fuller. And sexier. But the best part of both of them? How you write about love. Jesus your books are romantic, Jenny! The way you describe how Julian and Sophie look at each other, how they react to each other, their conversations. How they touch. You capture what it really feels like to fall madly in love.
That’s enough gushing, she says. I can’t—
It’s epic, it’s ridiculously over-the-top, but so is love! he says. No wonder people go apeshit over your books. I don’t know how you did that, it’s—
Stop! She hides her face in her hands. I can’t takeit!
Are you pissed I didn’t tell you?
Maybe, she says. I should be. You’ve given me so much shit about them.
I know. I’m sorry. But the good news is, I’m really looking forward to reading the third book. When does it come out?
For you? Never.
I can’t readit?
Nope. You’re banned for life.
That’s bullshit, he says. Also, good luck. I’ll be able to buy it anywhere.
Not if I cancel publication.
You’ll deprive the whole world, just to thwartme?
Absolutely. She reaches for his phone. I’m calling my editor right now.
She’s joking about it! She can’t be too upset. That’s a relief.
They turn their attention once again to the news. CNN is showing more clips of the explosion. It’s a near-constant loop, interrupted only by occasional shots of grave-faced Brian. Where are they getting all this footage? Are they just harvesting videos off the internet now?
He watches her go to the plugged-in phone to check for updates. Is she really not bothered by his yearslong deception? She lies to him about something trivial, and he blows up. He lies to her about her life’s work, and she shrugs?
He’d always assumed some part of her was disappointed that he hadn’t read her books. But maybe she truly doesn’t care. About his opinion. About him.
It’s always been obvious what he does for her. He satisfies her, consistently and extravagantly. He amuses her. Is that it? Does she agree with Tom that he’s an egotistical prick? Has this changed you? She wanted to know, and he’d answered truthfully, more or less. He never asked if he changed her.
Is he one of the good things about her life that she treasures, one of the things she’s afraid to lose?
Hey Jenny, he says.
She looks up from the phone.
He holds up the bottle. More wine?
Additional firefighting units are arriving at the scene as the FDNY continues to assess the strength of the fire and the extent of its casualties.
I’d better not, she says. I’m already a little…she waggles a hand in the air. I’ll take a pop, though, if there is one.
He roots around in the fridge. Pop. Another of her midwesternisms. Along with, apparently, an inability to accept praise. He finds a bottle of twee-looking artisanal cola and takes her wineglass into the bathroom to rinse it out.
She can’t see herself clearly. But then, nobody can. And most of the people around us can’t offer much assistance. Their views of us are distorted, too, by past and circumstance, their own hangups. So when we turn to them to know ourselves—have I done right, have I done wrong, does this make me look fat, am I any good at all?—they can’t helpus.
Though they can try. They should. She says Tom is a good partner, but can he be all that great if she thinks so little of herself?
Also, what’s his failing in bed? Tom can be a little …what? A little what?
He’s dying to know.
What he’s not dying to do is have sex with her right now. An absence of lust. Unprecedented. Wanting her—craving her—has been a prevailing condition of his life for more than half a decade.
It’s fine. It’ll return. It always does.
He leaves the bathroom. There she is, perched at the end of the bed. The woman who doesn’t know herself. Still, she must be happy, right? Even if she feels insecure and imposterous, even if she can’t appreciate herself the way she should. Even if Tom can be a little…
What, goddammit?
A little what?
He holds out the soda, but she doesn’t take it. Her eyes are fixed on the television.
Look, she says.
CNN is showing an aerial view of the scene. There’s the building. No flames are visible from overhead, but plenty of smoke, streaming up two sides.
That’s plenty distressing. But what stuns him is the scene on the ground.
The blocks surrounding the building are jammed to a standstill with vehicles and equipment. Three, four, five blocks in each direction clogged, this late at night, with what must be hundreds of cars, trucks, ambulances. And people—so many tiny figures clustered, or running. Hundreds? No, thousands.
Thousands of people.
It’s Times Square on New Year’s Eve. It’s a shot from an old disaster movie.
Midtown is shut down.
New York City is shut down.
This is not okay.
His mouth is dry. He sips his wine. Brian is describing and assessing, for the edification of viewers at home. Safe viewers, gloating, warming their hands over this toasty little—
You love what you do, he says. Right?
She turns to him, surprised by the question. Ido.
You do. He nods. You enjoy writing. That’s good.
Yes, she says. I mean—it’s hard.
I don’t doubtit.
I’m on my own in this fake world I’ve created. Trying to make it plausible. And I have no idea if I’m succeeding.
He nods, eyes on the screen. There’s the aerial shot again. It must be from a helicopter or a drone. More tiny vehicles are approaching, crawling along the perimeter.
You do what you love, he says. That’s great.
His glass is empty. When did that happen? The camera cuts to a shot of the mayor, standing a few blocks from the hotel, nodding and listening to a fire chief of some kind. That intersection was mayor-free when he’d hurried through it earlier. When was that, ten hours ago, eleven? He’d left work early, telling his associates he was headed to the airport. It was freezing out. The streets were filled with that gray-purple light that saturates Manhattan around four o’clock in winter. But he was humming. He was light of heart. Because Jenny was coming.
He strode toward the building. She hadn’t canceled. In fact, she’d texted: train on time. see you soon.
He passed through the doors of the hotel. Checkedin.
Jenny was coming. It had been so long.
He came upstairs. Let himself into the room. Brushed his teeth. Chilled the champagne.
Every step, leading him to this moment.
He hasn’t tried the fire department in a while. The damn phone is charged enough—he unplugs it and brings it with him to the end of the bed. He dials.
Busy.
I take it you don’t? she says.
What’s that?
You don’t love what youdo.
Oh, he says. No. It’s fine, but…it’s a job.
Guests inside the hotel are cautioned that social media sites are being swamped with misinformation concerning the severity of the fire and the availability of escape routes. In fact, we’ve learned that a video we aired earlier, purporting to be a man trapped on the thirty-seventh floor, appears to be a hoax. We apologize for any confusion.
He wishes they would stop cutting back to the aerial shot. He’s sure the technology is expensive, CNN wants to get its money’s worth, but it’s excessive. Voyeuristic.
He takes a couple of deep breaths. Surreptitiously. He doesn’t want to worry her. He sits up, trying to release the pressure in his chest. When did that start? Hey, how about a heart attack right now, wouldn’t that be fun? He has occasionally worried about keeling over while in bed with her. Sometimes it’s felt like he might. On the one hand, no better way to go, on the other…
He doesn’t want to go. He doesn’t want to die.
Ever, ideally, but especially not tonight.
He sets the phone on the bed. His hand is unsteady. He picks it up again. He’ll hold on to it. Give his hands something todo.
And while the fire department has provided a dedicated number for trapped guests, we’re told that the line is overloaded, and people aren’t able to get through.
He opens his mouth to make a crack about that, but he can’t think of anything. The urge to joke has deserted him.
First the lust, now the wit. Gone.
His stomach is jumping. He’s never nervous. In fact he’s famous for his composure. Unflappable even in the big moments—during opening statements, or when the jury is filing back in with the verdict. No butterflies, no sweaty palms. People are so impressed.
They don’t know it’s because he doesn’t care. Doesn’t give a shit about any ofit.
He hasn’t cared for years.
We’re attempting to verify online posts that appear to be from guests on the thirtieth and thirty-first floors, reporting heavy smoke conditions. If these accounts are genuine, they suggest the fire is spreading upward at an alarming rate.
The fire looks like it’s receded from the twenty-fifth floor—it’s not visible from the outside anymore. Why not mention that, Brian? Why always focus on the next worst thing that could be happening?
You did it, he says, a touch too loudly. You went forit.
She turns to him, confused. Of course she’s confused—what the hell is he talking about? If only he could pour out all his apprehension to her. Lay his head on her lap and tell her his troubles. He used to do that with Caroline. He would list his problems, and she would stroke his hair and listen, not saying a word until he was finished. Then she would ask questions, sort and rank his fears, accepting some as valid and dismissing others. He always felt better afterward.
They haven’t talked like that in years. When did they change, why, how did they let it die? Should he have tried harder? Taken that messy New Year’s Eve as a warning, a signal to back the fuck up and figure out what went wrong with the woman who had once been everything to him?
But Caroline had pulled away, too. It wasn’t just him. They’d both lost each other.
And now everything is ruined.
If only he could tell Jenny his troubles now. She’s a balm, she would be sympathetic. But he can’t. He can’t go back, can’t keep starting over, repeating the same goddamn pattern. He’s a grown-up, for Christ’s sake. He’s been the strong one—he is the strong one. If he wusses out now it might upset her, and that won’t fly.
He needs distance from the news, and that gruesome image. He walks over to the sofa.
I went for it? she says.
I just mean, what we were talking about before. Your work. You do what you love. Being a lawyer was never something I wanted. It was a backup plan. I wanted…
His eyes stray to the television.
No. Focus on her. Look at her. Waiting for him to speak.
And say what?
I went to Oxford, he says. Like your buddy Juan Pablo.
Did she sleep with him?
Oh for fuck’s sake!
I thought you went to Brown, she says.
I did, for undergrad. Oxford came afterward. I was a Rhodes scholar.
Wow, Nick! That’s amazing!
He shrugs.
I can’t believe you never told me. Don’t make that face! Who’s downplaying their accomplishments now?
Okay, sure, he says. It’s a big deal. And it was a big deal to me, back then. It was something I’d wanted since I was twelve.
What did you study? Law?
Jesus, no. I…
Why is this so hard to talk about, like it’s a crime? Well, maybe it is. A crime and a shame. Everybody’s ashamed, she said. Looks like she was right.
I studied poetry, he says.
Poetry. She’s trying very hard not to look surprised.
Indeed, he says. Indeed, madam, I sought to scale the heightsof—
For Christ’s sake. No distancing ironies now. None of your mock heroics.
I studied literature at Brown, he says. The Elizabethans. The Metaphysical poets. All the grand old English men. And some women. I fell in love with them, with how they wrote. The sounds, the images, the emotions they evoked. How it felt to speak them out loud. So I decided to go to England. Worship at the altar. My plan was to get a doctorate in literature and spend my life researching them, teaching them. Surrounded by ivy, ideally, and old books.
Why is he telling her this? Why flee to this, of all places, as a salve for his anxiety?
We’re told the governor is en route from Albany.
It sounds wonderful, Nick.
Doesn’t it? It was a very pretty dream. It lasted about eight months.
Ohno!
Oh yes, he says. I had to get there to find out that my guys were out of fashion. People were interested in the obscure, the undiscovered. And—though none of my professors were blunt enough to say so, being very English and very polite—I wasn’t cut out to be a scholar. I didn’t have original thoughts—not enough to build an academic careeron.
Hold on, she says. A person doesn’t get to Oxford, on a Rhodes scholarship, when they’re not good enough.
I had a lot of passion, he concedes. I was smart. But I didn’t want to develop a new theory or critical approach. I wanted to study the very greatest of them, to know them deeply, inside and out. That wasn’t enough. I wasn’t rejected outright—it was my decision to withdraw. I didn’t see a way forward. Not a…true way.
They’re quiet for a moment. She doesn’t say anything, doesn’t try to console him, which he appreciates, more than he could possibly say.
Anyway, he says. You asked, earlier, if I’d ever been disappointed. That’sit.
She nods. I’mso—
Hello? Hello, are you there?
Brian is speaking loudly into his microphone.
Nick rejoins her at the foot of the bed.
Ma’am? Can you hear me? Barbara? It’s Barbara, right?
A woman speaks, only to be interrupted by a burst of squawking static.
Barbara? Can you turn down your television? It’s causing feedback on the line.
Brian appears to be talking to a woman inside the hotel.
That’s better. Thank you. How are you doing, Barbara?
Well, uh…I’m not great.
A nervous laugh. Barbara sounds shaky, maybe elderly. How did they find her? Did she call into CNN? Who would do that?
Tell us what’s goingon.
I’m sorry, Nick, she says. It must have been hard, giving up your dream.
Oh, it’s fine, he says, already regretting his confession. His sad spewing. It was a long time ago. I have a good life. I can’t complain.
It’s not too bad here in my room, but when I look out the peephole, all I see is smoke.
And you still have the poetry, right? she says. You can enjoy it, even if it’s not your whole life.
The chyron reads: Woman Trapped on 33rd Floor Describes Deteriorating Conditions .
Oh no, he says. I don’t do that.
What do you mean?
I don’t read it anymore. Random lines come to me sometimes, when I…but no. I haven’t opened one of my old books in years.
You gave itup?
He doesn’t care for her tone. Or the way she’s looking at him with such disbelief. He goes to the minibar.
I was crushed, Jenny. My whole idea of what my life would be, who I was going to be, had changed. You say you’ve never lost, never experienced true grief? I have. When I went back and tried to read it, I was only reminded of what I’d lost.
What you gave up, she says. The idea of you quitting in the first place is surprising—
I know when to cut my losses.
But it was your dream, she says. You just let itgo?
I would have left, but they told us not to. They said there was no problem.
Who said that, Barbara? Was it the hotel, or the fire department?
Could you stop looking at me like that? he says.
I’m sorry, I just don’t get it. You had something you loved, enough to devote your life to it, but when it couldn’t be everything, you threw it away? That’s crazy.
What’s crazy, he says, controlling his temper with effort, is what you’re doing to me right now.
I keep trying the number they gave us, but I can’t get through. I’m in touch with my family, and they’re calling too. Nobody knows anything.
Once again, he says, I’ve offered some part of myself to you, I’ve exposed a vulnerability, and once again? You’re using it to attackme.
I’m not attacking you, I’m—
Oh, fuck off, Jenny! You are! I guess this is what you do, huh? Coax confidences out of people, so you can weaponize them?
I’m all alone up here, I…
Barbara breaks off. There’s a sound of quivery breathing. A whimper.
I’m just so scared.
What the fuck were they thinking, putting this poor woman on television? he says. I’m turning it off.
We need to know what’s going on, Nick.
Not from Barbara we don’t. He changes the channel, then turns to face her. So what is this? Are you punishing me about the book thing? You’re upset I pretended I hadn’t read them, but instead of admitting it, you’re trying to make me feel shitty about myself?
No, I’m curious, she says. Could you really have loved your poetry all that much if you abandoned it when—
He throws his hands in the air and walks into the bathroom. The door bangs shut behind him.
She picks up the remote and flips back to CNN.
The chyron reads: Prospects of Rescue Grow Dim as FDNY Struggles to Contain Historic High-Rise Fire.